"So, anything left on the Regina list of demands?" she asks as they walk into the house, the night air growing chilly with the breeze from the open windows. She runs her palms over her bare arms, shivering in spite of herself.
If only she'd thought to bring warmer clothes. But then again, no one told her she would be here all damn night.
He frowns, his glance skimming over her. While his eyes linger on her bared legs a tad longer than they should, there's genuine concern in his expression. "Cold, Swan?"
"I'm okay."
"You're a poor liar." He runs his finger lightly over her arm, the goosebumps direct evidence against her. But there's fire in his gaze when she looks up, an intensity she doesn't expect. "Let us make a bargain, love. While so much of what is between us is a lie for the rest of the world, I won't lie to you. You won't lie to me. That is how we'll get through this."
She nods, too unsettled by the fierceness of the words to do much more.
When he asks her again if she's cold, she mutters kinda.
She follows him into the house, past a living room with a massive fireplace and huge windows open to the view below. He's right – the view from the lookout is better, but there's not a whole lot wrong with this one, either. But he's still moving, so she hurries to catch up.
They pass a room with double doors, one cracked open just enough to reveal a bedroom – his, she's guessing, by the dark woods and earthy colors. He stops another door down, gesturing almost shyly to the room beyond.
"This will be your room, while you're present, should you find it satisfactory."
"I'm sure it's fine." She smiles up at him, swallowing the comment on the tip of her tongue – this bedroom in his house is probably bigger (and much nicer) than her entire apartment. But she's not going to invite his pity by reminding him of how desperate she was for cash to take this job – and she's not going to remind him that she's being paid to be here. They're getting along too well tonight to ruin it with cold reality. No, they're not lovers – they never will be that – but maybe they could be friends.
It's been a long time since Emma has had anyone in her life she could call a friend.
"If you want to, um, make sure you've got everything you require, I'll just fetch you something warmer." He smiles, that nervous, shy smile again, and she realizes in this moment that despite everything else going on around them, this situation has put him off balance almost as much as it has her. It's an odd comfort, but it's a comfort nonetheless.
She steps into the room as he disappears back down the hall, her eyes widening. Houses like this practically come with a decorator, but she's still awed by the creams and soft greens, the thick carpet under her feet.
The room is definitely bigger than her apartment.
She runs her fingers over the surfaces as she moves, the soft comforter and the hard plastic edge of the flat screen TV mounted on the wall. It seems surreal to think of this as her room, but she's realized over the last few hours she's going to be spending a lot of time in this house over the next year.
There's two doors set into one of the walls, the first revealing a small walk-in closet. The other leads to a bathroom done up in white and the palest shade of green, glass tiles that remind her of sea glass covering what looks to be a very luxurious shower. True to his word, he's laid out a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash and small bottles of shampoo and conditioner.
"Everything to your liking?" His voice startles her, and she nearly collides into his chest as she turns in the bathroom doorway. Her face flushes, embarrassed at being caught so lost in her thoughts and crashing into him.
He can't help but notice the pink in her cheeks, and he struggles not to let it make a difference, not to let it add to the clamor inside his head insisting this could be something more than a job they have both signed up for. He's seen the flicker of interest in her eyes, and there's something between them – he felt it the moment her hands hit his shoulders in the pool.
But she's skittish as a stray, and this is a lot for her to take in without him trying to change the rules of the game, so he holds out the T-shirt and sweats he pulled out for her, firmly ignoring that he's offering up one of his favorite shirts just because he wants to see it on her.
No, he won't think about what she might look like with sleep-mussed hair, lean legs exposed in just that T-shirt.
She notices the bundle of clothing in his hands and her eyes dart away, focusing on yet another wall of glass with a view to the city beyond. "Yeah, everything's fine. Can you see the valley from all the rooms?"
"Almost." There's something wistful in his tone, but when she turns back to him, it's gone. "Here." He hands over the jumble of fabric, soft cotton sliding under her fingers. "I intend to light a fire, if you'd like to come out to the living room once you've changed. It will get quite chilly up here with the sun down."
"Is that an invitation or is this a Regina's list thing?"
The spark of mischief dances into his expression, his lip curling in a smirk. "A bit of both, love."
He slips out of the room, and she can't help but watch him go, his shoulders snug in his T-shirt. She shakes herself out of it, turning her attention to the clothes in her hand.
They're his. Of course they're his. She's not sure if it makes her feel better he doesn't keep a random stock of women's clothing in his home, or if it's awkward that he's handing off his clothes already. But then again, she's supposed to be his (fake) girlfriend so she should probably get used to wearing some of his stuff. That's what girlfriends do, right?
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Emma, they're just clothes!" she mutters to herself under her breath, yanking the T-shirt over her head and grabbing the soft sweatpants. The shirt is far from whatever designer overpriced monstrosity she expected, but instead a well-worn piece of fabric with a faded DUBLIN spelled out across the chest.
And it smells like him.
Trying not to read too much into it, she yanks the drawstring of the pants until they almost fit, resolving not to make any sudden movements, just in case.
She finds him in the living room as promised, a small blaze in the fireplace. He's sitting on the couch, his feet on the carved coffee table and a bottle of wine next to them. The girl who spent plenty of winters in Boston judges them a little for their fire when it's hovering right over fifty-five outside, but she's lived in California long enough to want the fire anyway.
"Thanks for the clothes," she mutters, taking a seat with a solid two feet separating them. "Much warmer."
His eyes slide over the empty space between them, but he doesn't say anything, instead reaching for the wine. She's nervous again, the ease of their car ride fleeing in the face of being in his home, alone with him.
Wearing his damn clothes.
He hands her a glass of wine, and she gulps it without tasting it, only to hear his low chuckle. "Easy, lass. A good wine is meant to be savored."
Her eyes lock on his over the glass and with a deliberate stare, she drains the rest of the wine.
"You're a stubborn one." He shakes his head at her, but takes her glass anyway, splashing a bit more wine into it before handing it back.
"I don't like being told what to do."
"Aye, I'm learning." He leans into the couch cushions, one arm over the back while the other hand holds his own glass of wine. He sips slowly, watching her in the firelight. "I'm afraid we do still have an item on our to-do list this evening."
"Right. I almost forgot. Regina left you with instructions?" She mimics his manager's curt tone, and it draws another chuckle from him.
"Aye." He slides his phone out of his pocket, idly twirling it in his hands. "I am to put up a sufficiently vague photo on Instagram." He says it like he's been told to walk through a pit of vipers.
"Sufficiently vague? What does that even mean?"
"We're to figure that out, she says. Something that hints at you being here, but doesn't show your lovely face just yet."
"I'm surprised you even have an Instagram account."
He shrugs, a flicker passing over his expression before the smirk returns. "Mostly, it's just a part of the job. Occasionally I find something else worth showing the world."
She holds out her wine glass with a sigh. "Here, take a picture of the fire with the two wine glasses. Problem solved. Neither one of us has to be in the photo."
"She said it had to be obvious it was you."
"Obvious it's me and sufficiently vague?"
He grins, nodding. "Aye, that's the rub."
"Well, what's your great idea?"
She shouldn't have asked, because his expression turns thoughtful, his eyes raking over her before his grin turns downright smug. "You happen to be wearing one of my favorite T-shirts. I've been photographed in it many a time."
She glares at him, glancing down at the placement of the big, block letters, ignoring that he's given her one of his favorite shirts to wear completely. "You are not posting a picture of my boobs for all the world to see. No way."
"Oh, c'mon, Swan. It's vague but quite obvious. And they're lovely."
"Thanks?" She takes another deep gulp from her glass of wine, squeezing her eyes shut. Why couldn't Regina have been more direct in her orders? Is this supposed to be some odd sort of team building exercise, leaving them to figure it out on their own? Or some sort of test, to see if she's able to exercise sufficient influence to prevent him from posting something stupid?
"If you would be willing to lend me your undergarments, I could take a picture of them on my bed," he offers, all false innocence in spite of the audacious grin he's sporting when her eyes snap open in alarm. "Quite obvious, that."
"Absolutely not!" She can feel her face heating up, whether from the wine or the thought of him anywhere near her undergarments, she isn't sure – but there's no way she's allowing that sort of photo for all the world to see.
"Let's have your suggestions, now, then. I've made two and you've but the one."
"You are unbelievable." The alcohol is working its way into her system, loosening her tenuous control on herself. It's hard to remember she's here doing a job, that she's supposed to be on her best behavior. But it doesn't feel like work.
He raises his phone without warning, snapping a picture of her scowl before she has a chance to protest.
"Hey!" She quickly sets the wine glass down, lunging for the phone while he holds it out of her reach. "She said subtle, Jones! Not plaster my face all over the internet with messy hair!"
"Your, as you say, messy hair makes you look like you've been thoroughly ravished." He turns the screen so she can see it, holding it too far away for her to delete the photo. And damn him, because her windswept hair does look a whole lot like something else in the firelight with a wineglass in her hand.
"Please don't post that."
"Provide me another option."
She sighs, staring into the fire. His feet, still encased in those worn Chucks, are propped on the coffee table and obscuring her view, but it gives her an idea. "Take a picture of the fire with our feet just barely visible."
He raises his eyebrow, regarding her as though she's suggested he photograph the inside of his ear. "Feet?"
"Yes. Here, give me your phone." She moves across the couch, settling next to him and ignoring how easy it is to let her body mold to his, holding her hand out expectedly. He hesitates, but he hands the phone over with a curious lift of his brow, watching as with a nudge of her foot, she throws one leg over his and then leans back to try to get the angle right.
She pretends not to notice how his arm slips from the back of the couch to her shoulders, holding her tucked against his side as she works. It takes a few tries, but then she holds his phone up, triumphant.
"Here. You can barely see my foot. Clearly not a guy foot. Put some caption on it about enjoying a quiet night at home by the fire."
He stares at the phone screen, then back at her before sighing. "If Regina doesn't approve, I'm blaming you, Swan."
"Just do it."
He grumbles a bit more under his breath, but his fingers are moving over the screen. "Done," he tells her, tossing the phone down on the couch cushion and leaning his head back.
"The to do list or the photo?"
"Both."
"Great." She starts to slide away, back to her side of the couch, but his hand on her shoulder tightens ever so slightly.
"You can stay, Swan. We might as well get used to being near each other. You're going to have to kiss me eventually, you know. We could practice." That grin of his is back, the smirk that invites her to break her own rules.
"I hardly need practice. Are you telling me your kissing skills are that poor?" She can't help but challenge him, hoping to knock him down a peg. He's much too smug right now, and hell if she's going to let him get to her anymore than he already has.
He doesn't answer right away, and the dismay and indecision in his eyes makes her laugh. "Having trouble deciding if you want to brag some more or insult yourself to keep up this ridiculous pretense of practicing?"
That does make him laugh, a deep rumble she can feel in his chest pressed as close as she is. "Touché, Swan."
His phone lights up next to him, and he glances down at it with a sigh. "Regina," he says by way of explanation right before he answers.
She uses the opportunity to slide out from under his grasp, watching the dance of the flames while trying not to listen to his conversation – not that he's doing much talking. She takes another sip of her wine, telling herself she is not nervous about Regina's call and its proximity to the photo that was her idea.
When he finally hangs up, she looks up at him expectedly. He's got an odd expression on his face, partially satisfied and partially sad, but when he catches her eyes on him, he breaks into a grin. "Well done, Swan. We've earned ourselves a gold star."
"Regina approves?"
"Aye." He hands her his phone, where the Instagram masses have already begun making themselves known. She can't help her curiosity as she scrolls through some of the comments. They range from insulting (whoever she is, I bet she's just some slut from a bar) to sweet (so cute, have a good night), but there are already hundreds of them.
"This photo hasn't been up ten minutes." She hands the phone back to him, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what it is she's gotten herself into. So far, it's seemed fairly mild. She's hung out with him in his pool and gone for a drive, and now they're sitting around drinking wine. In fact, there are moments where she's simply forgotten he's Killian Jones, mega movie star of tabloid fame.
Now perfect strangers are assuming she's a slut because of her toes.
It seems a solid indication of what's to come. Suddenly needing to be alone, she sets her wine glass down on the coffee table. "I'm pretty tired," she mumbles, getting to her feet and forcing a smile for his sake. "I'm going to head to bed. What time should I plan to be up in the morning?"
"Whenever you please, love. There's not an agenda I'm aware of."
"So…just go home when I wake up?"
He shrugs, suddenly unwilling to meet her eyes. "Aye, if it suits you. Don't be alarmed if there's a photographer waiting." There's something bitter about the last part, but she turns away because if she sits back down on that couch with him, keeps drinking his wine, she's not sure she's going to make it to her own bed tonight.
Boundaries. That's what they need. A firm line in the sand to keep them from complicating matters.
Emma climbs into the deliciously comfortable bed still wearing his shirt, decidedly ignoring how easily one good breeze can shift the sands of an entire beach.
Thank you as always to oncepromised on typo patrol.
I'm traveling for work the next two days and the availability of free wifi is questionable, so the Tuesday update may be delayed until Wednesday, BUT I'm going to post a second chapter this afternoon to hold everyone over :)
To all my mom readers - Happy Mother's Day!