Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Killian sat back in his chair and straightened his legs under the table so they brushed up against mine and stayed there.
I swallowed, wanting to shift my legs away and yet unable to move because I really liked the sweet torture of having his leg against mine.
“He’s here every lunch and dinner looking after his guests and refuses to hire anyone else to do the job. He says this is how he gets to know his customers, and they him. This place is his pride and joy.”
“I can tell,” I said.
I’d noticed François nod and smile at patrons on the way to our table.
The place was classy with expensive chandeliers and intricately carved woodwork on the chairs and bar, but it had a personal feel to it. As if we were all guests in François’ home.
He opened the folder and scanned the contents. “Red or white?”
“Red, please,” I answered.
The waiter arrived, and Killian ordered wine and sparkling water. We then chatted about the band and the tours. I wanted to ask him about his father, but it wasn’t the place, and Killian seemed so relaxed, I didn’t want to ruin that.
I did notice his knuckles had cuts on them and wondered if he had fought his dad after I left.
He asked me about Mars, what movies I liked and the plays I’d been in. I talked and he quietly listened.
And when Killian listened, he did it completely. He never appeared bored and his eyes never wandered. He focused on me and nothing else.
It was unnerving to have someone’s attention like that, yet it made me feel as if every word out of my mouth was important, and he wanted to know more about me and what I’d done for the last eleven years. I had to keep reminding myself that this wasn’t real. But God, it felt real.
We hadn’t even opened the menus when the waiter asked what we’d like. Killian looked at me. “Is there anything you don’t like?”
“Oysters. But that’s about it.” David had liked them and ordered them all the time when we’d gone out. I’d tried one of his once, but the texture bothered me.
He nodded and turned back to the waiter. “Tell Chef Fredrick it’s Kite, and we’ll have whatever he suggests, except oysters.”
“Of course, sir.” The waiter nodded. “He will be pleased to hear that.” The waiter hurried away.
“You know the chef, too?”
“François and Fredrick are a couple.” He reached for the bottle and poured me more red wine and he refilled his sparkling water.
We ate and chatted about everything except his father and what happened at the club. There was something there though. I’d tasted the animosity in the air and it was obvious Killian owning the club wasn’t just an investment opportunity. Then there was the issue of him paying someone in his dad’s stable to get proof of the abuse to the horses.
After we finished, Killian asked the waiter to bring Chef Fredrick’s best dessert to share.
“Oh, my God, I don’t have any room for dessert,” I said, laughing.
“He’d be offended if we didn’t,” he replied, then leaned back in his chair. “And I’m not ready to stop watching you lick your lips,” he drawled.
I resisted the urge to lick my lips as my core heated and tightened, and tingles sprinkled everywhere.
A shadow cast over our table. “I’m so sorry, but can I get your autograph? I’m a huge fan of Tear Asunder.”
I lifted my eyes to the twenty-something girl standing beside Killian, a cocktail napkin and pen in hand.
My gaze shifted to Killian who wasn’t looking at the girl but at me. Bold, intense green eyes observing, no doubt for my reaction because a girl stood beside our table in a fancy restaurant asking for Killian’s autograph.
I smiled, brows lifting. It was kind of cute, especially since he wasn’t the type to bask in the attention of fans.
Killian politely took the napkin and pen from the girl and placed it on the table. He glanced up at her. “What’s your name?”
“Veronica, but just Vee is good,” she replied, her hands clasped together in front of her, expression awestruck.
She briefly met my eyes, and I smiled because her voice quaked and hands shook. She was really nervous.
He scribbled something on the napkin and passed it back. “All the best, Veronica.”
“Thank you so much. I can’t wait for your new album.” She pranced away, her eyes glued to the napkin, and since she wasn’t looking where she was going, she ran into a waiter who nearly dumped his tray of drinks on the elderly man and woman.
“Does this happen often?” I asked.
He shrugged. “For Logan it does. For me, not as much.”
The waiter arrived with the dessert, a crème brûlée with raspberries and blueberries.
He set it between us with two spoons. “Coffee, sir?”