The departure hall at JFK was buzzing like a beehive, like usual. Killian Jones closed his eyes and stood for a few moments motionless, concentrating on himself and on just breathing in and out, blocking out all the noise and confusion around him. Good thing he was about to head on a three weeks' vacation at his favorite place: by the sea. One last deep breath, and he was ready to open his eyes again and slowly make his way to the check-in counter.
When he was looking for the right counter, a boy, about twelve years old, caught his attention. He was standing all alone in the middle of the airport madness, looking like he didn't belong there, just a bit like himself. He was packed with a huge backpack and had a suitcase by his feet, looking around a little cluelessly; it seemed like he was looking for someone. He didn't have one of those small card signs around his neck that indicated he was an underage traveling alone, so he had to be with his parents or some adult at least. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket, looked at it and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Killian had seen enough. With three long steps, he was beside him.
"Everything okay, lad?" he asked.
The boy looked only briefly at him. "Not really," he huffed. "Looks like I've lost my mom."
"I see." Killian pointed to the smart phone in the boy's hand. "Can't you call her?"
"Battery's dead," the lad replied a little sheepishly.
"Oh, that's not a problem," Killian told him with a smile, "you can use mine." He fished his own phone from the pocket of his black leather jacket and handed it to the boy.
"Really?" The boy beamed. "Wow, thanks, that's really nice of you." He took the offered cell phone and brushed his thumb over the touchscreen, but then his face fell. "Oh, no."
"What's wrong?"
He shook his brunette head. "I'm afraid I can't call her. She's got a new phone and a new number two weeks ago." he shrugged in defeat. "I haven't memorized it yet." He sighed and gave Killian's phone back. "But thanks for your help."
It wasn't in Killian's nature to give up that easily, it never had been. Thoughtfully, he tapped the edge of the flat smartphone against his lips. "Hmmm... but perhaps you have memorized the number of someone who has her number?" he suggested.
The boy's face lit up again. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "Uncle Dave! He's had the same number for five years." Killian nodded with a smile and handed the phone to the boy again who added with a cheeky grin: "Actually, he's had the same phone for five years." He rolled his eyes, and both shared a conspiratorial laugh.
Killian froze in mid-movement, when an icy female voice cut in from behind. "The hell are you doing?!"
Both whirled around and faced the attractive blonde owner of the voice. She looked furious and dangerous and stepped between Killian and the boy in a menacing way, even though she was not in the least as tall as Killian was.
"Mom!" exclaimed the boy in obvious relief.
"That's your mother?" Killian ascertained.
"Damn right, I am his mother," the woman growled, shooting icy glares from her green eyes and breathing fire at the same time, "and you better step away from my son!"
The boy tugged at the sleeve of her red leather jacket. "Mom..."
Killian took a step back and raised both hands in a soothing way. "I was just trying to help..."
The woman ignored the boy and demanded to know: "What were you about to hand to him?"
"Mom..." the boy urged.
Killian wasn't offended; to be honest, he was impressed with her fierceness. "My cell phone," he told her flatly, "so he could call his uncle to get your number, and then to call you."
That obviously threw her off track a little. Her jaw dropped, and she turned to the boy with a questioning frown. The boy rolled his eyes, and now Killian noticed that they were as green as his mother's.
"Mom, that's true," the boy sighed.
"Oh..." Her head flew to Killian again, her face full of confusion and embarrassment. She ran her hand through her long hair, and he caught himself wondering how it would feel to let one of her locks run through his fingers, and with a frown and a barely perceptible shake of his head he cleared his mind again. "Ah... I..." she stuttered sheepishly and stumbled over her own words, "I guess I have to apologize..."
This was obviously something she wasn't used to and didn't like at all; the shuffle of her feet and the hint of grumpiness that coated her apology showed that clearly. Killian pursed his lips in an amused smile. "For being protective about your boy? I guess not." He tilted his head. "There's a lot of creeps around." He nodded a goodbye to the boy and grabbed his suitcase. "You're right to watch out."
"Thanks again!" the boy called after him when he made his way across the hall.
With a sigh, Emma Swan unfastened her seat belt when the signs above her head went off. The plane had taken off smoothly, and soon they would already reach Boston Airport. Then they'd pick up their rental car and head for the beach house at Cape Cod which would be their hideaway for the next three weeks. She was looking forward to spending some quiet time with her son; she could use it.
"Hey, are you in holiday mood, kid?" she asked and nudged him slightly. "Sorry that happened. I should have kept a better eye on you."
Henry shrugged. "I didn't pay attention either, I just kept on wandering with my eyes glued to my phone. I stopped when it went out, and you were gone." He threw his mother a mischievous glance. "You should have waited until I had called Uncle Dave. He'd have his number then."
She frowned cluelessly. "What?"
"That guy with the cell phone?"
She raised her eyebrows. "Why would your uncle want that guy's number?"
Henry's mouth twitched. "Not for himself."
She huffed and rolled her eyes at her way too grown-up son. "Really?"
He shrugged again. "Why not? He looked okay, and he seemed like a nice guy," was his verdict.
Emma shook her head in disbelief. "Henry! For all we know, he could be an axe murderer."
Now it was the boy's turn to roll his eyes, mirroring his mother's expression. "Oh mom!"
She turned fully to him and raised both hands. "Okay, right. Listen, kid, just to get this straight..." – for a moment nervous, she combed her hair behind her ears with both hands – "I don't need you to try anything to meddle with my... love life, got it?" She averted her eyes for a moment because, God, it seemed just so weird to discuss this with her twelve-year-old son. Almost stubbornly, she added: "I like my life just the way it is."
"But mom," he protested, "you're miserable!"
"I'm not!" she contradicted hotly and s little childishly.
"Whatever you say," Henry grumbled and put the earplugs of his iPod in. Emma was a little unnerved; damn, she was his mother and supposed to take care of him, and not the other way round. And when did he grow so wise? Of course he was right – she was miserable. Most times she just managed to ignore that, having her life built revolving completely around her son and her work, blinding out the emptiness that even the small circle of dear friends – for lack of a real family – couldn't fill. Even the man her son called Uncle wasn't a relative; he was her best friend and the closest to a family she'd ever get. And lately, the boy had constantly been reminding her of that, questioning her openly displayed "I'm the happiest single in the world"-attitude.
Suddenly she wasn't so sure anymore if it had been a good idea to spend the holidays at such a quiet place like a beach house at Cape Cod. A little urban confusion would have been safer, made it easier not to think unwelcome thoughts. With a huff of frustration, she threw herself back in her seat and heard a soft curse from the passenger behind her when obviously her brisk move had made something fall off the tray table. She turned around and peeked through the space between her and Henry's seat.
"I'm sorry if I –" She fell silent when she looked into a pair of strikingly blue eyes she recognized within a split second – it was the guy from before, the guy who'd offered his help to Henry... the guy she'd yelled at for it. The guy whom she had just classified as a potential axe murderer. Mortified, she closed her eyes for a moment. "Oh... it's you..."
His smile wasn't giving away if he'd overheard her conversation with Henry. "Ah, don't worry, love," he replied generously, and – like before – she noticed his accent. And really, love? What kind of idiot talked like this? "It was only water," he added.
"Sorry again," she murmured and turned briskly away again, this time leaning her head very carefully against the back of her seat. Wonderful. Just what she needed. She tried to melt into her seat and become invisible, hoping he wouldn't address her any further. Thank God, he didn't.
When the plane landed shortly after, Henry of course spotted the man and smiled at him with an expression of pleased surprise. "Oh, hi!" He turned to Emma: "Mom, did you see..."
"Yeah, kid," she cut him off almost grumpily and with a forced smile in the direction of the tall, dark, blue-eyed stranger (and why did she even notice those details?), added: "The world is small. Come on, let's go. I need fresh air."
Henry rolled his eyes, and the guy winked at him. "Keep an eye on your mother, lad."
They found their suitcases as two of the first passengers and left the airport building to pick up their rental car. Emma wasn't to happy that the drive from the airport to their holiday destination – Provincetown – was longer that the whole flight from New York to Boston, check-in time included; but it was a price she was willing to pay for staying at a secluded place and see and hear nothing from no one. She really loved her job as a social worker for orphaned kids who had gotten themselves into trouble; but those last few months had brought her to the verge of a burn-out. After a nasty breakup almost a year ago she'd thrown herself even more into work, but ultimately she'd reached her limits.
When they'd reached Provincetown, they went to the tourist center and picked up the key for the beach house and a map of the area, stopped by at a grocery store for their first stock of stuff they'd need, mostly food and a few items like, and finally found the little, but comfortable and cozy cottage that would be their home for the next three weeks. For Emma, it was love at first sight, and after she'd carried the groceries into the small kitchen, she wandered through the small, homely rooms and inspected them thoroughly. Henry darted out to see the beach after he'd deposited his suitcase in one of the two bedrooms, and she was glad that he seemed to excited about this secluded place that she'd been afraid would hold very little appeal for a teenager. But then, he wasn't an ordinary teenager – he was smart, very quiet and supportive, and sometimes she wondered what was going on in his mind. Then she wished he was a bit more outgoing, and that was when she blamed herself – because Emma Swan was the absolute opposite of outgoing.
After a few minutes, she heard his overall excited voice call her outside: "Mom! Mom! Come here! You'll never guess who our neighbor is!"
Emma frowned. What was the kid talking about? Here she came for a vacation practically to the end of the world to have peace and quietude, and how on earth could the neighbor cottage be rented to someone they knew? Please, no, she thought and followed Henry's call very reluctantly. When she left the kitchen through the back door and stood on her porch, shielding her eyes with her hand against the sun and looking for Henry, she spotted him down on the beach, waving to her and gesticulating to the nearby porch of the neighbor beach house. Emma's jaw literally dropped when she recognized the tall figure in the black leather jacket, the dark hair tousled by the wind.
"You?" she blurted out, the annoyance in her voice barely hidden.
It was the guy from the plane, Henry's attempted savior. She didn't want to believe her eyes and groaned inwardly. What the fuck?! The man grinned, obviously amused by her expression, and even from where she was standing she could see the fine skin around his blue eyes crinkle. "I promise I'm not an axe murderer," he replied dryly, and she briefly closed her eyes.
Great. Of course he had overheard her conversation with Henry on the plane. If he told her now that she didn't look miserable, she was going to punch him in the face, but he didn't do such a thing, thankfully.
"Well, that's good to know," she remarked because she had the feeling she should say something, and the stranger – now their neighbor – tilted his head in a weirdly old-fashioned gesture and made a move to retreat into the house. Obviously, she thought in pleased surprise, he wasn't planning on being obnoxious.
"I'm Henry," the kid suddenly called before the man could turn around and gestured towards her, the stranger's blue eyes quietly following, "and this is my mom." He threw her a sharp don't-embarrass-me!-look, and she sighed.
"Emma Swan," she murmured.
"Killian Jones," came the nonchalant reply, "my pleasure."
"Yeah," she sighed.
On the third day, when Emma and Henry sat down for breakfast and switched the radio on, the power went out with a distinct pang. With an unnerved huff, Emma put down her coffee mug and rolled her eyes. "Really?!"
"A short?" Henry looked up from his book.
"Obviously." Sighing, Emma pushed her chair back. "The fuse box is in the broom closet."
"There must be a flashlight there, I think I saw one," Henry said helpfully and got up from his seat, too, following his mother on her heels.
They found the fuse box easily. Emma opened it and peeked inside, the flashlight ominously flickering. "What the hell..." she murmured. Having lived alone for almost all her life, she was quite familiar with any sort of gaskets, electric mains and such, but this fuse box looked like nothing she had ever seen. In fact, not one single fuse was visible. There were, however, various veneers fastened with pretty antique-looking screws.
Unnoticed by his mother, Henry's face lit up, a mischievous expression spreading over his features. "Why don't we ask Killian if he can help?" he suggested in a deliberately nonchalant tone.
Emma chewed on her lower lip in concentration and tried to grasp the concept of the mysterious construction. "Who?" she asked absentmindedly.
"Killian," he repeated, "our neighbor, remember?"
"What?" She shot him a glance and grimaced. "No! Don't be ridiculous, Henry. Why should we? This is just an electrical short." She turned her attention to the fuse box again. "I need a screwdriver," she murmured.
The boy groaned. "Oh God. Seriously, mom?"
Emma paid Henry's grumbling no attention and clammed the flashlight between her front teeth while she went rummaging through the toolbox, accompanied by unintelligible curse words. Finally, she found a slightly crooked screwdriver and leaned a little forward with her flashlight, examining the various screws suspiciously, trying to figure out which one to attack first. Then she decided that one was as good as the other and brought her screwdriver into position.
"Don't!" came the sharp call of a male voice from behind, almost barked like a command, and Emma jumped in shock and dropped the screwdriver with a clattering sound, whirling around in the same moment, a curse on her lips. She caught the flashlight just in time before it landed on the floor next to the screwdriver. Their neighbor was standing in the kitchen with a grinning Henry right behind him – hair tousled and damp, obviously from his morning shower, wearing a plain white, v-necked t-shirt and grey sweatpants, looking ridiculously attractive; and again, why the fuck did she even notice that?
"You scared the hell out of me!" she snapped and threw a deadly glare at her son, pressing a little haughtily through clenched teeth: "I'm sorry Henry disturbed you. I can handle a blown fuse just fine by myself." Really, what had the kid been thinking? Half-annoyed, half-embarrassed (she was still in her pajamas, her hair tied up in a messy pony tail) she dived down to pick up the screwdriver, hoping Mr. Perfect would get the hint and leave.
"Oh no, you can't handle it," came the immediate reply in a low, humming voice, and Emma whirled around again, not believing her ears.
"What?!" Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Listen, buddy," she growled, her voice cutting and sharp as broken glass, a clear menace in it, while Henry rolled his eyes, "if you think you can give me your misogynistic crap about weak women..."
"Gods, no!" he interrupted, raising both hands, and shook his head. "I'd never dare insinuating such a thing, I can clearly see you're a tough lass." Emma's jaw almost dropped at his ridiculous way of speaking, and for a moment, he'd taken the wind out of her sails. He tilted his head, fixing his blue eyes on hers, the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice now as he went on: "But I've come on vacation here for the last four years now, and I know the electric mains in these houses are by no means fit for the 21st century." He swayed his right hand through the air in an all-encompassing move which distracted her for a second. "When I had to deal with a blown fuse for the first time, I got my fingers badly whacked by an electric shock. I know where you should touch... and where you shouldn't." Briefly, his tongue darted out and moistened his lips, and that distracted her even more. "The fuses," he added unnecessarily.
Emma threw him a suspicious glance, for a split second not sure if he was still talking about fuses – and if so, which fuses he really meant. For the first time, she really looked at him, scrutinized his expression. He'd cocked an eyebrow, and that, along with a glint in his blue eyes she couldn't quite put her finger on, gave him a teasing, mischievous air. And was that even a tiny smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth? She wasn't sure what to make of it.
"Oh." Emma felt a little stupid, pressed her lips together and decided insisting on fixing this alone would be childish and ridiculous. "Well, in that case..." She took a step back and held the screwdriver out to him. "Be my guest."
"Why, thank you, milady," he replied in an overly polite way, and tilted his head like in a bow, very clearly teasing her now, and she wanted to be mad at him, she really did. But his teasing, obvious as it was, had a benevolence about it and wasn't obnoxious or arrogant in the least; against her will and much to her own surprise, she had to suppress a grin. Serves you right, she admitted to herself. Again, the guy – Killian, she remembered – was only trying to help, and she threatened him with bodily harm. "Hold the light for me, would you be so kind, love," he prompted while he stepped inside the broom closet. Emma did as she was told, and while Killian was fidgeting with the fuse box, Henry shook his head at her behind his back – you're impossible, mom. She shrugged – how was I supposed to know?
Suddenly, loud music from the radio blasted through the kitchen when the power went on again. Killian closed the fuse box and stepped out of the broom closet. "Done," he announced unnecessarily and with only the tiniest hint of self-satisfaction in his voice, handing her back the crooked screwdriver.
"Thank you." Emma nodded, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. "Well..."
Henry glared at her, and she sighed. "Can I offer you a coffee?" she asked a little sheepishly, and Killian smiled. Damn, his eyes were really quite blue, weren't they?
"Coffee is always good," he replied, and she poured him a mug.
Henry slumped down on his chair again, and judging by the expression on his face, he was pretty satisfied with himself. "Do you live in New York?" he inquired bluntly and sprinkled some cinnamon on his cocoa.
Emma blushed because she knew what the little brigand was doing. Killian turned his full attention to the boy and answered: "Yes, actually I do, lad."
"Cool," Henry replied gleefully, "I mean, what were the odds that we were on the same plane and rented houses next to each other!"
His mother rolled her eyes, but Killian nodded seriously. "Quite remarkable," he confirmed and sipped on his coffee. "This is good," he said to Emma, "It's horrible what some people deem coffee nowadays."
She wasn't sure what to reply, and much to her horror, Henry suddenly left the table with some lame excuse ("I think I heard my phone ring"). But Killian seemed to sense her uneasiness and put down his half-emptied coffee mug. "I should go now," he said and scratched behind his ear. "Thanks for the coffee."
"No, thank you," Emma replied hastily and added on an impulse: "Sorry if I was a little..." – she shrugged – "...prickly."
He snorted a little laugh, a sound that was adorable in a confusing way. "Oh no, don't worry, Swan," he waved her off, and her head snapped up when he called her by her last name. No one had ever called her Swan before, and oddly enough, it sounded kind of... intimate. Much more that if he'd called her Emma. She frowned a little, but it was more because of her confusion than because she was irritated by it. "You weren't prickly," he told her with that same slight smile from before; the smile that made her wonder if there was a little tease in his eyes. "You were fierce," he added.
She cleared her throat. "Anyway... thanks for your help."
He tilted his head and even swayed out his right hand a little, and it looked suspiciously like a bow which was completely ridiculous now, wasn't it? "At your service, love," he said and slipped out of her back door before she could react in any way.
"What the hell was that?" she murmured.
The absence of stress, the quietude and the sea air provided Emma with a sleep so deep and relaxing that, unusual for her, her holidays transformed her into a relatively early riser. So, she got used to wake up at seven o'clock sharp and silently trolled to the kitchen while Henry was still blissfully and fast asleep. She'd never have thought how peaceful it could be to sit outside on the bottom stair of her porch, her first mug of coffee in her hands and her bare toes curling in the cool sand, listening to the cries of the seagulls and the splash of the ocean waves.
One should have thought that, in a holiday resort, at this hour of the day, nobody else would be awake. Instead, that wasn't the case. At first, she didn't recognize the tall figure approaching on the beach from the right, because she had to look into the blinding sun. But when the guy jogged past her porch, she saw that it was their neighbor, Killian, obviously an early bird himself, returning from a morning run. He was concentrating on his run, not paying attention to the left or to the right, and hadn't noticed her sitting there on her porch.
Quietly, Emma put her mug down on the stair beside her and – against her will, because she didn't even care – watched him from underneath her eyelashes; just casually, as she assured herself, and just because she was looking in his direction anyway. The morning air was still a bit chilly, so he'd put on long sweatpants, like that day he'd been to her house to help with the fuses. To protect himself against the fresh morning breeze, he was wearing a hooded sweater; when he'd finished his run and stopped at the stairs leading up to his own porch, however, he obviously felt the heat of the run, because he crossed his arms and pulled the sweater over his head. While he did, he accidentally also lifted the white t-shirt he was wearing underneath, and Emma caught a tiny glimpse of his flat stomach, dusted with an exquisite sprinkle of dark hair that formed a narrow path disappearing into the waistband of his pants.
She gasped involuntarily and made a sudden move with her hands, gripping the edge of the step she was sitting on. Accidentally, she knocked over her forgotten mug, and the tepid rest of her coffee was spilled and stained her pajama pants.
"Shit!" She jumped to her feet.
Killian, who had been using his sweater to wipe the beads of perspiration from his neck, turned around and raised an eyebrow in surprise. Well, great. Emma felt like she'd been caught doing something forbidden. She gesticulated towards her upturned mug and blurted out: "I spilled my coffee. I was –" She bit her tongue before the word distracted tumbled out. What the fuck?! She had not been distracted. What should even have distracted her? "Hi," she added quickly.
He pursed his mouth into a lopsided smile and tilted his head. "Good morning, Swan," he replied and rubbed the sweater over his face. "Sun got into your eyes?"
"Yeah." She cleared her throat and picked up her mug. "Nice run?"
"Very nice," came his answer and he snorted that little laugh again she'd noticed before. "You should try it." And with that, he threw the sweater over his shoulder and climbed the stairs to his porch and back entrance, leaving Emma to watch his retreat – which she didn't, of course. Why would she be interested in watching the firm muscles of his back twitch and roll underneath the white shirt that was so sweat-soaked from his run that it clung to his body like a second skin... Really?! she mentally chastised herself and shook her head a little to get back to reality. What was wrong with her? Unfortunately, her eyes were still lingering on his backside, when he threw a glance at her over his shoulder. She blushed, and he grinned. "Enjoy the view," he said with a twinkle in his eyes that looked extraordinarily blue this morning, reflecting the ocean. When she opened her mouth to fire a sharp reply, he pointed his thumb over the shoulder towards the horizon. "The ocean, I meant," he added, but his pause had been long enough to made her suspect he definitely knew what she'd been watching.
Mad at herself more than at him, she rolled her eyes and made for a quick retreat into the house.
The next morning, however, she was having her morning coffee on the porch again.
Every morning when he was on his run, Killian Jones' thoughts were revolving around his holiday home neighbor. Although she was easily one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen – in a very unspectacular way – her looks were not the reason for that fascination. What had captivated him from the beginning about Emma Swan, since their very first encounter at the airport, were the contrasts he'd detected within her personality. She appeared to be very strong and fierce on the outside, very determined and sure of what she wanted. On the other hand, she had an air of fragility and vulnerability about her that made her seem heartbreakingly lost – insecure about herself, about who she was and who she wanted to be.
Mirrored in her eyes he saw the same kind of forlornness he'd felt himself for a long time. She undeniably attracted him, yes – but there was more to it than that: he was curious to know her. Tough as she had made herself seem, he'd caught a tiny glimpse of transparence, of a permeability in her shell when she'd finally grumpily accepted his help with the blown fuse and later, when she'd offered him coffee. Perhaps there'd been even a flicker on interest in her eyes.
Yes, Emma Swan was someone worth knowing – but he figured it would take quite an amount of time until she'd let him, and he wasn't yet sure if it was even an option to make the effort, not knowing if she wasn't going to simply disappear after a few days. This was a holiday resort, after all.
Three days after his first aid in Emma's kitchen, however, it happened that he caught her watching him from her porch when he returned from his morning run. At first, he hadn't noticed her sitting there with her coffee, but her muffled curse when she'd spilled her coffee over herself caught his attention. They exchanged a few words, and her obvious nervousness made him curious. Killian Jones was surely aware of the effect he had on most females of all various ages, and he was familiar with the sight of women becoming nervous in his presence, flustered, a giggling mess. Now Emma had been far from that, but the signs were unmistakably there; and when he threw a last glance at her and saw she was still staring at him, checking him out, he knew for sure that she wasn't completely disinclined.
And then, the next day, she was there again. This time, his eyes scanned the beach when he was approaching her house, and he saw her already from afar sitting on the stairs, coffee mug in her hands. He smiled and raised his hand in a casual wave, and she pressed her lips together and smiled back. This time he stopped at the foot of her porch.
"Hello, neighbor," he greeted with a grin, "how's the coffee?"
"Thankfully, not on my PJs today," she replied. "How long have you been running?"
"About an hour," he answered and pulled his sweater over his head; the morning sun was already strong.
That seemed to throw her off track a little, as he noticed with pleasure; she was overtly anxious not to look anywhere but at his face. "Ah... wow... an hour," she almost stuttered and added hastily: "You rise early." She bit her lip, blushed and averted her eyes for a moment, and Killian had to suppress a chuckle.
"Rise and shine is my motto, love," he replied and threw the sweater over his shoulder, turning toward his own porch. Better not push it too far. If he should find her waiting for him the next day, too, he would know she was at least sort of interested. He could feel her eyes in his back, and right before he entered his beach house through the back door, he threw a look over his shoulder again. This time, she didn't look like a miscreant that had been caught red-handed; only the slightest shade of pink colored her cheeks, and she smiled again that careful, almost secret smile with her lips pressed together and briefly flicked her wrist in a wave.
He wasn't really surprised to find her again the morning after.
One week after their arrival, it was the hottest day since their vacation had started, and Emma and Henry spent the day between lying on sunbeds on their shadowy porch – the sand was far too hot – and diving into the water. From time to time, Emma secretly scanned the beach, but their neighbor was nowhere to be seen; he didn't seem to be in the house either, Come to think of it, she'd never seen him around during the day.
In the evening, they were having pizza for dinner and a fruit salad she'd made, and completely out of the blue Henry suggested: "Mom, why don't we invite Killian over for dinner tomorrow?"
"Ah... what?" she asked, taken by surprise. "Why?"
The boy shrugged. "Why not? He's nice. And you've been waiting for him every morning!"
Emma felt a deep blush creep over her neck. "Nonsense, Henry," she replied almost harshly. "I wake up early, and I like having my first coffee outside. It's not my fault he always comes back from his run at that time. And I thought you were asleep!"
Henry grinned. "I wake up early, too," he just said. "And nobody's giving you a fault. I just thought it would be nice to invite him."
Emma pushed the bowl with her fruit salad aside. "I don't think that's a good idea, kid," she told him, "you don't even know if he'd like that." Henry frowned, and she quickly explained: "Maybe he just wants his peace and quiet here, just like me."
Henry chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, but then his face lit up and he shot his index finger at his mother like a bullet. "You think he's cute!" he blurted out.
Emma's jaw dropped. "What?!"
Henry nodded enthusiastically. "You're interested in him!" he exclaimed. "And that's why you're scared!"
Emma raised her hands in a standoffish gesture. "No, I'm not!" she contradicted firmly, very firmly. Almost a little too firmly. "You're imagining things!"
Henry folded his arms. "You know, mom, not every guy is like my dad," he told her in a quite precocious way. "Not every guy will abandon you."
"I know that, kid," she replied, her voice a little less upset. She always had to remember herself that her son was only twelve years old; and when did he grow up so much? "Still, just because a guy is halfway decent looking, that doesn't mean I'm interested in him," she clarified.
Henry raised his eyebrows, giving a perfect imitation of her very own really?!-expression. "Halfway decent looking?" he echoed.
She threw her hands in the air. "Okay, so he is hella cute!" she blurted out and blushed a little more. "There, I've said it. Are you happy now?" Henry looked at her with a goofy grin, somehow he looked like he was secretly amused about something, which confused her. And then, somehow it was weird – why did he seem to be looking past her? "What?" she inquired. Then, suddenly, it dawned on her, and she closed her eyes with a feeling of fatal shame. "He's standing right behind me, isn't he?" she asked.
Henry's grin broadened. "Hi, Killian," he said across her shoulder
"Ah... hi," came the husky reply from behind her, and she felt the little hairs at the back of her neck bristle. Had she just called Killian Jones hella cute while he'd been standing behind her? She wanted to disappear in a hole. "I'm sorry to disturb you," Killian said, and she wanted to die.
"That's fine, you're not disturbing," Henry replied nonchalantly and got up from his seat. "I... oh, I think my phone is ringing." Of course.
With a sigh, she slowly got up from her chair, dragging the dreadful moment out as long as possible, when she'd have to look him in the eyes. His damn blue eyes. If he was smirking, she'd punch him in the face. She drew a deep breath and turned around slowly. "Okay... well, this is a little awkward now..."
Killian was standing on her porch and looked at her with a little frown, tilting his head in question, his expression not giving away anything. "Why, love?" he asked, and weirdly enough, it didn't look like he was making fun of her.
She shrugged sheepishly. "Because you heard what I said..."
"Oh yeah," he replied quickly, "well, I heard you asked the lad if I was standing right behind you." He actually made a guilty face. "I have to apologize," he went on and scratched behind his ear, and she started to hope that he really hadn't heard her embarrassing praise of his handsomeness before. "I shouldn't have snuck in just like that..."
"No, no, it's fine," Emma waved him off hastily, determined to change the subject. For a moment, they just stood there, looking at each other, and she was so distracted by the midnight blue shade of his eyes that she even forgot to ask herself why he'd come over. If she hadn't known any better, she'd have thought Henry had willed him to, in his obvious zeal to set her up with him. Which was ridiculous, because she really didn't need anything like that in her life. No, thanks very much, not at all. But then, he was really beyond cute; if she was honest with herself, he was breathtaking. Snap out of it! she chastised herself and cleared her throat. "Ah... would you like a... bowl of fruit salad?" she asked, saying the first thing that came to her mind.
Killian scratched behind his ear again; obviously a nervous tic. "Sure," he replied with a grin, and Emma gladly took the occasion to escape into her kitchen.
Inside, she paced the room a few times with long steps, combing her hands through her hair. Of course, her miscreant of a son was nowhere to be seen; the door to his bedroom was closed. Fine. What the hell was she doing? Okay. Okay, relax, she told herself, you're just being polite. No big deal. He's a nice guy, he's your temporary neighbor, and he probably just has run out of sugar or something and wants to borrow some. And he sounds like sin and looks like a Greek god, but that shouldn't be held against him.
"Snap out of it," she growled to herself and quickly fetched a small porcelain bowl from the kitchen closet and filled it up with fruit salad, grabbed a dessert spoon and headed outside again. Killian was still standing there somewhat awkwardly in the middle of the porch, like he was a little nervous himself.
"Here," she said almost a little briskly and put down the bowl on the table, "have a seat."
"Thanks," he replied with a bright smile and sat down, diving right into the fruit salad. "This is delicious, love," he complimented her after the first bite, and she blushed a little, which was annoying. Really, why was he even talking like that?
"It's nothing, really," she shrugged, "just a little chopped fruit with lemon juice and a drop of maraschino liquor. I'm not that much of a cook," she added and thought: smart move. I guess inviting him for dinner is not an option any more now. Not that I ever intended to.
Suddenly, she noticed that he scrutinized her closely, his head tilted to the side. "Can you make sandwiches?" he inquired out of the blue.
Emma frowned. "Yeah, I guess," she replied slowly and raised a questioning eyebrow. "Why?"
"Well, the thing is, I..." – he scratched behind his ear again, and God, did he have to be so adorable on top of all the handsomeness? – "I have a boat. I mean, I've rented a boat for the time of my stay, I always do. I go sailing every day."
"Oh..." Now there was the explanation why he was never around to be seen during the day. And he'd told her that, because...? Without being aware of it, Emma leaned a little forward, her body language quietly urging him to go ahead.
"I was wondering..." She noticed that his hand was fidgeting with his spoon, rolling it between his fingers. Nervous. Adorable. "I was wondering if you and Henry would like to join me tomorrow?" he asked. When his words were out, he looked at her again, an expectant smile playing around his mouth.
Now it was Emma's turn to be befuddled. "Ah... I've never... I mean, I have no idea how to sail a boat," she almost stumbled over her own words, her thoughts whirling. "I... I wouldn't be of much help, I'm afraid."
He chuckled. "That's actually not a problem, Swan," he replied, sounding already much more confident now. "It's a rather small boat. I could sail it one-handed, if I had to." She smiled a little shyly, and he added with a teasing grin: "But if you want to help... I'm a good instructor." His eyes bore into hers, held her gaze as if he wanted to hypnotize her, and she could have sworn that a subtle undertone had found its way into his voice; an undertone that made the skin between her shoulder blades prickle.
"Sounds like fun," she said and wished she had a little more control over her voice; it sounded a little squeaky in her own ears. "I bring the sandwiches then?"
He tilted his head. "That would be great."
She swallowed. "And when do we... set sail?" she asked.
He smiled. "After my morning run, I'll need twenty minutes to shower and gather my stuff, would that be okay for you?"
Emma nodded once. "Perfect." She wished she didn't sound so tongue-tied.
"Great." He smiled brightly now, and she couldn't help but stupidly grin back; it was so infectious. He tapped his thumb against the bowl. "And that's really good. If you have some leftovers, I'd love you to bring them."
"Okay, it's a date," Emma replied spontaneously and added hastily, her stupid blush deepening: "I mean, it's not a date, it's..." she waved her hands through the air in desperate search for a smart escape, but her mind seemed to have gone blank. The seconds ticked away. Damn, she looked like an idiot and felt like...
"I see you tomorrow, Swan," Killian interrupted her ramblings with a smile, obviously his own earlier nervousness completely evaporated now, so that he could help her through hers. And he turned around to discreetly leave her to her flaming cheeks and stuttering heart, and why the fuck was she so nervous now? I wasn't a date, it was just a nice gesture from him, mostly for Henry probably.
Emma took the remaining fruit bowls to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher, then she started to busy herself with slicing bread and gathering ham and cheese and lettuce. After a few minutes, Henry appeared, a suspicious frown on his face. He tried to look past her.
"Killian already gone?" he asked in an almost accusatory tone and huffed. "Mom! You scared him off!"
Emma suppressed a smug grin. "Actually, no," she replied cryptically.
"What do you mean?" Henry quirked a suspicious eyebrow. "And why are you making sandwiches now?"
"We're invited to go sailing tomorrow," she told him almost nonchalantly.
The boy's eyes widened. "Killian has a boat?!" he exclaimed.
"He has rented a boat for the time of his stay," she corrected. "And he invited us to go sailing with him tomorrow. I said yes," she added unnecessarily.
"Oh man, that's awesome!" Henry enthused and grinned. "Of course you said yes."
Emma rolled her eyes. "Go to sleep, kid."
A/N:
For my dear friend Fari! Hail to the king!