Page 27 of Blue Embers
“I just…” I said, my voice so indecisive. “My windshield wipers aren't working very well so I stopped for a bit to let the rain pass.”
“And you decided to waitinthe rain?”
He leaned over, glancing at my windshield as if he knew I was lying about the wipers, but he didn’t call me on it. I felt transparent and stupid now.
“You don’t have to do this,” I spoke, keeping my tone as stern as I could manage.
“Do what?” he said.
“Try to figure out what’s wrong.”
“So you admit something’s wrong?”
I cursed myself for being so careless with my words. My voice was caught in my throat for a moment, unable to come back with an adequate response. I stared at Killian, wishing I could just throw all my worries in a bucket and dump them somewhere where no one-- not even I--could see them. His eyes were more vibrant in the muted, grey light of dusk, rain making small droplets roll slowly down the angles of his face.
“It’s just been…” I started, my voice fading off.
“A long day,” Killian said, but his tone was disbelieving.
The rain started to pick up. I barely cared, letting it soak my clothes. Killian barely reacted as it began to drench his shirt, making it cling to the contours of his tapered waist. He glanced up at the stormy sky for a moment before speaking again.
“Ms. Grant, why don’t you come back to the house,” he said. “The roads are dangerous in weather like this. I’ll make coffee.”
I wanted to. So badly it hurt. I wanted to be somewhere comforting. Someplace that wasn’t my lonely house where I could dwell on the misfortunes I was facing. As much as I wanted to, however, I couldn’t bring myself to accept. Taking a deep breath, I stood off my car and shook my head with weak refusal. Turning, I opened my car door only to be lightly pushed aside so Killian could reach in and pull the keys from the ignition.
Closing the door, he said, “It was more of a demand than a question,” and started toward his own car.
“I can’t just leave my car,” I said, finally feeling the chill of the rain.
“We’ll come get it later,” Killian said, opening the passenger door of his Bugatti.
He waited, unrelenting, until I finally forced my feet to walk toward him. He watched me close like he thought I might run off. When I finally slid into the seat, he closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side.
On the drive to his place, I was quiet and unable to grasp any one thought in my head. They tumbled over each other like clumsy children fighting over a space. Killian refrained from asking any questions as we rolled up to the carport. I got out and he walked me to the door, ushering me inside his brightly lit home, which was completely empty of sound besides the rain pattering on the rooftop. I slowed in the entryway as Killian traveled across the dining room to a sliding door. He disappeared behind it for a moment and came out with a couple white towels. He handed me one while he used the other to dry his face and then walked back to the kitchen.
I gradually headed that way, taking off my wet boots near the entrance to avoid tracking water across his floors. The kitchen was as bright as the rest of the house with white countertops, sapphire blue, glass cabinets, and spiraling lights overhead. Killian was at the stove putting a kettle of water on the flat-top while a coffee press sat to the side with a scoop of coffee grinds already sitting at the bottom. To my left was a frosted glass table and a few chairs. I slid off my wet blazer and draped it on the back of one of the seats and continued dabbing my hair as dry as I could get it. Killian turned, hanging his towel around his neck, and leaned back on the counter to look at me.
“I should get changed into some dry clothes,” he said. “You should, too.”
“What?” I rolled my eyes. “Did one of your female visitors leave a shirt lying around or something?”
Killian smirked, unoffended by the comment as he strode past me.
“I meant to lend you a shirt of mine,” he said.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. “Seems to push the professional boundaries if I start wearing your clothes.”
“Your boundaries. Not mine. I’ll bring you something,” he insisted, walking through the sitting room to the spiral staircase that led to the second story.
I paced slowly back and forth by the table, nervous and regretting putting myself in this position. When Killian returned, he was wearing a pair of cotton night pants and a black t-shirt. In his hands was a second shirt in dark grey. Just as the kettle started to whistle, he handed me the shirt and walked to the stove, picking up the water and pouring it into the coffee press. Immediately, the soothing smell filled the room and suddenly I was ten times more relaxed. I looked at the dry clothes in my hands, reluctant to put them on, but also eager to get out of the cold, wet fabric that was starting to chill me to my bones.
I looked around the house. “Um, restroom?”
Killian pointed across the sitting area to a dividing wall by the stairs.
“First door down the hall over there,” he said.
I walked myself across the floor, finding a hallway behind the wall that led to numerous other rooms. The first door was the bathroom. I stepped in, peeling off my wet garments and hanging them on the shower rod to dry. I replaced them with the oversized, cotton shirt Killian had provided as well as a pair of drawstring pants I found tucked behind it. I cinched them at the waist and rolled the long hems so they wouldn’t drag before I walked back out to a cup of coffee set out on the table for me. Killian was just sitting down, taking a sip of his long before it was a bearable temperature for a human. I sat across from him, warming my hands on the mug and taking in the rich aromas before I spoke.
