“Any particular bar in mind, Swan?”
“Wherever you want, Killian. Whatever you want.”
Killian tried like hell not to stare, but the way Emma had waltzed into his bedroom was pure torture. She did this sometimes, simply showed up at his apartment and let herself in, making some grand proclamation. “We’re watching Die Hard tonight.” “Put on your bikini, Jones, you’re taking me to the pool.”
I’m taking you out for pizza and a beer to celebrate our tenth friendiversary, Killian.
I need to get laid and you’re the best wingman a girl’s got, Killian.
Sorry you got stood up, Killian. I brought Cherry Garcia and Steel Magnolias.
I got stood up, the bastard. I need entertainment, whaddya got?
Neal is being a dick again, Killian. Mind if I crash here tonight?
Killian. Walsh isn’t who I thought he was. When am I ever going to find someone who gets me?
And then there was last week, when she’d shown up at his door quite drunk and not at all herself, or so he’d thought at the time. But now after six days of obsessing over every nuance and detail of that night–the night she’d come so close to kissing him, he would swear it on every god there was–Killian had started to wonder if Emma was starting to feel the same way he’d felt for some time now.
Killian, she’d said with an utterly devastating, breathtaking smile. You’re home. I’m so glad to see you. Is it cool if we just hang out for a little while? My day was terrible, and you’re the only one who knows how to make that better.
The following morning, when they’d woken in a tangle of limbs, he confused but happy to find her sprawled across his chest and she confused and looking a bit green, she’d vaulted to the bathroom, heaved the entire contents of her stomach and possibly other organs, then limped weakly back to her own apartment on the tenth floor.
He hadn’t seen her the rest of the week. Hadn’t answered his texts inquiring over whether she was okay. Hadn’t given him the easy banter and phone calls and unannounced visits he’d grown to depend on over the last decade or so.
Now here she was, a determined look on her face and an utterly lewd dress hugging her body.
“Well?” she challenged, the perfect arch of her eyebrows making it clear that she was finally ready to face whatever it was that had happened on that couch the week before.
He couldn’t help it, his own brows arched in kind and a smirk crept up on his face. He definitely did not imagine the way her eyes zeroed in on his mouth, so with only slight hesitation and a feeling like he was soaring expanding across his chest, he reached for his leather jacket and grabbed his keys.
“I know what I want, Swan. Let’s go.”
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“Killian, get your coat, you’re taking me to a bar.” + Captain Swan
Published
It All Starts With a Dance 