Thank you SO much for all the feedback and follows - I appreciate them all more than I can say. I'm very happy people are enjoying this story, because I am having a BLAST writing it. At this stage I'm looking about four chapters all up, but don't quote me on that! Cheers!
The function room where the 'meet and greet' dinner is being held is vast, quite large enough for him to have no luck spotting Emma Swan and her friends once he's seated. Bugger these event organisers and their determination for everyone to mingle across the board at this blasted thing. He vaguely remembers hearing that there are almost five hundred attendees over the course of the weekend, which makes it a little awkward when he's only interested in talking to one of those people.
Resigning himself to his fate, Killian reconnects with his five colleagues from the Boston office, deflecting their questions about where he's been all afternoon with a smile. "Surely you lot don't think I want to spend more time with you than necessary, do you?"
The petite blonde woman on his right shakes her head. "God forbid you'd actually stick to what we'd all planned only this morning, Killian."
He smiles at her. Tink (poor lass, her parents were hippies and Peter Pan fans, bloody dreadful name for anyone, let alone a lawyer) has been oddly enthused about this weekend, although he's a loss to fathom why. It's not as though they'll be learning anything that will relate to the day-to-day grind of frantically billing hours to make their budgets once Monday rolls around. "Had a spot of trouble with my accommodation." She rolls her eyes at him, but thankfully lets it go, to his relief. The last thing he feels like at this moment is an interrogation on why he didn't join them for pre-dinner drinks.
The next two hours are excruciatingly dull. The only saving grace is that he's now got time to grab his phone and visit the website of the Chicago office and study the corporate profile of one Ms Emma Swan. The headshot they have of her – all that blonde hair determined pulled back into a bun, sober charcoal suit designed to make her blend in – makes him smile. Not even dressing exactly the same as every other female lawyer in Chicago can make her blend in, he thinks. He ignores Tink's occasional pointed 'put that thing away' glares at his phone for as long as he can, but eventually he has to cede to good manners and join in the conversation around the table.
Once they're free to network (God, how he hate that word), he excuses himself and sets about tracking down his missing roommate, hoping he doesn't look as obvious as he feels as he searches the function room for that familiar blonde head. After a few minutes, he finally catches sight of her friends, but Emma is nowhere to be seen. Bugger. He turns to walk towards the main doors to the function room - perhaps she's gone to get some fresh air – only to almost collide with his quarry, apparently making her way back to her table from the restroom.
She doesn't look unhappy to see him. On the other hand, she doesn't look overly happy either. "Oh, hey."
He's enjoyed more enthusiastic greetings from women, but he'll take it. "Hi."
She glances at the wine glass in his hand. "Having fun?"
"Definitely." He tilts his head towards the podium at the front of the room. "I always enjoy listening to pompous arses enthuse about succession planning and corporate branding while I do battle with an overcooked steak."
"I know, right?" She smiles at him, a real smile this time, and he feels like someone's just punched in the gut, but in a very good way. "Um, look, I'm going to call it a night, so I'll see you in the morning."
It's a polite dismissal, but a dismissal nevertheless, and the disappointment that washes over him is an uncomfortable reminder of just how much she's gotten under his skin already. They're sharing a room, for fuck's sake, but the thought of her vanishing on him again so soon has him stepping a little closer. "Perhaps we could -"
There's a heavy clap on his shoulder. "Jones, there you are."
Bloody hell. He switches on his most sycophantic smile as he turns to the owner of the voice and the hand. Only the best for the CEO of the firm, after all. "Good evening, Douglas."
"I need you to come and talk some sense into someone."
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Emma shift from one foot to the other. "A bit of free legal advice on a Friday night?"
His boss smiles. "That's what he thinks, but you and I know it always comes with a price."
"Of course." He flashes Emma smile of apology, although he's not quite sure what he's apologising for. "You'll have to excuse me."
She raises her eyebrows at him, as if to remind him that she's the one who's actually leaving. "Have fun."
He waits until Douglas starts to move away, then leans in close, close enough to smell the light scent of her perfume, dropping his voice so that only she can hear. "I'd much rather be buying you another drink, love. Nevertheless, I promise not to storm in on hobnailed boots after midnight and wake you from your beauty sleep." She hesitates long enough to let him admire the faint pink flush that touch her cheeks, then she turns without a word and walks away. He watches her go, unable to tear his eyes away from the amazing things that those black stiletto heels do for her legs.
It is after midnight by the time he manages to escape, and he's never opened a hotel room door more carefully in his life. She's left the bathroom light on, obviously so he doesn't crack his skull on something in the darkness, and the thought makes him smile.
He creeps about the room in the semi-darkness, the reality of the situation beginning to sink in. If he was alone, he'd simply toss his clothes onto the nearest flat surface and fall into bed, but thankfully, he'd thought to throw in a few t-shirts and a pair of ancient sweatpants when he was packing. Definitely no sleeping naked this weekend, he thinks, but then his mind slides down the slippery slope of wondering what Emma Swan wears to bed and God, she's sleeping right there, with her long legs and gorgeous breasts and amazing arse and why the fuck did he think he was actually going to enjoy this particular situation?
He escapes into the bathroom to clean his teeth and change into his makeshift pyjamas, but it's not an escape because the bathroom smells like her perfume and he knows he's not going to get any sleep tonight unless he takes matters into his own hands, so to speak. Two minutes later, he's choking back a groan as he stands underneath the hot shower spray, his cock in one hand, his other arm braced on the tiles, his head filled with painfully creative images of everything he'd like to do with a naked Emma Swan, perhaps even while she's still wearing those black stilettos.
He comes harder than he has in a long time.
When he finally slips into his own bed, he can hear her breathing across the room and smell her perfume once more, and his cock twitches back into life.
Bloody hell.
He punches his pillow hard before rolling over, putting his back to her. Somehow, he manages to fall asleep and, when he wakes the next morning, it's to the sound of a running shower. Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he sits up groggily, trying to get his bearings. When he spies the rumpled but empty bed on the other side of the room, it all comes flooding back.
And now he's right back in the same situation as he was a few hours ago, doing his best to ignore the fact that he's still in possession of an extremely vivid imagination, now with the added bonus of the certainty that last night's quick wank did nothing to get her out of his system. He should go for a walk, go to grab a newspaper or a coffee, anything but sit on his bed wearing his pyjamas knowing Emma Swan is wet and naked on the other side of the bathroom door. Forget the steam in the bloody bathroom, the heat coursing through his blood is enough to power the entire state of Florida.
Then the water stops running and he gets to his feet, knowing he's only got a few minutes to decide exactly how he's going to approach this situation. He briefly considers leaving the room to give the lass (and himself) some space, but he thinks of how flustered she'd become every time he'd gotten close to her yesterday, and how she'd blushed last night when he'd teased about waking her up. Perhaps she's not as immune to his charms as her poker face might claim.
He stays.
"Morning, Swan."
She stops in her tracks, clearly not expecting to find him rummaging through his suitcase in search of a clean shirt. Her gaze drops to his bare feet, travels up his legs, then quickly darts away. "Uh, hi."
He makes no pretence of not admiring the picture she makes in her jeans and long-sleeved white sweater, her long hair pulled back into a complicated braid. "I hope I didn't wake you last night."
She's very carefully not looking at him now. "No, all good." He watches as she rummages through her purse, then frowns at the top of her bedside table.
"Something wrong?"
Sighing, she holds up the laminated pass they'd all received last night. "I've lost my lanyard."
He shakes his sleep-deprived brain into action, because he actually has the answer to her problem. "That woman gave me two of those things when I registered, hold on." He picks up the black trousers he'd been wearing the day before and rummages through the pockets. "No idea why she gave me two."
"Please." She's still not looking at him, but her scoffing tone is more than clear. "She couldn't take her eyes off you."
"I can't say I noticed." He grins at her as he holds out the spare lanyard. "I had more interesting things to distract me at the time."
Again, that faint hint of colour touches her cheeks, something her studied eye-roll does nothing to disguise. "Thanks." She goes to pluck the lanyard from his hand, her eyes widening as she catches sight of his right wrist. "That's some tattoo."
Damn it. It's not something he shares with many people, but it's too late to cover it up now, of course. "The folly of youth."
She tilts her head, obviously trying to read the script. "Who's Milah?"
The sound of the name doesn't make him wince anymore, but that doesn't mean he wants to talk about it. Taking her wrist in his hand, he presses the lanyard into her palm, feeling her start when he touches her. "Someone from long ago."
"I'm sorry." She's looking at him properly now, her expression faintly embarrassed. "I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."
"We lived together for three years." Dropping her wrist, he hears himself tell her what he makes a point of never discussing with anyone, the words seeming to tumble from his lips without conscious thought. "Two years after we separated, she died in a car accident."
Her pale throat works as she swallows hard. "I'm really sorry."
"Like I said, love." He steps back, feeling very much as though this conversation has been turned on its head, making him feel slightly dizzy with it. "It was a long time ago."
She stares at him, dark eyelashes fluttering, and he can see the hesitation in her bright green eyes. Finally, she nods, and takes a step back herself. "I have to go. I promised to meet Ruby for breakfast downstairs. See you later?"
With that, she flees. There's no other word for it, and he stares after her as she slams the door behind her. She's running away, he realises, not because she's embarrassed to have asked such a personal question but because she feels it too, this odd connection between them.
Despite the lingering echo of sorrow that the thought of Milah always brings, Killian finds himself smiling. Cracking Emma Swan's hard outer shell might well prove to be one of the biggest challenges he's ever faced, but like he so often reminds his clients, he likes a challenge.
Ruby gives her a knowing look when she arrives at the breakfast buffet. "You look nice."
Emma drops her purse onto the table with a clunk. "Thanks."
Ruby looks her up and down, and Emma knows she's taking in the hair, the makeup, the cleavage visibly enhanced by the 'good' bra beneath the most flattering sweater in her collection. "Extra nice, if you know what I mean."
Damn Ruby and her all-seeing eyes. "Pretty sure I don't."
Elbows on the table, Ruby rests her chin in her palms, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. "Where's your friend?"
A memory of leanly muscled arms and a threadbare pair of sweatpants clinging to great thighs and an amazing ass flashes into Emma's thoughts. Shit. "He's not my friend, and he's still in the shower, I guess."
Ruby's red lips curve in a salacious smile. "Then what are you doing down here, girl?"
"Having breakfast with my actual friend." Emma reaches for her water glass, then belatedly registers that someone is missing. "Where's Victor?"
"Hungover." Ruby seems amused rather than sympathetic, which is fairly indicative of their relationship. "He got into the single malts last night with those barristers from New York."
Emma's laugh comes like a snort, but it's just her and Ruby, and she doesn't have to be on her best behaviour now. And just the thought that she's felt like she's had to be on her best behaviour whenever he's around makes her feel weirdly uneasy, like they're on some surreal kind of first date.
When she comes back from her trip to the breakfast bar, Ruby is scrolling through something on her phone. When Emma slides into her seat, Ruby presents her with the Boston office's website and oh, there is Killian Jones' corporate profile. "He's thirty-two," Ruby announces, as though Emma asked her a question. "And he's not married as far as I can tell."
Emma looks down at her plate, remember the conversation in her hotel room, a sudden lump in her throat, then gives herself a mental shake, because she's not the sentimental type at any time of the day, let alone before breakfast. "No, I don't think he is."
Ruby keeps reading as they eat, passing on tidbits of information in between bites (words like Oxford and emigrated pop up more than once) until Emma gives her an exasperated look. "Okay, I get it. You think he's a catch. Can I finish my breakfast in peace now?"
Her friend's smile is a sly one. "Sure. I mean, it's not as though you care how old he is or how successful he is or if he's married." She slides her phone across the table, and Killian's face stares out from the screen, his bright blue eyes looking for all the world as though they've been photoshopped.
In answer, Emma buries her nose in her coffee cup. The only saving grace about this conversation is that the bacon is great and Victor is still sleeping off a hangover, because she's not in the mood for their tag-team nagging this morning.
To her surprise, she doesn't see Killian at breakfast at all - not that she's watching for him – and it's only when they break for lunch a few hours later that she catches sight of him in the distance. She watches as he vanishes into one of the media rooms at the far end of the convention floor, then hears a throat being cleared beside her. Turning her head, she finds Ruby watching her.
"What?"
Her friend is practically levitating with smug satisfaction. "I knew it. You like him."
"Hardly." Emma pulls out her registration timetable, annoyed with herself and Ruby and yes, the strange man who is sleeping in her room. "God. We've got something called 'Best Practices and Sharpest Insights' after lunch. Sounds riveting."
"Might do you good to have a little fun."
"If by fun you mean let someone trample over all my heart and then turn out to be married or gay or on the run from the law, I'll pass."
"I told you, he's not married." Ruby heaves an overdone, long-suffering sigh. "Besides, they're not all like that and you know it. The law of averages alone proves that's not possible."
"I can't believe you're still so starry-eyed about love after working in Family Law for five years."
Her friend laughs, white teeth flashing. "The clients are fine. If anything's going to make me stop believing in fairy tale endings, it'll be Victor."
After another two hours of think tanks and a discussion panel exploring something called emotional intelligence, Emma is itching for caffeine. She hadn't slept well last night, not that she'd admit it to Ruby, all too aware of the other occupant of the room. She hasn't shared a bedroom with anyone for years, and definitely not with someone who makes her feel like popping a breath mint and checking her reflection in the closest shiny surface.
With Ruby in tow, she sets out in search of a decent coffee (ie, not hotel coffee) during their short afternoon break, only to see Killian striding across the foyer towards them, takeaway coffee cup in hand.
"Afternoon, ladies."
He's ditched most of the formal wear of the night before, now wearing his waistcoat over a dark blue t-shirt and jeans. His patent shoes have been exchanged for sneakers, and he looks nothing like the cutting edge legal genius his corporate profile proclaimed him to be. He looks like a freaking male model, is what he looks like, Emma thinks in despair, but before she can do or say anything in reply, Ruby is pulling her forward and snagging Killian's arm with the other hand. "Hey. We're ditching the stiffs once we're done for the day and going out to dinner. Then we're going clubbing, and you're more than welcome to join us."
Emma hopes her jaw hasn't dropped, because this is news to her, and she's tempted to step on Ruby's foot or give her a good, hard pinch, but really, what would be the point?
Rather than answering Ruby, he turns to her instead. "That alright with you, Swan? I don't want you to feel as though you've got your own personal stalker."
She shrugs, determined not to give either of them the satisfaction of a reaction. "Sure."
Her non-committal reply seems to amuse him, which annoys her all over again. "Well, then. Count me in."
Ruby suddenly waves her hand in the air between them as she digs her ringing phone out of her purse. "Sorry, it's Victor. Carry on."
She steps away from them, and Emma looks at the coffee in Killian's hand, relieved to have a non-awkward topic of conversation to grab onto. "Where did you get that?"
He gestures behind him with a lazy tilt of his head. "There was a cart in the foyer."
"Thank God."
"Was being the operative word, I'm afraid," he tells her as she makes to walk around him. "They've just packed up."
Story of her weekend so far, really. "Crap."
Without missing a beat, he holds out his takeaway cup. "Have this one."
She stares at the coffee, then at him. "I couldn't."
"I only bought it to kill some time," he admits with a sheepish smile that does the oddest things to her pulse. "Cream and sugar okay?"
She takes the coffee without further protest, not only because she really wants it, but also because the gesture has left her more than a little dumbstruck. "Um, thank you."
"My pleasure, love," he says with a grin, his accent lilting over the word pleasure. "See you upstairs later, then?"
"Okay." Cradling the takeaway coffee between her hands, Emma watches as he walks away, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu, because didn't they go through this routine last night at the bar?
"Well," Ruby murmurs in her ear, her call with Victor apparently finished. "This could be a very interesting evening."
Emma can't even bring herself to deny it, not when her heart is racing a mile a minute, and that's before she's had a single sip of caffeine. "What was that you were saying about the law of averages?"
Ruby grins. "That's my girl."