Rolling over, Killian Jones buries his face into the depths of his pillow with a groan. His bedroom is flooded with an obscene amount of sunlight, informing him that he neglected to close the blinds last night. He's usually above those kinds of rookie mistakes, he thinks hazily, closing his eyes tighter against the unpleasant thrum of his pulse in his temples. Then again, last night he'd been more drunk than he'd been in quite a while, which was very drunk indeed.
Aside from the dreadful sunlight, there's something else bothering him, he realises slowly. Something else that's not sitting comfortably in his throbbing head this morning, and it's only when he grimaces at the stale taste of far too many drinks on his tongue that he remembers exactly what's troubling him.
He rolls onto his back, one hand over his eyes in a vain attempt to ward off the evils of the morning sun as he searches through his memories of last night. Ah, of course. Now he remembers.
Emma Swan had kissed the living daylights out of him, then turned him down flat.
Swearing under his breath, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering if he should just smother himself with the pillow and be done with it, because he couldn't have mucked things up more if he'd tried.
"Now then, Swan." To his relief, he sounds like his usual self. No sign of the fact that his heart is currently doing a rhumba against his sternum or he's in possession of a raging erection that would put his sixteen year-old self to shame. "Care to continue our team bonding over that drink?"
She stares at him, her dark eyelashes fluttering, then she shakes her head. "Sorry, I can't." Hers hands are still on his chest, but now they're pushing against him, not clutching at the front of his ridiculous laser tag vest. "I'm still going home." She takes a step back, her gaze sliding away from his, her lovely face flushed. "Alone."
He can still taste her on his tongue, and it takes a few seconds for this new turn of events to sink in. "But, I thought-" He breaks off, because he sounds exactly the type of smugly entitled git he always makes an effort not to be. It's too late, though, because he can tell by her expression that she's already decided exactly the same thing.
"You thought what?" Her voice had been deliciously unsteady, but now she seems to have recovered quite nicely from their fleeting dalliance, and he sees a flash of ire in those bright green eyes. "That just because I kissed you it was all systems go?"
"Can you blame me?" Ah, there was the smug git again, he thinks with dismay. Apparently this woman has the effect of loosening his tongue in every possible way, including the worst. "It was quite a kiss, Swan," he adds quickly, and even in the half-light, he can see she's blushing.
Blushing but, as it turns out, still not budging. Her smile is more of a sneer, but God help him, all it does is make he want to kiss her again. "It's late, I'm tired, and we've both been drinking. Good kiss or not, it's still not a good idea, and you know it."
He does, of course, which only makes things worse, but he can't bring himself to believe this thing between them - whatever it is - is over before it's even had a chance to start. "Tomorrow night, perhaps?"
She takes another step back, her words now tumbling over themselves. "What, so I can finally contribute to your not-so-secret admirers' club at the office on Monday?"
He manages not to smile. "As I said before, love, you'd want to be careful with that whole sounding jealous thing."
Her gaze narrows, and he has the sudden feeling that he should brace himself. "And you'd want to get over yourself, mate," she tosses back at him in a mocking sing-song voice. "It was just a kiss." She pauses, as if for effect, then goes for the jugular (sadly, only in the metaphorical sense.) "And I hate to break it to you, but I've had better."
Filled with equal amounts admiration and embarrassment, he opens his mouth to speak - or apologise or grovel or beg - he honestly no longer knows what the fuck he's doing here. "Swan, I-"
It's too late, because with dismissive flick of her hand, a swish of her hair and a sway of her hips, she's gone.
Like a stunned mullet, he'd stood in that bloody laser tag room for a good two minutes after she'd left, feeling confused, annoyed (yes, at her as well as himself, he's the first to admit he's no saint) and as randy as a sailor in port after a long haul at sea, all of which he promptly attempted to drown with overpriced booze. Which, of course, is why he's now lying alone in his bed with a hangover that would kill a small pony and the distinct feeling he's ruined his chances with Emma Swan before he could even begintrying to impress her.
Oh, he'd made an impression on her alright, he thinks darkly as he throws back the covers and sits on the edge of his bed, his aching head cradled in his hands. Too bad it was the exact opposite of the one he'd wanted to make from the first moment he'd seen her in the hallways of Mills and White. Rubbing his temples, he heaves a sigh and drags himself to his feet. Right, he tells himself, hot shower, hot coffee, then spend the weekend definitely not thinking about how bloody fantastic it had been to kiss Emma Swan.
Scowling at his reflection in the bathroom mirror (he's perversely pleased he looks as rough as he feels) he touches his lips with his fingertips, as if trying to resurrect the taste of her, and sighs again. The first two, at least, he can manage, but the third is an entirely different kettle of fish.
Turning the water up as hot as his skin will tolerate, he closes his eyes and starts counting the hours until Monday morning. Emma Swan might be determined to tell herself that their kiss was just a kiss, but he'd tasted her soft moan, felt the shudder that had rippled through her. What he needs,he decides as the hot water begins to work its magic on his aching skull, is to make a watertight counter-claim. Luckily for him, he knows just the man for the job.
He'd noticed her on his very first day.
Dutifully trailing the Health and Safety officer as part of his orientation, they'd walked through the Family Law department, where he'd overhead a female staffer having an extremely terse telephone conversation with what he could only assume was the opposition legal counsel. As his tour guide had helpfully pointed out the fire exits on that floor, he'd shamelessly tuned her out and eavesdropped on quite a different voice, vastly entertained by the colourful turn of phrase and sheer effrontery he was hearing.
To his disappointment, he'd been ushered away to continue his orientation - at the height of the unseen woman's verbal evisceration of her opponent, no less - and he hadn't had the chance to lay eyes on the voice's owner. That afternoon, walking towards the elevator, he'd heard it again, only this time the topic of conversation was movies and food. He'd turned, then blinked, because surely the green-eyed blonde who was chatting idly with a colleague about all movies being Hollywood remakes (and who also looked as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth) wasn't the same woman who'd threatened her opposing counsel so thoroughly?
Apparently, it was. He later discovered that her name was Emma Swan, she was an associate in the Family Law team and she was officially destined for Big Things, according to the office rumour mill. That first day, though, he's quite sure he'd looked at her as a man crawling through the desert might gaze upon an oasis, and he had no bloody idea why. After all, he'd always liked brunettes. For Emma Swan, though, he'd been more than prepared to expand his horizons. That face and body combined with that razor-sharp brain - he'd have to be blind not to appreciate her charms.
Sadly, he also soon discovered that it didn't matter a whit what hispreferences were, because as far as Emma Swan was concerned, he didn't exist. Or, put more simply, she was aware of his existence, she just didn't care. She looked right through him whenever their paths crossed, and seemed to make a point of never once getting within conversational distance. At first he found it intriguing, then infuriating, then both things at once. He'd never been one to indulge in false modesty, and the fact that a woman remained so steadfastly stony-faced in his presence was something of a novelty. Still, he liked a challenge, and he suspected that winning Emma Swan's favour would be well worth the effort.
Then, of course, like an idiot, he'd slept with that red-haired secretary from her team.
Nothing too scandalous or shocking in that, of course - they'd both been single adults who'd decided to have a little mutual fun one night after few shared drinks, no strings attached - but that particular tidbit of gossip had burnt through the firm like a proverbial firestorm. The next time he'd run into the lovely Emma Swan in the hallway, she hadn't looked right thought him. Instead, she'd looked at him as though he'd just confirmed all her worst opinions of him, then looked right through him.
Not his finest hour, he has to admit, and late on Friday afternoon when he'd spied her name amongst the ranks of those unfortunate enough to be corralled into playing that preposterous laser game, he couldn't agree to join in fast enough. He'd lost sight of her as soon as the game had begun, much to his disappointment, but then she'd suddenly appeared in front of him like a vision and lurched into his arms. He'd kissed her, she'd kissed him back, and now it's Sunday afternoon and he's lying on his couch, trying to find the energy to do something other than replay that damned kiss over and over again in his head, just like he had all Saturday and Saturday night. Apart from two desultory forays into the street to buy coffee from the café underneath his apartment block, he's done nothing all weekend but surf the internet (without enthusiasm) and play video games (badly) and remind himself of everything he should have said to Emma Swan but didn't.
Just after three o'clock, he gives himself a mental slap on the back of the head and climbs off the couch. He changes his threadbare t-shirt and jeans for a less threadbare set, then picks up his car keys. If he's not going to get anything done at home, he may as well get something done at the office. He'd knocked off early on Friday, and while he might still be paying for that decision on a personal level, at least he can get a head start on Monday's workload.
The office is quiet, the phones silent as the after-hours voicemail does its magic, and he feels the tension in his shoulders finally begin to relax. At least here, where it's just him and the work he does best, he doesn't second guess himself.
When he hears the sound of someone making use of the best photocopier on the floor, he almost doesn't bother investigating. He'd be surprised if he was the only person working this afternoon, but something makes him trudge down the hallway, his trainers silent on the thick carpet. When he reaches the copy room, his heart both sinks and does an odd little jig, because he'd know that blonde ponytail anywhere. He allows himself a moment's grace to appreciate the novelty of seeing her in casual dress - her lovely arse is even more lovely when it's clad in denim, it seems – then clears his throat. "Having a good weekend, Swan?"
"Shit." The ponytail in question curls gracefully through the air as its owner spins around, one hand pressed flat on her chest, her eyes wide. "You scared the hell out of me."
"My apologies, lass." He does his best not to notice that her green sweater is rather fitted and shows more of her breasts than any of her sombre work suits ever have. She's not wearing any makeup, and the lips that have haunted his thoughts for two days (since his first day, to be honest) are even more tempting in their natural state. "I didn't mean to alarm you."
Her answer is a scowl and a shake of her head as she goes back to whatever it is that she's doing. "Don't let me keep you," she finally tosses over her shoulder, and he frowns, because he can't remember the last time he saw one of the matrimonial lawyers working on a weekend.
"What's got you in the office on a Sunday?"
She hesitates, as if she's afraid to encourage him, then sighs loudly. "The other side served an amended affidavit from the husband at the eleventh hour on Friday. I was at court all day and the secretary who accepted the service didn't bother letting me know." She darts him a dark glance, and he suspects he know exactly which secretary she's talking about. Bugger. "So we've got a custody hearing at nine tomorrow morning and I've got a-," she glares at the paperwork scattered on the worktop to her left, "forty-seven page affidavit to get through, then a response to draft, and my partner is in the fucking Hamptons this weekend, so then I have to email everything to her and sit around on my ass waiting for her to finish tanning by the pool so she can tell me everything I've done wrong, then I get to amend our client's application until my eyeballs fall out of my head."
He leans against the doorframe, knowing he's about to be rather unconventional, but he's never let that stop him before. "Need a hand?"
She stares at him. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"
She's even more lovely when she's annoyed with him, he decides. "I'm quite serious, love."
A frown tugs at her eyebrows. "Don't call me love," she mutters, but the rebuke is almost automatic, and he grins as he steps into the copy room, palms up in supplication.
"Sorry, darling."
"Really?" She shakes her head again, but not before he catches the faintest hint of a smile touching her lips. "I'm sure you've got your own work to do."
"Actually, no." He strolls into the copy room, keeping his hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans, lest he do something untoward like touch her. "Nothing that can't wait, at least."
He sees the hesitation in her eyes. "You'd really spend your Sunday afternoon crosschecking boring as hell affidavits to help me out?"
"I would." The suspicion in her eyes stings more than he cares to admit."Does that surprise you?"
She shrugs, a reluctant smile curving her mouth. "A little."
He grins. "Last week I spent two hours trying to explain to one of our clients that the Limitation of Liability Act didn't have anything to do with the actual sinking of the Titanic." She laughs at that, actually laughs, and warmth spreads through him at the sound of it. "Trust me, I'm all too familiar with boring."
She eyes him for another moment, then pats the top of the photocopier. "You know how to drive this beast?"
He knows she's expecting him to say no, and indeed he could probably count on one hand the number of professional staff in his team who actually knew how to work the copier, or any of the indispensable office equipment, for that matter. Luckily for him (and for Emma Swan) he's lived a life of being painfully self-sufficient. "I've always been a hands-on kind of man."
She rolls her eyes, but the faintest hint of a smile remains. "Fine, but don't think I'm taking my eyes off you for a second."
"I would despair if you did," he tells her with a grin, then almost staggers under the weight of the bundle of documents she slings into his arms without ceremony.
"In that case, I need two copies of that, thanks."
It shouldn't come as a surprise to him that they work well together, but it does. She's methodical, but not because she's a stickler for the rules, but she's obviously determined not to miss a trick. It's the same way he likes to work and, once the copying is finished and they're in her office, working their way through contradictory lists of dates and accusations of misleading email communication (as always, any contact with matrimonial law makes him wonder how these people managed to fall in love with each other in the first place), he asks the question he's been wanting to ask since the moment he heard her voice on his first day. "What made you choose this area of law?"
She glances up, apparently startled by the question, perhaps even a little unnerved, then she looks down again. Her gaze trained on the document in front of her, she trails the end of her pen down the page as she answers. "I don't know." She taps her pen on the thick affidavit, her hand moving restlessly. "Why do any of us chose the area we choose?"
"A vocation." He notes another discrepancy in recollection between former husband and wife, then looks up at her, taking the opportunity to study her delicate profile while she is so very deliberately not meeting his eyes. "A calling, perhaps?"
"Well, that all sounds very poetic, but I just went where the most steady source of work was." She finally raises her head, her gaze meeting his with a silent jolt of awareness, and he hopes very much he's not imagining the sudden darkening of her eyes. "What about you?"
He hesitates, then decides there is nothing to be lost by being honest. After all, he's already gotten off to the worst possible start with her; surely the only way to go is up? "My older brother helped sway my decision to study law," he begins, and sees her sit up a little straighter in her chair, her pen now motionless. "He was a solicitor, and he kept telling me I'd be a natural." It's been so long since he's shared this story with anyone, he's almost forgotten how it ends. Almost, because how could he forget? "He died when I was twenty, and I promptly spent then next year wasting my life on wine, women and song, as the saying goes."
She's utterly silent as he pauses, and he knows he's saying too much, but he can't stop the words from coming. "Then I pulled my head out of my arse and went to law school, just as he'd been nagging me to do." He smiles, remembering how many times he'd literally put his hand up in Liam's face in an attempt to stop him from talking. "He was right, the pompous arse. I was a natural."
She stares at him, and he's suddenly aware that he can hear the sound of her breathing in the hushed quiet of her office. "How did he die?"
"Boating accident," he tells her, pleased that he can say the words now without a tremor in his voice. It's been 10 years, after all. "In hindsight, I now take comfort from the fact that he died doing something he loved, however clichéd that sentiment may be." He smooths his hand down the bundle of documents in front of him, then slides them across the desk to her. "All done, milady."
She's staring at him, her dark lashes fluttering as she blinks, then he sees her swallow hard. "Uh, thank you.
Their eyes meet and hold as the mood between them changes, becoming something uncertain and tentative, and he sees a flash of panic in her expression. She's not afraid of him, he knows that, but of the unnamedsomething that seems to be burning the air between them, making his pulse quicken and his mouth go dry. Checking his watch, he feigns dismay at the fact that it's almost six o'clock, because if he stays here one moment longer, he might say any number of things, and he's already overshared enough for one day. "If you don't need my services further, I think I might visit the market on my way home." He smiles at her. "My kitchen cupboards are painfully bare."
She's looking at him as though he's suddenly started speaking in a foreign language of which she only knows a few words. "Uh, no, you're free to go."
He smiles at her choice of words (she would have made an admirable member of the constabulary), then pushes back his chair. At the door of her office he turns to give her a mock salute. "Goodnight, Swan. See you tomorrow, perhaps."
She gets to her feet, walking out from behind her desk. "Goodnight, Jones." She hesitates, seeming to balance on one booted foot, then smiles at him. It's a real smile, one that lights up her eyes, and for a fleeting moment he sees past the practiced façade to the woman he'd held in his arms on Friday night. "Thanks for the assist."
To his horror, he has to fight the urge to shuffle his feet in the face of her gratitude. Instead he finds himself rubbing the back of his neck, the nervous tic that used to cost him countless games of poker against his brother and a habit he was quite sure he'd broken years ago. Apparently not, he thinks wryly. "It was my pleasure, love."
Again, her gaze locks with his, and again he sees the spectre of their stolen kiss flash in her eyes. He says nothing, not wanting to break the delicate spell that seems to have wrapped itself around them, and he's never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. After what feels like an eternity (but is surely little more than a few seconds) she nods as she retreats behind her desk once more, and the moment is lost. "See you tomorrow."
It's not until he's halfway to the supermarket closest to his apartment (he hadn't been lying about the lack of supplies) until he realises the enormity of what has just occurred. He and Emma Swan have had their first real conversation – he's decided that their delicious pre-kiss flirtation or the post-kiss almost argument don't officially count – and managed to engage in civil dialogue like normal, rule-following adults. Not only that, they'd worked well together, as though they'd been prepping cases as a team for years rather than two hours. When he adds this to the fact that he knowsshe's not as immune to his charms as she's desperately trying to make out and the fact that he's spent the last two days replaying that bloody kiss in his head, there is only one conclusion to be drawn.
He could quite easily fall in love with that woman and, for the first time in years, the notion fills him not with dread, but with anticipation. To put it into plain English, he realises with faint despair, he's a goner. He pulls up at the next intersection, staring unseeingly at the red traffic lights above his head.
After Milah, he told himself time and time again that he would never put himself through this nonsense again, and yet here he is, happily consumed with the prospect of giving Emma Swan the opportunity to rip out his heart and crush it right before his very eyes.
Bloody hell.