“Oh, my
apologies. This is Killian. Killian Jones. David’s friend? We met at Robin and
Regina’s Halloween party a couple of months ago?”
Emma
could’ve stopped him after his name. Honestly she could’ve stopped him after
the ‘apologies’. She doesn’t know that many people who talk like that. Meaning
she knows one. David’s friend. David’s very attractive, very suave, very
good-looking-in-leather-pants, friend. Killian. Killian Jones.
But she
lets him ramble on for two reasons.
First, from
what she gathered at said Halloween party, Killian Jones’s ego could benefit
from thinking there existed a woman who crossed his path, shook hands with him,
did rum shots with him and was not, for weeks after, plagued by his stupid blue
eyes and his even stupider smirk and the ghost of his warm hand at the small of
her back and his hot whisper in her ear, running a hilarious commentary with
the true (or so he said) facts of the stories David was telling about his year
abroad.
Second,
Emma is not that woman. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Oh,
Killian,” she says finally and tries not to let her grin at his sigh of relief
slip into her voice. “Hey. Don’t remember giving you my number.”
“That would
be because you didn’t. I swiped it from David’s phone,” he says with very
little guilt in his tone.
“Oookay.
And why did you go to all that trouble?”
“Because I
need you to help me save Christmas.”
Emma
laughs. And then laughs some more. And then snorts and wipes at the moisture in
her eyes. And then she plops down on the couch with another little laugh for
good measure.
“I’m sorry,
I thought you said you need help saving Christmas.”
“I did.”
He doesn’t
sound annoyed with her per say but he sure sounds impatient and ready to get
down to business. The Christmas saving business. The business Emma is sorely
unqualified for.
“Listen, Jones.
I don’t know what you’re talking about but you’ve definitely come to the wrong
person.”
It All Starts With a Dance 