Hannah. Author, Fanfiction Writer, Slayer of Hearts, Goddess of Smut and Queen of Steamy Moments. This is an appreciation page devoted to CS and my lovely readers and friends.
At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.
Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn’t ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?
The Idea of You AU
Rated: M
AO3
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6 Ch 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
If I didn’t have the privilege of witnessing the anger brewing in Elsa’s eyes the next evening, her heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor would definitely give it away, the sound hurting my ears like nails on a chalkboard.
Henry bounds into the foyer, his eyes bright as he heads toward the staircase. “Hey, Elsa.”
“Oh, hey, Henry,” she greets him much more warmly than she did with me. “How are you feeling?”
His brows knit together as he pauses to give her a puzzled look. “I’m great. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason,” Elsa replies with an exaggerated grin. She shoots me a pointed glance.
Shit.
She’s definitely on to me.
Oblivious to our silent exchange, Henry continues his ascent up the steps, taking them two at a time.
As soon as his bedroom door clicks shut, Elsa pivots toward me, her hands planted firmly on her hips and one eyebrow arched in accusation. “He seems awfully lively for someone recovering from food poisoning.”
My cheeks heat under her penetrating gaze as I attempt to deflect. “Teens, right? They bounce back so quickly.” Judging by the skeptical tilt of her head, she isn’t buying it. Which really shouldn’t be surprising. I should’ve known she’d find out about what happened with Walsh before I got the chance to tell her the truth. “Want some wine?” I’m definitely going to need some liquid courage for this conversation.
Elsa follows me into the kitchen with a resigned sigh. “Yes, we’re going to need it...but you know I’m not letting this go, right?”
“I know. That’s what the wine is for..” With a shaky laugh, I grab two glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. I fumble with the corkscrew, struggling to open it as my nerves take over. I hadn’t planned on telling her about Killian yet, but images from last night’s encounter with him flash through my mind—his touch, his kisses, the way his tongue felt inside me, the way he felt inside me—and I know if I don’t tell someone soon, I’m going to burst. Our night together was the best I’ve ever had. And usually, I tell Elsa everything, so not telling her feels wrong, almost illegal.
“Em, why did you ditch Walsh last night?” she asks, her tone teetering between reproach and intrigue.
An involuntary sigh escapes me as I pry the cork loose with a satisfying pop and pour a generous amount, the rich, ruby liquid cascading into our glasses. “How did you know Henry didn’t have food poisoning?”
“Because you would’ve told me. You usually tell me everything.” She accepts her glass, her gaze downcast, tone softening. “Though lately, it doesn’t seem that way.”
My insides twist, a cold, clammy stream of guilt slithering down my spine. I should’ve told her the truth from the beginning. In fact, I never should’ve agreed to a date with Walsh in the first place. “I know and I’m sorry…I would’ve told you sooner…it’s just…it’s complicated.”
She looks up at me with a raised brow. “Complicated how?”
I lift my gaze, as if I could somehow see through the ceiling to where Henry’s room is. “We should take this outside,” I propose, reaching for the wine bottle and my glass.
We transition to the patio to continue our conversation under the stars and twinkling lights of the pergola, beyond the ears of any curious listeners.
Elsa sinks into the plush sofa as I ignite the fire pit, the warm flicker of the flames casting dancing shadows around us. I ease into the rocking chair beside her, and we cradle our glasses as we pick up where we left off.
Taking a deep breath, a smile slowly spreads over my lips, unrestrained. “You have to promise to not judge me.”
“Judge you? Why would I judge you?” Her eyes narrow, then widen, her face paling as I take a sip of my wine. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with Neal.”
I almost spit out my drink, the mere thought leaving a bitter taste in my mouth and making my stomach churn. “No, God, no!” I exclaim, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Thank God.” Elsa’s shoulders relax and she lets out a breath. “Then what is it?”
“Well, remember when I said lunch with Killian was strictly business?”
“Yeaaah.” Elsa studies me for a moment, then her eyes light up. “Ha! I knew it!” She leans forward, pointing a finger in the air. “I knew there was something more going on between you two.”
I peer into my glass. “I didn’t rush to tell you because I wasn’t sure where things between us were going. But now…” I bite my smile. “Now I think I might really like him.” It feels amazing to get that off my chest.
Her face lights up, then dims a little, her brows furrowing. “Okay, then tell me this—why agree to go out with Walsh?”
“Because I stupidly thought I could forget Killian…but that failed.”
“Okay.” She observes some more for a moment, connecting the dots, putting the pieces together. Then I can actually see the pieces click into place because her eyes sparkle as she lets out a squeak. “You had sex with him, didn’t you?!”
“Shhhh! Not so loud,” I whisper, my blushing smile giving myself away.
Elsa clamps a hand over her mouth, her eyes glinting with apology. “Oops. Sorry.” She removes her hand, speaking more quietly. “And how does Henry feel about all this?”
I shrug, my stomach twinging with guilt as I trace the rim of my glass. “He doesn’t know yet. I’m not sure how he’d react, you know? I’m not even sure what this is.”
“I understand, but you should definitely tell him soon, before he finds out some other way.”
“I know, I’m planning on it. I’m just not quite ready yet.” I don’t think I’ll ever be.
Her eyes light up. “So, tell me everything. How did this thing with Killian even start?”
I take a sip of my wine before launching into the story of how we met in the trailer and everything that’s happened since. The guilt in my stomach eases slightly as I finally share my secret.
“Wait, Killian…isn’t he Henry’s idol?”
“Yes,” I admit, biting my bottom lip. “Which is exactly why I can’t tell him. And also because of the age gap. He’s closer to Henry’s age than he is mine.”
“How young are we talking?” Elsa leans forward, her eyes narrowing in curiosity.
“Twenties…mid-twenties,” I specify hesitantly, avoiding her gaze as I swirl the wine in my glass.
“So?” She waves her hand dismissively, a smile tugging at her lips. “That’s nothing.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “So, don’t you think it’s weird?”
“No, why would it be?” Elsa’s tone is confident, reassuring as she reaches out and places a hand on my arm.
I narrow my eyes at her, remembering all the late-night conversations we had when Neal left me for Wendy, who is thirteen years his junior and also in her mid-twenties at the time. The judgment, the scrutiny he got from us as we dissected their relationship with such disdain. Closing my eyes briefly, I shake my head, trying to understand why she’s taking this so much easier than I thought she would. “Hang on, so, when Neal does it, it’s gross, but when I do it, it’s fine?”
“Yes,” she answers without blinking. “Because Neal was married when he got together with Wendy. You’re not.” She smiles. “And also because I hate him and I love you.” She leans back, her expression thoughtful. “I can’t believe you’re dating a rockstar. It’s so...not you.”
I laugh, more of the tension lifting from my shoulders. “Tell me about it. But he’s more than just a rockstar, Elsa. He’s kind, funny and he just…he makes me feel like...like I can be myself. Like, who knew the one guy I can do that with is someone who can’t even walk outside without attracting flocks of fans and paparazzi?”
She smiles warmly. “Then I’m happy for you. You deserve someone who makes you feel that way.” Her smile dims. “Just be careful.”
I furrow my brows. “Be careful of what?”
“Of getting too attached.”
“What do you mean?”
Elsa sighs regrettably. “I just don’t want you to fall in too deep only to get your heart broken. I mean, like you said, he can’t go anywhere without attracting attention. Every time he steps outside, It's raining women, and as much as I’d love to believe you are one in a million in his world, he is still a man. A celebrity, to boot.”
I wave off her words, at the same time trying to wave off the ache in my gut. I had a similar thought during the car ride on the way to dinner last night, but I convinced myself this is only a fleeting dalliance. “You don’t have to worry about me, okay? This is just a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am enjoying the ride while it lasts.”
She eyes me skeptically, not sure if she quite believes me. “You sure you can handle this?”
“Please, I totally got this.”
~*~
On Monday morning, the events of the other night replay in my mind, bringing a smile to my lips as I stretch languidly beneath the sheets. Killian’s touch still lingers on my skin, his presence a phantom warmth beside me.
Pushing aside the covers, I slip out of bed and pad softly across the room. The days have felt different since our encounter, lighter somehow. I feel lighter, like I’m floating on a cloud and can’t seem to come back to the ground. In the kitchen, I reach for the canister of cocoa powder, sugar and milk, deciding to make Henry something special this morning.
I whisk together the ingredients, watching the chocolate meld into the creamy liquid as visions of Killian, his strong hands, his blue eyes, his glorious, naked body filter through my mind. The rich aroma fills the air, and I can’t help but hum a tune under my breath—one of Killian’s songs that’s been stuck in my head since last night when I was watching his music videos in my room, listening through my AirPods.
“Morning, Mom,” Henry greets me as he enters the kitchen, his voice still heavy with sleep.
“Good morning, Kid.” Pouring the cocoa into a mug, I add a generous swirl of whipped cream.
“Is that a Midnight Moon song you’re humming?”
“Uh, yeah, it was on the radio and I couldn’t get it out of my head.” I look away from him, sprinkling the cinnamon over the whipped cream, hoping he doesn’t see right through me. But when I look over at him again, he’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Yeah, their songs tend to have that effect on people.”
I turn and present him with the steaming mug, the whipped cream forming a soft peak. “Made you some hot cocoa. With extra everything.”
Henry takes the mug, his brow furrowing slightly as he eyes me with curiosity. His gaze is so much like mine—observant, searching. He’s always been perceptive, even as a child, picking up on the unspoken emotions and the hidden stories behind a smile.
“Thanks, but...what’s the special occasion?” Henry asks, taking a tentative sip of the cocoa. “It’s not my birthday yet.”
“Why does it have to be a special occasion for me to make you hot cocoa?”
“Because you only make me hot cocoa on my birthday, holidays and when I’m sick.”
“Why can’t I whip up my son his favorite treat on a nondescript Monday simply because I love him to pieces?” I reach out, wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight, leaving a wet, sloppy kiss on his cheek.
He wipes at the spot, narrowing his eyes at me. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You’ve just been kinda floaty since yesterday.”
“Floaty?” I repeat, feigning ignorance while trying to keep my expression neutral. My heart beats a little faster under his scrutiny, the secret of my night with Killian suddenly feeling like a bright neon sign above my head.
“Yeah, I’ve never heard you humming songs in the kitchen before, you’ve been super nice and smiling a lot.” Henry studies me over the rim of his mug, his green eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “Did you hit it off with that Walsh guy?” He immediately shakes his head. “Never mind, I don’t wanna know.”
“I’m fine, Henry,” I assure him, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the butterflies dancing in my stomach. “Everything is completely normal.” I flash him a reassuring smile.
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Well, thanks for the hot chocolate. It’s really good.”
“Anytime, kid.” After he leaves the kitchen, the corners of my lips tug into a smirk as I sip my own hot chocolate.
~*~
I’ve been dreading lunch with Neal ever since the word “yes” slipped out of my mouth and I stupidly forgot to cancel. He claimed he wants to discuss Henry’s upcoming birthday, but why couldn’t we have done that over a phone call? Or via text? Why did I have to meet him in person where his face will just remind me of how much Henry mirrors his father?
But the anticipation of meeting Killian tonight in his hotel room is what will get me through a dreadful hour of having to sit and chat with my ex. Killian had called me yesterday to set something up, knowing he’d be in the area with the band. And I, of course, said yes.
As if seeing Neal isn’t bad enough, he insisted on meeting at Soho House, where he conducts most of his business deals over power lunches. I can’t deny the exquisite art collection here and its aesthetic appeal, but the atmosphere drips with pretension and judgment.
I step into the rooftop garden room, which basks in the California sunshine, wicker lanterns hanging overhead, swaying softly in the breeze. Olive trees sporadically dot the space with their gnarled trunks and silver-green leaves, the floor-to-ceiling windows affording panoramic views of the sprawling West Hollywood hills.
As I head to Neal’s favorite table positioned in the back corner, laughter echoes from the center of the room near the koi pond, freezing me in my place, the air leaving my lungs. The sound is familiar—a timbre I’ve come to associate with one person in particular, a sound that always sends a tingle down my spine—and it draws my gaze like a magnet.
Even from behind, Killian is unmistakable—the tousled dark hair that never seems entirely tamed, broad shoulders tapering down into lean muscles. My skin tingles when I think about how soft his hair felt between my fingers as his tongue was buried inside me, how good those muscles had felt beneath my fingertips when he was driving into me. The images make me shudder with pleasure, heat pooling in my core.
My heart skips a beat, and I find myself changing course, making my way to Killian instead. He, his bandmates and a few women, Mary Margaret among them, sprawl comfortably around a table strewn with half-drained glasses and plates of food, their boisterous laughter and animated conversation permeating the air.
A twinge of jealousy gnaws at my insides at their closeness and camaraderie. I want to be a part of it, to be a part of Killian’s world.
His piercing blue eyes find mine, locking me in place for a heartbeat too long. I force a polite smile, reminding myself to breathe. “Killian,” I greet, approaching their table with feigned nonchalance.
“Emma?” He launches from his seat and approaches me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.
I look over at Neal, and thankfully, he’s too busy, his face buried in the New York Times, to notice me over here.
I can tell Killian wants to kiss me, his eyes dropping to my lips, but then he looks over at his group. “You guys remember Emma, right? From Coachella?”
A chorus of hellos from the group greets me warmly, and I smile back, waving at them. Judging by the relaxed smile on Liam’s face—on all their faces—Killian hasn’t told them we slept together. He mentioned his brother’s protectiveness, so I wonder what Liam would say about Killian being with a forty-year-old woman.
“Would you like to join us?” Killian asks, a hopeful glint in his eyes.
“Yes, please, you should join us.” Mary Margaret gestures me over.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I say regretfully, tucking a stray lock of blonde hair behind my ear. I would much rather stay here with them—with Killian—than go over and have lunch with Neal. “I’m meeting Neal here for lunch.”
Killian’s eyebrow arches just slightly—a silent question mark hanging between us. “Neal, as in your ex-husband?” His mouth twists into a small frown, his dark eyes flickering with something akin to jealousy.
“Yeah. But believe me, it’s nothing more than ‘just lunch.’”
“Mind if I swing by to say hi?” he asks, his casual demeanor belying the intensity of his gaze.
“Sure, why not,” I gesture over at Neal’s table in the corner, knowing full well the ‘why not’ part. But it’s too late to retreat now.
As Killian’s arm slips from my shoulders, I wave once more at the group and continue to Neal’s table, taking a seat across from him. He’s impeccably dressed, as always, his brown hair perfectly coiffed. He engages me in small talk as I cradle my chin in my hand and nod when necessary, but I can’t really hear what he says because all I can think about is how close Killian is. I can’t see him or hear him but I can feel his presence, and I’m on the edge of my seat, ready to run back over there, but I’m mustering all the willpower inside me to stay put.
“Emma, you look...distracted.”
“Just the usual whirlwind at the gallery,” I deflect, grateful for years of practice keeping my emotions under wraps.
“So, I’ve been thinking about Henry’s birthday,” Neal says, taking a sip of his water. “I want to buy him a car.”
I raise a brow. “A new car? Neal, that’s…expensive.”
“It’s not new. It’s used.” Neal taps his phone a few times and then turns the screen toward me. “I’ve been looking at this one.” It’s a picture of a sleek, red convertible—exactly the type of car I’d expect Neal to pick for our son. “I thought it would be perfect for Henry’s seventeenth birthday. He’s getting his driver’s license soon.”
I stare at the image, my heart pounding in my chest. The car is beautiful, no doubt, but the thought of Henry driving through the chaotic streets of Los Angeles behind the wheel of such a powerful vehicle makes my stomach churn.
“It looks like a great car, Neal,” I say carefully, trying to mask my anxiety. “But... don’t you think it’s a bit much? We usually have a price cap. I got him some screenwriting supplies—a drawing tablet and ‘Save the Cat’.”
“That’s okay. He’ll have something educational and something powerful.”
That has me sighing. He’s totally missing the point.
“Look, he’s a responsible kid, Ems. And he’s going to need a reliable car for college visits and everything else coming up.”
“I know he’s responsible. I just worry about him driving in LA, especially with all the traffic and...well, everything.”
“Relax, he’ll be fine. We’ll make sure he gets extra driving lessons if that helps. I just want to give him something special. Plus, it’s a safe model with top-notch safety features.”
“Which won’t do him any good in the event of a rollover,” I point out, the thought making my stomach turn.
Neal waves a dismissive hand. “Highly unlikely. Convertibles have centered gravity. They have a lower risk of rolling over than other vehicles.”
I shake my head, unconvinced. “That may be true, but I think a Chrysler Pacifica would be a better choice for a first car,” I suggest, arching an eyebrow at the impractical choice for a new driver navigating LA’s hectic streets.
Neal chuckles, shaking his head. “Ems, he’s going to be a high school senior in the fall, not a soccer mom. He needs something cool to impress his friends. You don’t want him to get laughed at, do you?”
I roll my eyes. On one hand, I appreciate that Neal is discussing this with me before making such a big purchase. On the other hand, I doubt anything I say will sway him in a different direction. So, coming to me first is rather pointless. This entire lunch is pointless. “Well, excuse me if I think safety trumps ‘cool’ when it comes to our son.”
Before Neal can respond, Killian strides over all suave and gallant.
Saved by the bell.
He’s wearing a Metallica t-shirt with a graphic of an electric guitar under the band name, slightly faded and perfectly worn, the short sleeves showing off the tattoos inking his arms. His ripped jeans hug his frame just right, the tears and frays artfully scattered across the denim. A vast contrast to Neal’s perfectly tailored charcoal Brioni suit, with a deep purple silk tie.
I’m now realizing how much my tastes have changed over the years. I used to prefer the polished, business type—men like Neal, who exude success and confidence. But now, I find myself more attracted to the rugged bad boy look. Or maybe it’s just Killian I’m attracted to. The thought makes me smirk inwardly. He looks good. And he smells good. Really, really good. The urge to touch him is unbearable.
He flashes me a toothy grin. “Fancy seeing you here, love.”
Neal’s eyebrows arch in a silent question as he takes in Killian’s appearance, like who is this guy?
“Hi, I’m Killian.” He extends his hand, and despite Neal’s initial skepticism, he shakes it reluctantly, meeting Killian’s with a cautious grip.
“Neal.”
“Good to meet you, Neal.”
“Likewise,” Neal replies, the word coated in cordiality. His brow is raised and there’s a slight tilt of the head, his lips slightly parted.
“Killian’s uh…he’s…”
“An art collector…who has an eye for beautiful artwork, like the ones in Emma’s gallery.”
I smirk, more amused by the way Neal’s looking at him than how casually Killian just strolled up to us and introduced himself to Neal.
“Is that so?”
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your lunch. We’ll touch base soon.”
“Sounds good,” I say casually, taking a sip of my water.
Killian flashes a grin before leaving a trail of tension in his wake.
As he walks away, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. There’s a heaviness in my chest, the weight of unsaid words and hidden glances. But here, with Neal’s analyzing gaze on me, I can’t afford to reveal how deeply Killian’s proximity affects me.
“Interesting character,” Neal comments after a moment, turning his attention back to me, though his gaze lingers on Killian’s retreating figure.
I bite my tongue to refrain from saying anything to that.
“He seems familiar though. Didn’t I see him on a late-night show?”
“Maybe,” I murmur noncommittally, smoothing out the napkin on my lap.
“Is he an actor?”
I shake my head, sipping my water. “No.”
“Cassidy!”
I’m saved by the bell once again when Greg Mendell, Neal’s friend and fellow attorney, strides up to their table.
“Mendell,” Neal greets with a firm handshake.
However, this interruption is not as welcome. By me anyway. In fact, my stomach twists at the sight of him as the memories of the night I found out about Neal’s affair resurface. Greg and his wife were both there, both well aware of what Neal was doing behind my back, yet they smiled and laughed over dinner as if everything was fantastic.
Greg turns to me. “Emma, this is a pleasant surprise. How are you doing?”
I force a polite smile. “I’m great. How are you? How’s Tamara?”
“Tamara’s great. Thanks for asking. She’s been buried in her work as usual. Lots of late nights at the lab.”
I nod, pretending to be interested, and thankfully his attention on me is brief. He and Neal get into a heated debate about a recent case as my phone vibrates in my purse. I discreetly pull it out and glance at the screen.
Killian: Yep, hate him even more.
I choke down the laughter threatening to escape. I look up, but Neal and Greg are still caught up in conversation, paying me no mind. My phone vibrates again, my heart skipping a beat when I read the next message.
Killian: Gods, I missed you.
Killian: You look beautiful btw 😍
Me: So do you. 😚
Killian: Meet me in the lavvy in 5 minutes? 😉
I bite my bottom lip, the sweet ache of our night together rushing back full force.
Me: Can you make it in two?
The response is immediate.
Killian: Absolutely.
I almost knock over the chair in my eagerness to get up. The two men both pause from their conversation to look at me. “Sorry, I just need to step out for a moment.”
“Everything okay?” Neal asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Fine. Just fine,” I reply hastily. “Be right back.” I smooth out my skirt, trying to appear calm and collected. But on the inside, my heart is racing. When I pass Killian’s table, his gaze meets mine, that familiar hunger that was there the night we made love, igniting in his eyes, making my skin heat, a small smile pulling at my lips.
This is crazy, I tell myself. I’m about to get it on in the restroom if that wink emoji is any indication. But it’s too late. I’m already stepping inside the ladies’ room.
The door opens not a minute later, Killian slipping in and locking it with an urgency that mirrors my own, filling the small space with his magnetic presence. His intense blue eyes lock on mine, sending a spark through my veins. The air thins as he steps closer, and we’re swept up in an intense kiss that’s as explosive as it is urgent, leaving no room for hesitation or pretense. It’s as if we’re both starved for this contact, this affirmation that the other night wasn’t just a dream. His kiss is urgent, demanding, and I respond with equal fervor, tangling my fingers in his tousled hair. The world beyond these walls ceases to exist, and there’s only Killian and the way he makes me feel—alive, wanted, aflame.
He presses me against the wall, steadying us in our shared recklessness. I bury my hands in his hair as he wraps his arm around my waist. Needing this man like I need air, I fumble for his jeans, hastily undoing them as Killian shimmies up my skirt so it’s around my hips. A soft moan escapes me, lost in the echo of our hushed urgency. We’re consumed by the moment, giving in to the pull of desire that has become our gravity. It’s reckless and wild, a fire we’re both too willing to stoke.
He lifts me up by the back of my thighs, wrapping my legs around his waist and setting me on the sink as he pushes my panties aside and presses the velvety head of his cock against my entrance. The conversation I had with Elsa tries to creep into my already foggy brain, but I push it aside as I push my hand inside his pants. There are things I want to ask him, but there’s no time for it now.
Our unified gasps mingle at the connection when he enters me—a sweet burn that elicits a decadent groan from his lips.
Killian moves inside me, his hands gripping my hips tightly as he thrusts into me with an intense rhythm that has me clutching onto his shoulders and begging him not to stop between moans and choked gasps.
“Gods, Emma,” he whispers against my neck, his breath hot on my skin as I card my fingers through his hair. I’m undone by it, by him, by this intoxicating connection that defies all reason and logic. “Fuck…” He growls. “You’re so damn tight…” His voice is ragged, his breath heavy—he’s close.
His hand reaches between us, rubbing tight circles on my clit. The sudden sensation makes me jolt and flutter. “Killian…” I gasp as the coiling in my belly intensifies. “Fuck, I’m so close…” I grab his hand, clamping it over my mouth to muffle my moans as my voice hits an embarrassingly high note, one I hope no one can hear.
A smirk plays on his lips as he leans down to suckle and nip at my neck and shoulder—the kill shot that sends me spiraling into a mind-numbing climax. My body locks up as waves of pleasure wash over me and he follows close behind with an inaudible sound that’s part growl, part groan.
He buries his face in the crock of my neck just long enough for us to catch our breaths and regain some semblance of coherence. He withdraws and tucks himself back into his pants before he helps me down. “I better let you get back to your lunch, love,” he breathes with a cocky smirk, kissing me on the lips, “before you’re missed.”
Right. Lunch. I forgot all about that.
“See you tonight?”
I manage a nod, still recovering from my mind-boggling orgasm.
I take a deep breath to gather my composure, watching him go before I clean myself up—already anticipating tonight when I’ll get to see him again. I smooth down my hair, trying to erase the evidence of hot bathroom sex from my appearance as best as I can.
“Everything okay?” Neal asks as I slide back into my seat, his eyes searching mine.
“Perfectly fine,” I manage, my voice steady despite how flushed I am. I pick up my fork and eat my lunch that was brought to our table while I was gone as I struggle to focus on Neal’s words. He’s talking, but my mind is still tangled up with Killian, with the taste of him that lingers on my lips.
I nod and smile a dopey smile, still feeling, as Henry put it, all floaty as I replay the last few minutes over and over. I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross, falling deeper into something that should scare me. But the fear is muted, overshadowed by the thrill of the forbidden, the intoxicating rush of being desired by Killian Jones.
“Ems, you’ve been acting off lately.” Neal’s voice cuts through my reverie, sharp with concern—or is it suspicion? “What’s gotten into you?”
I have to stifle a laugh, doing everything I can to push down the need to answer that question.
Eight inches, I want to tell him. Eight inches of hot, throbbing rockstar dick has gotten into me.
But I don’t.
“Sorry, just a lot on my mind with work,” I lie smoothly, hoping he’ll buy it. And for now, he seems to.
But as he returns to whatever he was talking about, I can’t help but wonder how long I’ll be able to keep this secret, to juggle the fragments of my life without dropping them all. Because with every stolen moment with Killian, I’m weaving a more complex web, one that threatens to entangle us all.
As I head out of the garden room, navigating the dim corridor, Greg catches up to me, also on his way out. “So...” he murmurs casually as we continue walking side by side, his hands in his pockets, “Killian Jones. Very impressive.”
His words have me stopping in my tracks and furrowing my brows at him. “Excuse me?”
He stops and turns to look at me, his lips curving into a devious smirk as he leans in closer. “Neal might be blind, but that’s how he let you slip through his fingers to begin with.”
I’m frozen in my spot, but my heart is beating like a drum, my skin flushed. Had he seen Killian go into the ladies’ room? Had he heard us?
“Don’t worry,” he assures me with a wink, but his words aren’t very reassuring, “your secret is safe with me.”
~*~
As soon as Killian opens the door to his hotel room, I wrap my arms around the back of his neck and greet him with a mind-numbing kiss that sets my skin ablaze and helps me forget lunch with Neal and the things Greg said to me. Killian’s lips are soft and warm, and when he swipes his tongue over mine, it’s implanting all kinds of ideas in my head. And not just ideas of what I think he should do with that tongue of his.
He breaks the kiss, tucking some hair behind my ear as his lips curl into a smirk. “So that was Neal, huh?”
“Yep, that’s him,” I answer breathlessly, eyeing his lips. I want to kiss him again, but he seems insistent on talking about my ex.
He eyes me suspiciously, despite the playful grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Why do I keep finding you on dates with other men?”
I snort-laugh at the notion I’d ever consider anything more with my ex ever again. “With Neal, it’s ‘just lunch.’ Henry’s birthday is coming up soon, and we were discussing possible gifts,” I explain simply, not wanting to delve into the whole car debate. Because it’s just the two of us now, and our time together is limited. And I don’t want to taint it by talking about Neal.
“Swan, I’ve been on the receiving end of your ‘just lunch.’”
I rake my fingers over his chest, relishing his warmth, the solid muscles hidden beneath his shirt. I’m also enjoying the jealousy sparking in those mesmerizing blue eyes. “Trust me, lunch with Neal is ‘just lunch—’” I smirk—“until Killian Jones shows up. Then it becomes something else entirely.”
He flashes me his most irresistible, cockiest grin. “What can I say? I’m always the life of the party, love.”
His words send a thrill through me as I kiss him, guiding him backward toward the bed and slipping my hands under his shirt, his abs rippling under my palms. I get rid of the intrusive material and toss it aside, kissing the scowl off his lips when his prized shirt lands on the floor. I giggle against his lips. “When I returned from the ladies’ room, Neal asked what’s gotten into me lately, and I just about died.”
His eyebrow arches upward in amusement, a playful grin tugging at his lips as he curls his hands around my hips. “So tell me, love. What has gotten into you lately?”
I can’t suppress my smirk as I unbutton his pants and drag down the zipper, my heart racing in anticipation. My gaze never leaving his. “I’ll show you exactly what’s gotten into me.”
With a swift push against his chest, he falls back onto the bed. I climb on top of him, tug down his pants and show him exactly what has gotten into me lately. With my lips, my tongue, my mouth. Eliciting delicious noises and reactions from him that set every nerve in my body on fire.
I run my tongue along his length and take all eight inches into my mouth, enjoying the taste of him, the scent of him, the firm yet gentle tug as his fingers get tangled in my hair.
At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.
Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn’t ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?
The Idea of You AU
Rated: M
AO3
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6
CHAPTER SIX
Colors bleed into one another like a masterfully painted canvas—streaks of pink and orange fading to purple as the sun dips into the horizon. Killian and I are poring over the menus in a cozy booth tucked away in a recessed alcove on the terrace, the ocean waves crashing into the shore. Twinkling lights are strung through the trees, illuminating the lush gardens. Flames flicker in the fire pits dotting the landscape, and soft music drifts through the air, creating an enchanting atmosphere.
His eyes rove over my red dress before his gaze catches mine, and he flashes me one of those heart-stopping grins that has my stomach doing a somersault. “Swan, have I told you how ravishing you look tonight?”
I manage a laugh, the familiar warmth creeping into my cheeks. “About four times already.” Twice during the car ride, once after he handed the keys to the valet and once again when we were shown to our seats. Though, neither time failed to make my cheeks heat.
“Is this place okay?”
I set down the menu and sit back, resting my hands in my lap as my eyes sweep over the alcove, taking in the fairy tale setting—a perfect blend of elegance and intimacy, with dark wood accents, plush seating and candlelit tables, the air filled with the scent of blooming flowers, sea salt and delicious food. “It’s perfect.” My eyes come back to his, lips twitching into a smirk. “But honestly, you could’ve taken me to Mcdonalds and I’d be happy as a clam.”
He chuckles, a deep, hearty sound that sends goosebumps over my skin.
He thinks I’m joking.
“I almost opted for Nobu, but I wasn’t sure if you liked sushi,” he says.
My eyes widen. “Are you kidding? I love sushi.”
His smile is a thing of beauty, lighting up his features in a way that rivals the setting sun. He extends his hand under the table, seeking mine, and when our fingers intertwine, electricity zips through me. His touch is warm, firm yet tender. “Good to know for next time.”
Next time?
There goes my stomach again, doing another somersault.
I love the idea of next time.
“I should’ve known you loved sushi. Henry gets his good taste from his beautiful mum.”
A blushing smile crosses my lips, and I squeeze his hand, my heart pounding as I fight off the urge to pull him closer and kiss him. Even though we’re cocooned in a pocket of privacy within the restaurant’s lush gardens, we’re not entirely invisible. A few of Killian’s acquaintances have already made their way over, each receiving a nod or a handshake from him.
When he introduced me as his art consultant, I played along, grateful for the anonymity the title afforded me. I have no desire to become tabloid fodder, especially not when my heart is tangled in a situation it shouldn’t be. I’m supposed to be on a date with a furniture shop owner, not dining with a rockstar.
As we chat, I’m acutely aware of Killian’s hand in mine, the warmth of his skin, the strength of his grip, and I’m imagining what it would be like to be alone with him—truly alone. The possibilities send a rush of heat through my veins.
When his thumb traces gentle circles on my skin, tiny shivers shoot up my arm. The contact is tender, intimate, and I can’t help the way my breath catches just a little. Then he frees my hand briefly, making me miss his warmth, but it’s only long enough for the server to approach, jot down our orders and retrieve the menus from us.
“So, where is Henry tonight?” The softness in Killian’s voice matches the touch of his hand as he slips his palm into mine, threading our fingers together once more.
“He’s staying over at Roland’s house.” I take a sip of my pinot noir, savoring the rich bouquet of ripe cherries, a hint of spice and subtle earthy undertones. But the alcohol does nothing to soothe the fluttering in my chest.
He arches an eyebrow. “Is that the lad who was at Coachella with you?”
I nod, smiling. “Yeah, they’ve been best friends since elementary school.”
He leans back, a half-smirk playing on his lips as he watches me with an intensity that feels like it could pierce right through our casual facade. “That’s nice.” His eyes narrow slightly, a playful glint in them. “Did you tell Henry I was at your house for lunch the other day?”
I can’t help but laugh at the thought, picturing Henry’s reaction. His jaw would be on the floor, his expressive green eyes would grow impossibly wide and he’d launch into a barrage of questions, each one more incredulous than the last. “No way. He would lose his mind if he knew you were there. He’d probably also be furious with me for not including him.”
His thumb strokes the back of my hand beneath the table, a clandestine gesture that sends ripples of warmth through me. “Will you tell him you ditched your date to have dinner with me?”
I sigh, shaking my head. “No, probably not.” My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass, the truth settling heavy on my tongue. “I wouldn’t even know what to tell him at this point.” How could I possibly explain to my son that the man whose name alone would send him into a frenzy is the same man who turns my insides into liquid?
“Fair enough.” Killian squeezes my hand gently. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand answers or declarations, and I’m grateful for it. Grateful for this moment of reprieve, where I can simply exist beside him without the weight of explanations hanging over us. “You don’t have to tell him anything right now. We’re just having dinner, right?” There’s a lilt of playfulness in his voice that makes his British accent even more pronounced, a wink accompanying his words.
I smile wryly, the tension easing from my shoulders. “Right. Just dinner.”
But we both know this isn’t just dinner. Just like lunch wasn’t just lunch.
“What about Elsa?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice.
I can picture her now, her raised eyebrow, the knowing look she’d give me if she were here, witnessing Killian’s thumb caress mine. She would see right through our charade of “just dinner” without missing a beat.
As I’m about to respond, the waiter arrives with a basket of warm bread and a dish of herb-infused olive oil. Killian thanks him and offers the basket to me before taking a piece.
I break mine in half, dipping it into the olive oil.
We take a bite, and I savor the warm, fluffy texture as I continue our conversation. “I told her we went out to lunch but that it was only business. I think she’s on to me.” I’ll have to figure out how to tell her and Henry about Killian later. For now, I let myself be swept away by the moment, the uncertainties of tomorrow fading into the background.
“So, when do I get to meet her?”
My heart flutters, betraying my calm exterior. The idea of him meeting Elsa, facing her scrutiny, her silver-blonde hair likely to bristle like an indignant cat’s fur, is both terrifying and exhilarating. “She won’t be happy when she finds out I ditched Walsh for you. She’ll probably interrogate you to find out what your intentions are. Henry will too, just so you know.”
Killian’s chuckle rumbles through the alcove, warm and rich. “Can’t wait.”
I arch a brow. “You’re really up for that? Elsa can be pretty fierce, and Henry—well, he’s very protective.”
“I can handle it.” He flashes a smile, one that says he’s faced tougher critics than my protective entourage. “Besides, I have nothing to hide. Just ask Google.” The twinkle in his eye tells me he relishes the challenge—a man used to the spotlight, unfazed by scrutiny. Yet beneath the bravado, there’s a sincerity that makes me believe he’s not just playing the part. Killian Jones might be an open book to the world, but he’s still full of stories yet to be told. And I find myself wanting to read every page.
I smirk, my finger tracing the rim of my wine glass. “I could…but what I want to know are the secrets I can’t find on Google.”
A smile, disarming and far too charming, stretches across his lips as he leans back in his seat and rubs his chin, thinking for a moment. “Alright, here’s one—my moniker as a kid was Hook.”
Laughter bubbles up from my chest as I picture a young Killian, a boy full of spirit and spunk, bearing that nickname. “Hook, huh? Like Captain Hook? How did you get that nickname?”
His eyes, those deep pools of blue, hold mine, and in them, there’s a flicker of the boy he once was. “From a fishing trip with my brother Liam. We were out on the lake, and I was determined to show off my fishing skills. When I finally caught a big one, I thought I’d impress him by handling it myself. But as I was trying to remove the hook, the fish gave a sudden flip of its tail, and the hook ended up in the back of my hand. Liam couldn’t stop laughing, and from that day on, I was ‘Hook’.”
“Oh my God, that sounds painful.”
“It wasn’t my finest moment, but it certainly left a mark.” He holds up his free hand, showing the small scar on the back of it. “And a nickname.”
I lean in, my fingers gently tracing the rugged scar. My brows knit together involuntarily as I look up at him with a teasing smile. “That’s your big, juicy secret?”
“Well, maybe not juicy by tabloid standards, but it’s a part of me you wouldn’t find in any magazine. Liam and I made a deal long ago to not share embarrassing stories with the world. Some things we like to have for ourselves.”
I shake my head and laugh. “You know, I was expecting something more...I don’t know, scandalous?”
A playful twinkle lights his eyes as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “If you want scandalous, I could tell you about the time my ex-girlfriend, Milah, a French actress, dumped me for Robert Gold.”
My eyes widen, my wineglass poised in the air before it can make it to my lips. “Wait, Robert Gold? As in the American singer and pianist?”
He nods regrettably, a shadow of some past hurt crossing his face. “Milah and I met before I became famous. She was friends with Mary Margaret, who had just started dating David at the time, and came to one of our gigs. We bonded over our love for music—she studied piano and classical music before going into acting.”
I nod, finally taking a sip of my wine.
“We kept our relationship a secret for a while.”
“But then she left you for Robert?”
“Aye.” His eyes meet mine, a storm brewing in their depths—a tempest that speaks of betrayal and heartache weathered and survived, like that of my own. “Apparently, I wasn’t mature or famous enough for her.” He lets out a soft chuckle, but there’s an edge to it that speaks volumes. “It stung, but then Midnight Moon started gaining popularity, we signed with a big record label and ended up outselling Robert in albums.” A sly grin returns, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not that I was keeping track or anything.”
“Of course.” I smirk, understanding all too well the bittersweet triumph of proving oneself against the doubts of an ex.
Killian shrugs. “And it wasn’t until I became famous that Milah started reaching out to me again. But I haven’t responded to any of her calls or texts. Nor do I plan to.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Ah, becoming famous—the perfect revenge on your exes.”
He chuckles. “It really is.”
Then I think about something for a moment, recalling the last time I saw a picture of Robert Gold on social media. “But isn’t Gold like sixty?” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I wince, hoping I haven’t prodded a tender wound too harshly. “Not that I’m one to judge someone’s age,” I add quickly.
“Aye, he is. But Milah…she’s a bit older than me. Thirty, to be exact. At the time we were dating, I was eighteen and she was twenty-four.”
I laugh, raising an eyebrow teasingly. “So, you have a type?”
“A type?” He shakes his head. “Not really. I actually liked Milah.” His expression softens as he leans in even closer, the distance between us diminishing further, and I’m caught in the gravitational pull. “But now I find myself drawn to blondes with eyes the color of emeralds.” He meets my gaze with a twinkle in his eye. “Okay, that’s a lie, there’s only one blonde—one woman—I’m interested in.”
My heart doesn’t just skip a beat—it falters, flutters, then thunders back to life with a ferocity that leaves me breathless. A wave of warmth cascades through me, pooling in my stomach and spreading to the tips of my fingers intertwined with his. His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand.
“I hope I didn’t offend you that day at Coachella by mistaking you for Henry’s older sister.” He chuckles at himself. “I genuinely thought you were.”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “No, not at all. I took it as a compliment.”
“Good. But don’t worry, I won’t ask how old you are because it’s impolite and also because it doesn’t matter to me.”
“Well, I just turned forty last month,” I admit, my cheeks heating. “Ready to run yet?” I ask, afraid he might think of me as a middle-aged woman clinging to the fringes of her youth.
He doesn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.” He graces me with a reassuring smile, his eyes full of warmth. “I told you, it doesn’t matter to me.”
My eyes lock with his, and I find myself ensnared in his cerulean depths that seem to hold galaxies of unspoken words. The air between us crackles, each second stretched taut with anticipation. I can’t help but wonder where the night will take us, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I just want to enjoy our time together, no matter how it ends.
Our server returns with sautéed lump crab cakes and a watermelon salad with feta and mint. After he leaves, we eat our food, falling back into easy conversation.
“My favorite place as a kid was this old lighthouse near our home,” Killian replies when I ask him about his childhood. “There was something about it—standing tall and resilient against the chaos of the sea. It always made me feel safe when I was inside it, like it could weather any storm. And now, I feel like that lighthouse sometimes. Trying to survive all the crowds and chaos. Trying to survive the storm.”
His words hit me like a tidal wave, crashing against my heart and leaving me speechless. His metaphor is profound, striking a chord deep within me. “That’s so beautiful,” I breathe, my voice almost a whisper. “I mean, it’s beautifully put. And I can definitely see how you would feel like a lighthouse braving the storm in your line of work. I could never do what you do. And you make it look so easy.”
He blushes, his lips quirking up into a smile. “Thank you, love.” He squeezes my hand, the tips of his ears just as red as his cheeks. “The lighthouse actually inspired a song I’m writing.”
My curiosity is piqued. “I’d love to hear it.”
“It’s still a work in progress. And honestly, I don’t know if I’ll share it with the band. It’s something I wrote for myself.”
I nod. “I get that. Some things are just too personal to share. But if you ever feel like letting someone else hear it, I’d be honored.”
His eyes soften. “That means a lot. Maybe one day, I’ll play it for you.”
“Whenever you’re ready.” I find myself even more drawn to him, wanting to pick the creative part of his brain, the artistic side of him. “So, is that where you did most of your writing? When you were at the lighthouse?”
He chuckles, scratching behind his ear. “Actually, no. I do my best writing when I have the telly on in the background and an electric guitar in my hands. If someone saw me, they would think I was watching the telly while playing the guitar, but what I’m actually doing is coming up with song lyrics. Something about the noise helps me focus.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “That’s so funny. That’s exactly how Henry does his homework. He always has the TV on, his laptop in front of him and his music blaring—your music blaring. But me? I can’t think if there’s a fan humming in the background. I need complete silence to concentrate.”
He nods, giving my hand a gentle squeeze. “What about you, Emma? What was your childhood like?”
I take a deep breath, smiling softly as memories flood back. “Well, I grew up in a small town. My childhood was pretty normal, I guess. My parents were always supportive, but they were also pretty strict.” Their expectations were like the masterpieces they so loved—to be protected and preserved. “My father’s an art history professor at Harvard. My mother was a curator. She’s retired now.”
“Art is the family business, then?” he asks, a half-smile playing on his lips.
“Sort of, yes.” My answer comes out softer than intended, a hint of nostalgia threading through the words. “Their worlds revolved around art, and I got swept up in it long before I knew how to walk.”
“Did you attend Harvard?”
“I went to Brown. Then Columbia for my master’s.”
“Brown and Columbia,” he muses, lips curling into a smile. “That’s quite impressive, Swan.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “Thank you,” I murmur, the words almost lost to the soft music.
“Did that piss off the professor?” His eyebrow arches in playful curiosity, his voice low and smooth. “Not going to Harvard?”
“A little.” A smile finds its way to my lips at the memory of my father’s stunned silence when I told him about Brown. It had been my first step out of his shadow, my own declaration of independence.
Killian’s eyes lock with mine, gleaming with mirth and something more—understanding, perhaps. He gets it, the need to forge one’s path, even if it means disappointing those we love. He knows what it’s like to choose the unexpected road, to chase a dream no one else can see but you. “Probably not as much as blowing off Cambridge to join a rock band.”
I laugh. “No, probably not.”
Once our glasses are empty, he refills them from the bottle chilling in ice. “Did you have a favorite place as a kid? Somewhere you could hide from your parents?”
I nod. “I loved spending time outdoors, exploring the woods and fields near our house. And there was this old oak tree I used to climb up and sit on one of the sturdy branches, sketching the landscape. I was always drawing—anything and everything. ”
His eyes light up. “You draw?”
I nod, my cheeks warming. “I do.”
“You’ve been holding out on me, Swan. Can I see some of your work?”
“Maybe someday. I haven’t drawn much lately, though. Running the gallery keeps me pretty busy.”
He eyes me thoughtfully. “You should make time for it. It’s important to keep doing what you love.”
His words hit me with an unexpected force, and I smile. “I’ll have more time this summer. Henry’s going to camp next month at Jameson Ranch.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he goes there every year. He loves everything there, the horseback riding, the rock climbing, the archery. I waited for the year when he’d say he’s too old, but it never happened. Now, this is his last year.”
“Sounds like an amazing camp.”
I nod. “It really is. I’m glad he gets to enjoy it one last time before he graduates next year.”
“Does he have any plans after graduation?”
I chuckle, lightly teasing, “Hopefully, they don’t include ditching college to start a rock band.” I raise an eyebrow playfully at Killian, who feigns offense, his hand over his heart in mock hurt.
“I’m kidding. Honestly, I’d be proud of him no matter what he does after high school.”
He smiles, taking a sip of his wine.
“But to answer your question, he’s been talking about going to LA Film School.”
Killian raises his brows, his eyes lighting up like the stars that have begun to pepper the evening sky. “Film school? Sounds exciting.”
“Yeah. He’s always had a knack for storytelling.”
“I bet he’ll do amazing. And how do you feel about him moving away for school?”
“I’ll hate it,” I admit with a laugh. “But I want him to pursue his dreams. Besides, he won’t be too far.”
“He can always come back during breaks and summers,” Killian reassures me with a nod.
“Yeah, it’ll be an adjustment, but I’m sure he’ll be ready to get out on his own and not have to live with his mom anymore.”
He chuckles. “I’m sure he’ll miss you like crazy when he’s gone.”
The waiter arrives with our entrées—herb-crusted salmon for Killian and a ribeye steak for me.
As we take our first bites, the flavors burst on my tongue—rich and perfectly seasoned, a hum of contentment escaping my lips.
Killian watches me with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Good, isn’t it?”
“Delicious.”
We eat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, stealing glances between bites.
“So, Henry and film school,” Killian says, returning to our earlier conversation. “Do you think he knows what kind of films he wants to make?”
I take a sip of my wine, loving the fact he’s asking about Henry and not just me. And even though I easily got bored listening to Walsh go on about his furniture shop, I’d be happy if Killian only spoke about himself. I could listen to him talk all day. “He’s still figuring that out, but he loves sci-fi and fantasy.”
Killian nods and smiles. “Ah, my favorite genres.” He takes another bite of his fish. “Oh, and by the way, I Googled that Ghost scene you were telling me about.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“I just have one question.” He holds up a finger, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Do potters always stroke the mold like that when throwing?”
I almost choke on my wine and laugh. “Uh, no. I think they were going for a steamy scene without going all pornographic.”
He chuckles, his cheeks red. “I figured as much.”
Finally, we’re served crème brûlée for dessert. The top is perfectly caramelized, with a thin, crisp layer of sugar that cracks under the spoon to reveal the creamy custard underneath.
I take my first bite and let out a small moan. The combination of the crunchy caramel top and the smooth vanilla custard is heavenly. I feed him a bite, and the way his eyes roll back, the rough groan he makes, sends heat to my core. I have to squeeze my thighs together to curb the temptation to have him for my dessert. At least for now, while we’re in public.
When the bill is paid, there’s a knot of dread in my stomach at the thought our evening might be drawing to a close soon.
Killian moves closer to me, his voice low and husky. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” My stomach flutters with nerves at the prospect of what his question might be.
“Please, feel free to say no if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure here.” Hesitation flickers in his mesmerizing blue eyes, so I place my hand on his leg, giving him a reassuring squeeze.
“I promise I’ll say no if I’m not up for it.”
“Would you want to come back to my hotel room? It’s just a little more private there…”
I pause, the final bite of the crème brûlée halfway to my lips as I turn my head to look at him, sincerity in his gaze. The air between us thickens, rich with unspoken possibilities, and something stirs inside me, a longing I’ve kept at bay, one that’s been restrained by caution and past pain. But Killian has a way of crumbling the walls I’ve built around myself.
I finish the bite of dessert, the spoon clinking against the porcelain as I set it down. I lean back, folding my arms. “Trying to get me alone, Jones?”
A rosy pink blush paints his cheeks. “Maybe I am.”
I can’t help but laugh as he gives me the same answer I gave him the other day when he asked me if I was flirting with him.
“And what are your intentions once you get me alone?”
He chuckles and wets his lips with his tongue, leaning closer. He wraps an arm around my shoulders, his voice dark, almost a whisper. “Well, I watched you eat that dessert…the way you licked your lips and made those sexy noises…the way you kissed me the other day…”—His gaze moves to my mouth, his eyes ablaze with desire, his thumb caressing my shoulder—“and I really want that wicked mouth of yours on mine again. But honestly, I’d be happy to simply continue chatting.” The easy grin fades, replaced by something far more telling—a seriousness that belies his usual charm. “So, my intentions are whatever you wish them to be, love.”
My breath catches in my throat. “Really?” I challenge, my teeth catching on my bottom lip in an attempt to stifle the smirk that threatens to break free. “Whatever I wish?” My efforts are futile, it curls the edges of my lips regardless. “Alright then, how about you perform a song and dance number on this table?”
He arches a brow. “That’s your wish?”
“That’s my wish.”
He gives a nonchalant shrug, his cerulean eyes dancing with amusement. He launches from his seat, and before I know it, he’s halfway on the table. I reach out and grab his arm to stop him, giggles bubbling up from my throat at the thought of him actually going through with it. “I was kidding.” As he settles back into his seat, I narrow my eyes at him. “I can’t believe you were actually going to do it.”
His head tilts back slightly, and those piercing blue eyes crinkle at the corners. “Swan, you do realize you’re asking a rock star who’s used to outrageous requests and performing in public, right? You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to shock me.”
“Is that so?” I tease with a devilish smirk, placing my hand on his chest, feeling it beat under my palm.
He chuckles. “That is the most mischievous grin I’ve ever seen.”
My cheeks heat.
“What am I going to do with you, Swan?”
“Apparently, whatever I want you to do.” It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to be swept up like this—since I’ve let someone see the side of me that isn’t all business and pragmatism. Despite how flushed I am from all this flirtatious banter, I manage to make it out of the booth. I look over my shoulder. “You coming, Jones?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grabs his jacket and follows behind me.
When he catches up to me, I have to refrain from touching him until we get into his car. I can tell he’s just as tortured by the way he’s running a hand through his hair and looking over at me, a hunger sparking in those deep blue eyes.
Once we’re outside, the cool breeze sweeps around us, and I try to rub the goosebumps from my arms.
"Here, love.” Without missing a beat, Killian shrugs off his jacket and holds it open behind me, allowing me to slip my arms into the sleeves. He adjusts it on my shoulders and rubs my covered arms. The leather is warm from his body heat and smells faintly of his cologne, a comforting mix of spices and something uniquely him. "Can't have you freezing out here."
I pull the jacket closer around me, grateful for the warmth and the gesture. "Thanks, Killian." I smile at him. The jacket is a little big on me, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, but it's perfect. "Won't you be cold, though?"
He shakes his head, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "Don't worry about me, Swan.” He wraps his arm around me and pulls me a little closer. “If I get cold, you’ll keep me warm, right?”
I roll my eyes and laugh, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Ever the charmer," I reply, leaning into him as we wait for the valet to retrieve Killian’s car.
As soon as we’re in, his hand quickly finds its way under the skirt of my dress and around my thigh, and my hand finds its way onto his shoulder. But there’s too much distance between us.
He brings me back to my car at Blair’s, and I follow him on the twenty-minute drive to Sunset Tower, which stands tall against the cityscape. We agreed it’s better to arrive separately in case paparazzi are lurking around. I wait a few moments in my Bug after he disappears inside, my heart pounding. I check my hair in the mirror and make sure there's no food in my teeth about four times while I gather the courage. I want this, I know I want this, I’m just hoping he won’t take one look at me without my clothes on and run away. Or worse, give me a pity fuck.
I shake away the doubts clouding my mind. Killian is not like that, and I know this. Unlatching the car door, I step out and head inside the hotel. I may not know him very well, but each time we talk, it’s so easy, so comfortable. We don’t have to force the conversation, it just flows naturally. We’re not two people with sixteen years between us, we’re just two people drawn to each other. And the more I get to know him, the more I see the kindness in his heart. The man behind the rockstar persona.
Once inside, I step into the elevator and press the button for his floor. As I ascend to the top, my heart flutters with excitement and nerves. I check my reflection on the reverse camera setting on my phone and take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. When the doors part, I step out and make my way down the corridor.
Tiny, Killian’s loyal bodyguard, stands watch at the end of the hallway, his hawk-like eyes scanning me briefly before he nods in recognition. Whether he knows what might transpire beyond the door to Killian’s hotel suite, he gives no indication.
Returning his nod, I continue down the hall—my heart pounding like a drum against my chest with every step closer to the suite number Killian had shared earlier. Taking a fortifying breath, I rap lightly on the polished wooden door.
Before I have time to talk myself out of this, it swings open and he’s standing before me, flashing one of his heart-melting grins.
“Hi, Swan.” He steps aside to let me in.
“Hi.” I manage a smile of my own, a thrill shooting up my spine as I enter his room, my stilettos clicking on the shiny hardwood floor.
He closes the door behind me, shutting out the rest of the world.
Finally, we’re alone again.
I’ve been waiting for this moment since he left my house. I couldn’t actually believe our kiss was a one-time thing as I was saying it out loud. I knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore my feelings for this man.
“Would you like something to drink, love?”
I shake my head and slip off his jacket, throwing it over a chair, his eyes roaming over me from head to toe.
All I want is him.
My heart races as we gravitate toward each other, closing the distance between us.
On the way here, I had questioned whether we would just chat or make out once we got here, or whether I’d even make it here at all, but now that he’s standing here in front of me, looking like he wants to devour me, I’m powerless to resist him—and truthfully, I don’t want to.
Our eyes are locked, the air crackling with a raw, electric charge that’s been building all night. I reach up, my hands finding the nape of his neck, pulling him down toward me. Our lips meet, a soft brush at first that quickly ignites into something more urgent, more demanding. The kiss deepens, and I taste the hint of the wine and crème brûlée we shared. I cup his cheeks in my hands, our mouths moving together with a familiarity that belies the short time we’ve known each other.
He wraps his arms around me as I snake mine around the back of his neck. My breath catches in my throat as his palms glide over the fabric of my dress, mapping the contours of my body as if committing it to memory. I’m already moaning softly into his mouth, lost in the sensations of him, the warmth of his body pressing against mine, the stubble on his jaw scratching softly at my skin, and the way his hands roam across my back, tracing the curve of my spine.
We break the kiss briefly, both of us sucking the same air into our lungs before reclaiming each other’s lips. I lean into him, deepening the kiss—his tongue hot and soft on mine, eager but not too much. It’s a dance we’re engaged in, and every move he makes only draws me in deeper.
He turns me around with a gentle insistence, and I gulp in air, my heart pounding against my ribcage, erratic and wild. His hands slip under the hem of my dress, his fingers brushing against my thighs, teasing, promising, until they find the silk barrier of my panties.
A gasp escapes me, unbidden, as he dips his hand beneath the fabric, his touch bold and unapologetic against my bare nub. I reach a hand behind him, cradling the back of his head as he kisses my earlobe, his breaths hot and heavy against my skin. Holding on to him is all I can do to not melt completely under the deft movements of his fingers, each stroke unraveling me even more. I feel like a teenager all over again.
“Swan…” His voice is low and seductive in my ear, sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cool air of the hotel room. “Gods, you’re soaked.”
I bite my bottom lip and close my eyes as I arch into him, seeking more of the exquisite touch, my body betraying its eagerness for his skilled caresses. “Killian.” His name is a whispered plea, a prayer, on my lips as his fingers explore with an artist’s finesse.
It’s surreal, being here with him in his hotel room. Out there, in the real world, I’m Emma Swan—pragmatic, collected, an art dealer, a mother. But here, under Killian’s masterful touch, I’m coming undone, my usual poise giving way to raw desire. He’s young, magnetic, a rockstar used to captivating crowds, yet here, it’s just us, and he plays me like the strums of his guitar—each note building to a crescendo only he can command. The world falls away, leaving only the here and now, the heat of his touch, the pounding of my heart and the insatiable hunger that builds with every passing second.
He dips his head, his breath hot against the nape of my neck as he unclasps the strap of my dress with his free hand, letting the top fall away. He reaches under my bra cup, his hand shaping my breast, his thumb toying with my nipple as he kisses my neck. I tremble, caught in a web of sensations spun by his deft movements. My moans fill the room, unrestrained and foreign, like the sounds belong to another woman entirely—one unshackled by past fears or reservations. It’s been so long since I’ve moaned like this. In fact, I don’t think I ever moaned like this with Neal, yet Killian’s able to coax the sounds out with only his fingers.
Both of my hands are reaching behind us, fisting his hair for purchase as I completely give in to this man. He finds a rhythm, a dance of fingertips against the most sensitive parts of me, driving me wild, pushing me toward a precipice I’m all too willing to tumble over. The edge looms closer with each stroke, and I cling to him, lost in the storm he’s conjured inside me.
“Killian!” I scream toward the heavens as I ride his fingers, my walls pulsing around them. And I’m there, crumbling to pieces, coming all over his hand, and I’m gasping for air, my fingers tightening in his hair, clinging to him as he holds me sturdy in his arms.
Holy fuck.
That was…
My brain is too much like mushy oatmeal to put together the words to describe it.
Killian just holds me for a moment as I catch my breath, waiting for my heart to slow.
Once I’m able to move again, I manage to turn around and wrap my arms around the back of his neck, wanting to kiss the smug grin off his face. His arms encircle me, and he lifts me with an ease that sends another jolt of desire through my veins. The world tilts and spins around me, but I’m anchored by his gaze, his eyes holding mine. As he carries me across the room, our lips crash together again, a messy, perfect collision, his heartbeat thundering against mine, a mirror of my own escalating pulse.
My head hits the pillow as he sets me down gently, our bodies and lips still fused. I work at the buttons of his shirt, craving the warmth of his skin against mine. The fabric parts beneath my touch, revealing the taut muscles that ripple on his torso. His hands are on me now, skimming over my sides, each brush of his fingertips like a match struck against my skin, igniting a fire within me I had long forgotten could burn so fiercely. He reaches for my dress, and my breath catches in my throat as the red fabric and black bra falls away, leaving me vulnerable under his heated gaze. With trembling hands, I help him shed the rest of his clothes, each piece discarded like layers of ourselves peeling away.
I lie back on my elbows, allowing him to slide off my panties—the last piece of fabric separating us. There’s a pang of self-awareness as I think about how much my body has changed since I got pregnant with Henry. Stretch marks map across my lower belly like silver rivers, my breasts are fuller now, no longer pert like they once were.
But when I catch Killian’s eyes, darken with desire, and his cock standing at full attention, hard and throbbing, any lingering uncertainty evaporates. His hungry gaze roams over every inch of me—the stretch marks, the fullness of my breasts, every scar and imperfection—as if they’re elements in an exquisite artwork he can’t wait to explore further. He wants me. All of me—the woman who carried a child within her womb—every curve, every scar, every part of me life has shaped.
My nipples are hard peeks under his gaze, begging for the warmth of his touch. His mouth. His tongue.
Standing at the edge of the bed, he lifts my foot and unbuckles the straps of my shoes one by one, his ocean blues not even focused on his task but roving up my naked curves instead, my center spread and bare to him, glistening with a hunger I haven’t felt in years.
Once my shoes are gone, he climbs onto the bed and settles between my thighs with a devilish glint, hiking my legs over his shoulders. He leans in, leaving soft kisses over my thighs and nub leaving me shivering in anticipation, my breath catching. He traces my slick folds with his lips, his breaths warm over my flushed skin, my heart like a jackhammer. Our eyes are locked in a steely gaze, but once he parts my thighs further apart, his grip bruising my skin in the most delicious way, and he slides his tongue through my slit, all bets are off. My elbows collapse underneath me, and my eyes are rolling to the back of my head, his tongue exploring with slow deliberate strokes, eliciting gasps and moans that echo through the quiet room.
For some reason, I’d thought he might be overeager, given his age, and not used to giving pleasure as much as receiving it, and maybe that was just my previous experiences. But, boy, was I wrong. Because, there’s reverence in each stroke and nibble, his mouth worshiping me, coaxing me closer to the brink with each flick of his tongue over my aching clit, delving into my depths as if he could find every secret I’ve ever kept hidden there.
“Killian!” I can’t help but cry out, the words ripped from my throat as electrifying heat consumes me. A shuddering “Yesss!” escapes, my thighs clamping around his head like a vice, involuntary while my hands become entangled in the dark tresses of his hair.
Even as waves of ecstasy begin to ebb, he continues his ministrations, languid licks that draw out the lingering tremors of my orgasm. His tongue moves with an unhurried grace, a contrast to the rapid beating of my heart.
Heat lingers on my skin, a delicious aftershock that trembles through me.
His lips start a blazing hot path from the apex of my thighs to my stomach, his mouth a brand, searing his claim on me. Every kiss imprinted on my skin burns brighter than the last, leaving no part of me untouched or undiscovered. His lips trace delicate patterns across my abdomen, pausing to dip into my navel before continuing their ascent.
The curve of each rib becomes a stepping stone as he climbs closer to my breasts, where he lingers, lavishing each contour and peak with his tongue. His kisses are equally soft and demanding around the areolas before he draws my nipples into his hot mouth, pleasure jolting through me.
By the time he reaches my lips, I’m a panting, trembling mess underneath him, our bare skin meeting, the contact sparking a fire that threatens to consume us both.
“God, everything about you is perfect,” he breathes, his voice completely wrecked. His words are exactly what a forty-year-old woman wants to hear about her naked body, but I know it’s not empty flattery. It’s the truth etched in the lines of his face, in the fire in his eyes, the way he holds my gaze when he says it.
His erection presses against my thigh, hard and insistent, ready to claim me.
And God, do I want him to claim me. Every inch.
“Should I wear a condom?”
Right. A condom—something I hadn’t even thought about. God, it’s been too long, I feel like a virgin all over again.
“Do you have anything I should be aware of?” I counter, my voice surprisingly steady.
He shakes his head, his gaze never leaving mine. “No, and you? Have you been with anyone since Neal?”
“No, I haven’t. I’m on the pill.” I glide my hand between us, wrapping my fingers around his stiff shaft, stroking softly, his smooth, velvety length easily sliding through my fist. “And I want to feel you inside me.”
He groans as he kisses me sweetly on the lips, a grin spreading across his face. “I want to feel you, too.”
With that settled, I place him at my entrance, and the connection sends sparks flying through me. After thirteen years of Neal and three years of nothing, Killian feels incredible inside me. No, incredible is a colossal understatement. And he’s not even fully inside me yet.
Our breaths, heavy and ragged, mingle as he eases into me, claiming territory with slow, tender strokes that belie his strength. My legs are wrapped around his back, my hands resting on his shoulder blades as I arch into him, every nerve-ending alight with fire.
He responds in kind, his hips a perfect counterpoint to mine, as if we’re two parts of a whole finally clicking into place. “Swan,” he whispers against my lips, and I shiver at the sound of my name wrapped in his accent, heavy with lust. “Bloody hell…you feel so damn good.” He captures my lips before I can respond, his tongue moving against mine with the rhythm of his hips, and I can taste myself on his tongue, which I’ve never had the pleasure of doing before. Neal always used mouthwash afterward before kissing me.
I lose myself in the sensations—the heat of his body, the weight of him, the taste of his kiss, the sound of our unified gasps filling the room. His size, the smoothness of his back, the firmness of his ass as I take both perfect globes in my hands, pulling him in deeper. It’s a heady combination, intoxicating, dizzying, and I drink it all in greedily.
“Killian...” His name spills from my lips as he draws me closer to the edge. There’s no holding back, no fear or doubt, only the boundless expanse of sensation he alone can evoke. My body gives in to the overwhelming tide of pleasure that threatens to sweep me under, my fingernails clawing into his back.
Heat coils inside me, raw and all-consuming as Killian’s body drives into mine with a primal rhythm, his voice, rough like gravel, cutting through the haze of pleasure. “Let go, Emma.”
And I do. I let go, surrendering to the waves as they crash over me, and I happily drown in the bliss of it, my walls fluttering around his beautiful dick that has me coming undone.
He follows close behind, thrusting harder and faster, the crescendo building as he chases his impending release. His hips falter, movements growing erratic, his body shuddering. He dips his head, teeth grazing my skin, breath hot against my neck. His grip tightens around me, hands like steel bands, and I’m certain there will be marks—temporary souvenirs—imprinted on my skin I’ll probably admire in the mirror later.
“Emma…” My name is pure heaven as it tumbles from his lips, wrapped in a thick, broken accent as he pours his warmth inside me.
Pure heaven.
We reposition ourselves so he’s on his back and I’m beside him, boneless, draping an arm around his torso. My breath steadies, our bodies a tangle of limbs, the echo of his touch, his kiss, on every inch of my skin, his chest a relentless drumbeat against my ear. The sheets are twisted around our legs, our fingers are laced together as he presses a tender kiss against my forehead.
“Emma…you’re incredible.” His words vibrate against my skin, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my back.
I look up at him, my gaze meeting those deep blue eyes that seem to hold galaxies within them. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He smiles, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “Your beauty,” he whispers huskily, “it’s not just in the way you look, Swan. It’s everything about you. It’s the very essence of you.” His touch is reverent, as though each word he utters is etched into my skin.
A warmth blooms in my chest at his words, at the admiration that laces each syllable. It’s as if every wall I’ve ever built has not only been scaled but completely dismantled by the tenderness of his gaze. He sees me, truly sees me—not just the polished exterior, but the tangled, knotted threads of my soul.
A teasing smile pulls at my lips. “Do you say that to all the women you’re with?”
He chuckles, his body shaking with the deep, hearty sound. “I would only say it if I meant it…so no, I don’t.”
I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips, taking in the jagged edge of his stubble, the warmth of his skin. His eyes lock with mine, a stormy blue that speaks volumes without a single word. My heart swells, full to bursting with an emotion I can neither name nor contain.
“Stay with me tonight,” he whispers, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Or forever.”
I laugh. “I’ll stay tonight…but I’ll have to go back early tomorrow. Henry will be back home around noon.”
He nods, despite the disappointment flashing in his eyes. “Of course, love.”
Lying here naked, pressed against him, I allow myself to bask in the afterglow, the rhythm of his heartbeat lulling me into a state of serene bliss.
I don’t remember sex being so damn good before.
It’s never been that good.
Then it hits me. He’s the first, the only one who’s ever made me orgasm from sex alone. Sure, I’ve had orgasms but only from stimulation—a tongue, a finger or (mostly) a battery-operated friend. Never from penetration. I didn’t even think it was possible for me. And I’ve certainly never experienced multiple orgasms before tonight.
I always assumed I was the problem. That I was broken somehow.
But here I am, lying in Killian’s arms, fulfilled and sated in a way I never thought possible. It’s like he’s unlocked some secret part of me no one else could access before.
And maybe my history of being unsatisfied in bed is the reason I waited so long to be with someone else after Neal left.
Then again, if I had known it could be this good, I wouldn’t have waited.
But maybe it was Killian I was waiting for all along.
At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.
Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn't ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?
The Idea of You AU
Rated: M
AO3
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5
CHAPTER FIVE
"Morning, Em.” Elsa’s voice echoes through the airy gallery as I step into work.
“Morning, Els.” Before I can even make it to my office to deposit my purse, Elsa swoops in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “All right, spill, already.”
“Spill what?”
“You know what.”
I continue to feign cluelessness, causing Elsa to sigh.
“The deets about Mr. Rockstar.”
“Who, Killian?” I try to keep my tone light and nonchalant, averting my eyes to evade the impending interrogation. “There’s really nothing noteworthy to share. It was just business.”
She observes me with an arched eyebrow.
Ruby, who’s arranging a new display nearby, chimes in with a mischievous grin. “It didn’t seem like just business to me. The sparks between you two were probably visible from space.”
Rolling my eyes in mock exasperation, I scoff, hoping to downplay the significance of our encounter. “It was all just professional curiosity. You know how these musicians can be—always networking.”
“Networking? He bought out the entire gallery,” Elsa reminds me.
“It was nothing.” Ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks, I deposit my purse on my desk and make a beeline for the kitchenette. I need coffee—desperately.
Elsa follows me, relentless in her pursuit of details. “Come on, I’m dying here,” she presses, leaning against the doorway as I pour myself a cup.
“There’s really nothing to tell,” I insist, stirring sugar into my coffee and turning around. “He was interested in art. That’s all.”
She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, just interested in the art,” she repeats with air quotes and a smirk.
I sigh, knowing there’s no escaping this. “It was a good sale for the gallery, okay? Let’s just be happy about that.”
She doesn’t drop it, but I need a change of subject. I hate lying to her, but even if I told her I had Killian over for lunch, kissed the hell out of him and kicked him out, it wouldn’t matter, because I’ll never see him again.
After realizing I wasn’t interested in continuing whatever it is we started, he probably moved on with some other woman who is much younger and more beautiful. I wouldn’t blame him. He could literally have any straight woman on the planet, so why on earth would he choose me?
I take a deep breath, the memory of that kiss still fresh in my mind. It lingers like the ghost of his lips on mine. His hands on my skin.
I close my eyes as if I could shut away the thoughts. It was just a kiss. One spontaneous, reckless kiss that means nothing. Well, actually it was two or maybe three kisses. The flutter in my stomach betrays me, however, mocking my attempts at denial.
But maybe meeting someone else will help me forget about him.
Ha! Like that could ever happen.
“By the way, what about that guy you wanted to set me up with? Walsh, right?”
Her eyes light up. “Yes, Walsh. He owns that cute furniture shop on Sunset Boulevard.”
As I sip my coffee, trying to listen to Elsa, my mind betrays me, wandering back to yesterday. Killian’s lips, his touch, the little noises he made as we kissed, his ragged breaths, his low groans are still implanted in my head. I can still feel his hands on my skin, taste his lips, smell his cologne. The memory sends a shiver down my spine.
“Em?” Elsa’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a well-sharpened blade, jolting me back to the present.
I look over at her and blink. “Sorry?”
“A date with Walsh? Are you up for it?”
“Uh, sure, I’ll go.”
“Great! I’ll set it up,” Elsa beams.
With the immediate interrogation dodged, I take a moment to savor my coffee and return to the front of the gallery, trying to push thoughts of Killian and the kiss from my mind.
“So, what are we going to do about the empty walls?” Elsa asks, gesturing around, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Killian’s visit sparked a whole bunch of curiosity yesterday. People have been calling and coming in, wanting to check out the art…which we currently don’t have.”
Ruby glances up from her work. “We should have new pieces arriving by the end of the week.”
“In the meantime, we can showcase some of our private collection and maybe do a feature on upcoming artists,” I add.
Elsa nods in agreement. “Sounds like a plan.”
~*~
I stand in front of the mirror, holding up a delicate black dress, my stomach full of knots. I turn around, seeking a second opinion. “What do you think about this one?” I ask Henry, who’s lounging on my bed, scrolling through his phone.
He glances up briefly, narrowing his eyes, before reverting his gaze to his screen. “It’s nice…”
“Really?”
“Yeah, if you’re going to a funeral.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help but smile at his blunt honesty. I turn the dress around and study it from Henry’s perspective. Intricate black lace adorns the fabric, the sleeves flow elegantly and it’s very modest, featuring gentle ruffles over the chest and a high collar at the neck that adds a touch of sophistication. It does look like something I would wear to a funeral.
Come to think of it—I have worn this dress to a funeral. “Alright, Mr. Fashion Critic, what do you suggest?”
He sets down his phone and gets up, rifling through my closet. After a few moments, he pulls out a red dress. “This one. It’s classy but not too serious.”
My mouth falls open as my eyes sweep over the dress I haven’t worn in years. I actually forgot it was hanging in my closet. I take the dress from him, holding it up against me in the mirror. It has a flowy, knee-length skirt and a strappy open back, adorned with a bow. The draped waist detail complements the plunging V-neck bodice beautifully. Fancy but comfortable.
I look over at him, a smile tugging at my lips. “How did you get to be so smart, kid?”
“Because I inherited my brains from you, duh.”
Now it’s my turn to narrow my eyes. “Okay, what do you want?”
His face breaks into a mischievous grin. “Can I crash at Roland’s tonight? He just got the new CyberStrike.”
“Fine, but you better be ready to go in twenty minutes.”
He cocks his brow. “Mom, we both know you take longer than that to get ready.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Just get a change of clothes around.”
After I slip into the dress and apply some red lipstick, my hair resting over my shoulders in soft waves, I turn my attention to the watch on my dresser. Killian’s watch. The memory of him leaving it behind, whether intentionally or not, sends a thrill through me.
I slip it on, the weight of it comforting in a way I can’t quite explain but, at the same time, sending butterflies in my stomach.
When I enter the living room, Henry’s ready to go, his backpack next to him on the couch as he plays on his phone again.
“Better?”
When he looks up, he gives me an approving nod and a smile. “Much better.” He stands from the couch and grabs his bag. “You look beautiful, Mom.”
“Thanks, Henry.” I give him a side hug. “What would I do without you?”
He shrugs. “Probably get sick of people coming up to you, extending their condolences for your loss.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Clearly, you’ve inherited your sense of humor from your father.”
He slings his bag over one shoulder, eyeing my wrist. “Nice watch.”
“Thank you, it was a birthday gift...from a friend.” God, I hate lying to Henry, especially considering Neal lied to us both while he was having a secret affair with Wendy, but how can I possibly tell him the truth?
Oh by the way, kid, I had your twenty-four-year old idol over for lunch and didn’t think to include you. Then I kissed the fuck out of him, but don’t worry, it was a one time thing. And he left his watch behind, probably hoping he’ll see me again. And I’m going on this date with another man while I’m still thinking about the rockstar.
Nope, don’t think that would go over very well.
“Ready to go to your friend’s house?” I ask, changing the subject as quickly as possible.
“So, who’s this Walsh guy again?” he asks as we head out the door.
“He’s someone Elsa set me up with. He owns a furniture shop in town,” I explain, smoothing down my dress.
Henry furrows his brows. “If he’s such a nice guy, then why didn’t he come to pick you up?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Because I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.”
“I know you are, but I have to meet him to find out if he’s good enough for you.”
My eyes sting a little at that, a wave of emotion washing over me. I wrap my arm around his shoulders as we walk to my car. “I appreciate you wanting to look out for me, kid.”
“Just want to make sure you’re happy, Mom.”
I smile at him. “How about you meet him next time? If there is a next time.”
He grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Deal. Just don’t be surprised if I give him the third degree.”
I laugh. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
When I drop him off, Henry gives me one last piece of advice. “Have fun tonight, Mom. Don’t overthink it.”
I smile and hug him. “Thanks, kid. I’ll try.”
He gets out, and I watch him walk into his friend’s house. I take a deep breath and head to the restaurant I’m supposed to meet Walsh at, hoping the evening will be a pleasant distraction from the thoughts invading my mind of Killian and that damn kiss. Blair’s is an Italian restaurant not too far from where I live and is close to his furniture shop, so it’s a perfect meet-in-the-middle spot.
He’s already there when I arrive, standing when he sees me, a practiced smile on his face.
“Emma, hi, I’m Walsh. It’s great to meet you.” His handshake is firm, the eye contact steady.
“Nice to meet you too, Walsh.” My voice is polite, but the words feel hollow. We sit, and the small talk begins—a volley of questions and answers bouncing back and forth.
He’s nice enough—handsome, polite, and successful. Closer to my age. In fact, he might be a little older. Yet, as he goes on and on about his furniture shop, my attention keeps drifting.
“Emma?” His voice pulls me back.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I asked if you’d like to try the wine I picked out.” He motions to the bottle chilling beside us.
“Sure,” I answer, but the taste of red on my tongue doesn’t compare to the thrill of Killian’s lips pressed against mine, the memory sending an unwelcome warmth through me.
“...and that’s when I decided to expand into custom pieces.” Walsh’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “You wouldn’t believe the demand for handcrafted dining tables.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “That sounds...interesting.”
He continues, oblivious to my waning interest. “And then we started sourcing wood from sustainable forests. It’s been a game-changer for the business.”
I take a sip of my wine, glancing around the restaurant. Couples are laughing, waiters are bustling and there’s a general air of warmth and excitement I just don’t feel at our table. I try to engage, but there’s no connection, no chemistry. Not even the initial first date sparks.
Walsh leans forward, his eyes earnest. “What about you, Emma? What’s your favorite kind of furniture?”
I pause, searching for a polite response. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it in detail. I like pieces that are functional and comfortable.”
“Functionality is key,” he agrees, launching into another detailed explanation about ergonomic designs.
I nod along, fidgeting with my napkin, my thoughts drifting to Killian. The excitement, the thrill, the undeniable connection we shared—it’s all I can think about. Every word Walsh says just emphasizes the stark contrast between them. Which isn’t very fair to Walsh. I mean, how can you compete with Killian? You can’t.
“...and that’s why choosing the right wood is so important,” Walsh finishes, looking at me expectantly.
“Absolutely,” I reply, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to.
He smiles, seemingly satisfied with my response, and continues talking about his latest project. I glance at my watch discreetly, wondering how much longer I need to stay. We’ve only been here for about fifteen minutes, our food hasn’t even arrived, yet it feels like we’ve been here for an eternity and a half.
Needing a break, I excuse myself and hurry to the restroom.
As I stand in front of the sink, cursing myself for agreeing to this date, my phone buzzes in my clutch purse. I fish it out, a message lighting up the screen.
+44 7779 460726: I can’t get that kiss out of my head. I need to see you again.
My heart skitters, a smile tugging at my lips. The memory of our kiss flashes vividly in my mind, sending a chill down my spine. But here I am, on a date with Walsh, who has been nothing but kind but whom I have no interest in. Guilt twists in my gut as I type back.
Me: Who’s this?
+44 7779 460726: Ha! Cold.
+44 7779 460726: I got your number from the invoice. Hope that’s okay.
I click my tongue and sigh.
Me: Have the pieces arrived yet?
+44 7779 460726: Haven’t been home yet. Hear they look great.
+44 7779 460726: Anyway, about that kiss…
I roll my eyes and throw my phone back into my clutch purse before going to a stall and using the toilet. When I come out and wash my hands, my purse buzzes again.
+44 7779 460726: I know you read my last text. 🙂
I laugh.
Me: I can’t talk right now. I’m going to bed.
+44 7779 460726: No, you’re not.
Me: How do you know?
+44 7779 460726: Because it’s only 7.
+44 7779 460726: Also, you’re not at home.
Me: And how would you know that?
+44 7779 460726: Because I checked.
Me: You stopped by my house?
+44 7779 460726: I didn’t stop, I just happened to drive by a moment ago and notice all the lights were out.
Me: Happened to stop by? Right. 🙄
+44 7779 460726: Fine, I purposely drove by your house.
+44 7779 460726: Your turn to be honest 😁
Me: Stalker
I sigh.
Me: Okay, okay, I’m on a date. Happy?
+44 7779 460726: Am I happy you’re on a date with someone who’s not me? Not in the least. You’re really twisting the knife, love.🗡️💔
Me: Elsa set it up. I didn’t have a choice.
Okay, I did have a choice but he doesn’t have to know I only said yes to the date to forget about him .
+44 7779 460726: Are you enjoying the date?
Me: No, not really. Our food hasn’t arrived and I’m already bored to tears.
+44 7779 460726: Where are you? I’ll pick you up.
His offer hangs in the air, tempting like a decadent piece of chocolate. My heart races at the thought of leaving Walsh sitting alone, but also at the prospect of being whisked away by Killian.
I bite my bottom lip. not even believing I’m contemplating taking him up on his offer. This is ridiculous. I’m on a date with someone and actually considering ditching him for another man. But how often do I get asked out by a rockstar?
+44 7779 460726: Do I have to beg, Swan?
Me: Only if you want to…
+44 7779 460726: Will you go on a date with me? Please?🙏 🙏🙏
I can’t believe what I’m reading. Killian Jones is actually begging me to go on a date with him.
+44 7779 460726: I promise not to bore you.
I laugh. Like that could happen. I'd be entertained simply by getting lost in his eyes. I add his number to my contacts and shoot him my answer.
Me: I’m at Blair’s, 2901 Rowena Ave.
Killian: On my way.
I am so going to hell for this. For lying and ditching a perfectly nice guy for one who is almost half my age. So irresponsible.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the awkward conversation ahead. I clear my throat and hurry to the table where Walsh is sitting, my heart pounding in my chest. “Hey, Walsh...” My eyes are wide, feigning panic.
He looks up, concern knitting his brows. “Everything okay?”
“My son, Henry, just called. He went out to eat with some friends and got food poisoning.” I force an apologetic smile. “I have to go, I’m so sorry.”
Walsh’s face falls slightly, but he quickly masks his disappointment. “Oh no, I hope he’s alright. Do you need any help?”
“No, but thank you,” I reply, the guilt pressing down on me. “I just need to get to him as soon as possible.”
I reach into my purse and pull out some money, placing it on the table to cover my share of the food. “This should cover my part. I’m really sorry about this.”
Walsh shakes his head, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, Emma. Go take care of Henry. Maybe we can do this another time?”
“Yeah, maybe. Thanks for understanding.”
Without waiting for a response, I hurry out of the restaurant, my heart pounding with guilt and excitement. I step outside, the cool evening air doing little to calm my racing heart as I scan the street for Killian. I can’t help but wonder if I’m making the right choice, but the memory of our kiss and the anticipation of seeing him again push those doubts aside.
A minute later, a sleek, Audi R8 Spyder pulls up in front of me, its engine purring smoothly.
Killian rolls down the window, his million-dollar smile showing off his brilliant white teeth. “Hop in, love.”
I can’t help but smile, the thrill of seeing him again outweighing my guilt. I open the door and slide into the passenger seat, buckling my seatbelt. The smell of luxurious leather envelops me as he shifts into gear, the vehicle gliding forward with effortless power.
It’s surreal riding in a fancy car with Killian, who looks irresistible enough to eat. He’s wearing a well-fitted black leather jacket over a crisp white button-up shirt, the top few buttons casually undone. His dark jeans are perfectly tailored, accentuating his lean frame, and he’s completed the look with a pair of polished black boots. His silver chain with the skull and crossbones peeks out from beneath his shirt, and he has a few understated rings on his fingers, adding just a touch of rockstar edge to his ensemble. His hair is tousled in that perfectly messy way, and a hint of stubble lines his jaw, making me want to grab him and kiss him and finish what we’d started on Tuesday.
“Nice car.”
“Thank you, love, but I don’t actually own it. It’s a rental.”
I raise an eyebrow, wondering if there’s anything he does actually own. The trailer, the watch I’m wearing, the car. They’re all things given to him or loaned for temporary use. “A rental, huh? I guess being a rockstar doesn’t mean you have to own all the fancy toys.”
He chuckles. “Exactly. Sometimes it’s fun to try different things without the commitment.”
I hold up my wrist, showing him the silver timepiece. “I brought you your watch.”
He looks over and smirks. “It looks much better on you, love.”
As I lower my arm and twist the watch around my wrist, staring ahead blankly, I find myself wondering if his noncommittal approach extends to women as well. My stomach churns at the thought of this being just a fleeting experience, of him moving on to the next woman after he has his fill of me. Am I just another one of his rental toys?
I softly shake my head, thinking maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. Maybe I could take a page from his book. Maybe this is exactly what I need right now—a chance to explore, to feel something new, to have this experience without any strings attached, then return to my normal life. My normal, rockstar-free life. I deserve a little excitement, a little unpredictability. And with Killian, it feels like anything is possible.
I glance over at Killian, his profile illuminated by the city lights. He seems so at ease, so comfortable in his own skin. It’s refreshing and a little intoxicating. The pull of adventure, the lure of stepping outside my routine and embracing something exciting and different.
“You look stunning, Swan, by the way. Is that a new dress?”
Heat creeps up my cheeks and I smile back at him. “Thank you, but no, it’s not new. Henry picked it out of my closet, actually. He saved me from leaving the house looking like I was going to a funeral.”
Killian laughs, a deep, rich sound that makes my heart flutter. “Smart kid. I told you, he’s got great taste.”
“Yeah, he does. He was pretty insistent about it, too.”
“Well, I’m glad he was.” His eyes briefly flick over to me again, full of warmth. “You look perfect.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.” I grin as I reach out, touching his arm.
“Thanks, love.” He tosses me a flirty smirk, placing his hand on my leg over my dress. The touch is very much welcome, but it makes this date all the more real. Too real.
As the car sails through the streets, my pulse quickens, a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. It dawns on me with an almost physical jolt—I’m on a date with Killian Jones. My heart races, and a cold sweat forms on my palms. This isn’t just any date. It’s a date with a celebrity, someone whose life is so far removed from my own, it feels like I’m stepping into a different world.
I glance over at Kilian, his easy confidence making me feel even more self-conscious. What if I say something stupid or do something embarrassing? What if I trip over my own feet or spill my drink all over him? My mind spins with all the possible ways I could ruin this evening. What if he sees through my insecurities and decides I’m not worth the effort?
“Emma?” Kilian’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, gentle yet concerned. “Are you alright?”
I swallow hard, trying to muster a reassuring smile. “Yeah, just...a little nervous, I guess.”
He pulls the car over to the side of the road, turning to face me fully. His eyes are soft, filled with understanding. “Are you sure you want to go on this date?” he asks gently. “Just say the word and I can take you back.”
I take a shaky breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. “I want this, Killian, but it’s been so long since I’ve been on a date. And now that I am, it happens to be with one of the hottest rock stars in the world, so I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
Killian smiles softly and pulls me close, cupping my cheek in his hand. “Don’t think of me as a rockstar, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “I’m just a guy who’s incredibly attracted to you.”
I laugh. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have a kid who has a poster of me on their bedroom wall.”
He arches a brow, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “I wish I had a poster of you on my bedroom wall.”
I snort-laugh, playfully swatting him on the shoulder.
“Just be yourself, Emma. That’s all I want.”
His words break through the haze of panic, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
“And if it makes you feel any better,” he adds, his eyes locked on mine, “I’m just as nervous as you are.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Yeah, that actually does make me feel better.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle and lingering. His eyes hold mine, sparkling with desire and tenderness. Without another word, he leans in, closing the distance between us, and captures my lips with his. The kiss is electric, a surge of energy that sends shivers down my spine. My heart races, and I lose myself in the sensation, the world around us fading into oblivion.
His lips are warm and soft against mine, moving with a perfect blend of urgency and restraint. As our tongues touch, the kiss deepens, igniting a fire within me. My hands instinctively find their way to his neck, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.
Just as the intensity builds, Killian pulls away, his breath ragged and uneven. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed for a moment as if savoring the lingering connection. When he opens them, a playful smile tugs at his lips, a mixture of satisfaction and longing.
“If we continue like that,” he murmurs, his voice husky, “we won’t make our reservations in Malibu.”
I laugh softly, my own breath coming in short gasps. “You’re right. We should probably go.”
He gives me one last, lingering kiss on the lips before moving away.
As he pulls back onto the road, I straighten and take another deep breath, trying to focus on the moment. Maybe, just maybe, I can let myself enjoy this without overthinking it. Take it for what it is—a thrilling detour from the everyday, a chance to feel alive and desired.
Once I take a moment to recover from the kiss, I think about the last thing he said and furrow my brows at him. “Wait, you had time to make reservations? We only started texting about five minutes before you showed up at Blair’s.”
A sheepish smile spreads over his lips. “I made them earlier.”
“Oh, and you were sure I’d drop everything and go on a date with you?” I tease.
He chuckles, his cheeks pink as he scratches behind his ear. “I was hoping. I would’ve called you much earlier but we were performing at Rockville in Daytona and then tried to get some shut-eye during the four-hour flight back.”
I nod, understanding the demands of his world. “I get it. Life of a rockstar.” I smirk.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Aye, it can get pretty hectic. But I’m here now. So, what’d you tell your date?”
“That Henry has food poisoning,” I laugh a bit sheepishly. “It was the best I could come up with on the spot.”
“Well, I’m glad you decided to come with me,” he says, reaching over to grab my hand. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot since that kiss.”
“Me too,” I admit, my heart fluttering at his touch as I thread my fingers through his. “That’s why I agreed to go on the date with Walsh.”
Killian looks at me, lifting a brow. “You were thinking of me, yet you went on a date with someone else?”
I sigh. “I know, it’s stupid, but I was trying to forget you.”
He smirks, though there’s a softness in his eyes. “Forget me, huh? How’s that working out for you?”
I laugh. “Not well, obviously.”
Kilian squeezes my hand gently, his touch warm and reassuring. “I’m glad it didn’t work.” His eyes remain focused on the road, but his thumb strokes the back of my hand in soothing circles.
A smile pulls at my lips, the nerves from earlier melting away as I whisper, “Me too.”
At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.
Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn't ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?
The Idea of You AU
Rated: M
AO3
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5
CHAPTER FIVE
"Morning, Em.” Elsa’s voice echoes through the airy gallery as I step into work.
“Morning, Els.” Before I can even make it to my office to deposit my purse, Elsa swoops in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “All right, spill, already.”
“Spill what?”
“You know what.”
I continue to feign cluelessness, causing Elsa to sigh.
“The deets about Mr. Rockstar.”
“Who, Killian?” I try to keep my tone light and nonchalant, averting my eyes to evade the impending interrogation. “There’s really nothing noteworthy to share. It was just business.”
She observes me with an arched eyebrow.
Ruby, who’s arranging a new display nearby, chimes in with a mischievous grin. “It didn’t seem like just business to me. The sparks between you two were probably visible from space.”
Rolling my eyes in mock exasperation, I scoff, hoping to downplay the significance of our encounter. “It was all just professional curiosity. You know how these musicians can be—always networking.”
“Networking? He bought out the entire gallery,” Elsa reminds me.
“It was nothing.” Ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks, I deposit my purse on my desk and make a beeline for the kitchenette. I need coffee—desperately.
Elsa follows me, relentless in her pursuit of details. “Come on, I’m dying here,” she presses, leaning against the doorway as I pour myself a cup.
“There’s really nothing to tell,” I insist, stirring sugar into my coffee and turning around. “He was interested in art. That’s all.”
She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, just interested in the art,” she repeats with air quotes and a smirk.
I sigh, knowing there’s no escaping this. “It was a good sale for the gallery, okay? Let’s just be happy about that.”
She doesn’t drop it, but I need a change of subject. I hate lying to her, but even if I told her I had Killian over for lunch, kissed the hell out of him and kicked him out, it wouldn’t matter, because I’ll never see him again.
After realizing I wasn’t interested in continuing whatever it is we started, he probably moved on with some other woman who is much younger and more beautiful. I wouldn’t blame him. He could literally have any straight woman on the planet, so why on earth would he choose me?
I take a deep breath, the memory of that kiss still fresh in my mind. It lingers like the ghost of his lips on mine. His hands on my skin.
I close my eyes as if I could shut away the thoughts. It was just a kiss. One spontaneous, reckless kiss that means nothing. Well, actually it was two or maybe three kisses. The flutter in my stomach betrays me, however, mocking my attempts at denial.
But maybe meeting someone else will help me forget about him.
Ha! Like that could ever happen.
“By the way, what about that guy you wanted to set me up with? Walsh, right?”
Her eyes light up. “Yes, Walsh. He owns that cute furniture shop on Sunset Boulevard.”
As I sip my coffee, trying to listen to Elsa, my mind betrays me, wandering back to yesterday. Killian’s lips, his touch, the little noises he made as we kissed, his ragged breaths, his low groans are still implanted in my head. I can still feel his hands on my skin, taste his lips, smell his cologne. The memory sends a shiver down my spine.
“Em?” Elsa’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a well-sharpened blade, jolting me back to the present.
I look over at her and blink. “Sorry?”
“A date with Walsh? Are you up for it?”
“Uh, sure, I’ll go.”
“Great! I’ll set it up,” Elsa beams.
With the immediate interrogation dodged, I take a moment to savor my coffee and return to the front of the gallery, trying to push thoughts of Killian and the kiss from my mind.
“So, what are we going to do about the empty walls?” Elsa asks, gesturing around, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Killian’s visit sparked a whole bunch of curiosity yesterday. People have been calling and coming in, wanting to check out the art…which we currently don’t have.”
Ruby glances up from her work. “We should have new pieces arriving by the end of the week.”
“In the meantime, we can showcase some of our private collection and maybe do a feature on upcoming artists,” I add.
Elsa nods in agreement. “Sounds like a plan.”
~*~
I stand in front of the mirror, holding up a delicate black dress, my stomach full of knots. I turn around, seeking a second opinion. “What do you think about this one?” I ask Henry, who’s lounging on my bed, scrolling through his phone.
He glances up briefly, narrowing his eyes, before reverting his gaze to his screen. “It’s nice…”
“Really?”
“Yeah, if you’re going to a funeral.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help but smile at his blunt honesty. I turn the dress around and study it from Henry’s perspective. Intricate black lace adorns the fabric, the sleeves flow elegantly and it’s very modest, featuring gentle ruffles over the chest and a high collar at the neck that adds a touch of sophistication. It does look like something I would wear to a funeral.
Come to think of it—I have worn this dress to a funeral. “Alright, Mr. Fashion Critic, what do you suggest?”
He sets down his phone and gets up, rifling through my closet. After a few moments, he pulls out a red dress. “This one. It’s classy but not too serious.”
My mouth falls open as my eyes sweep over the dress I haven’t worn in years. I actually forgot it was hanging in my closet. I take the dress from him, holding it up against me in the mirror. It has a flowy, knee-length skirt and a strappy open back, adorned with a bow. The draped waist detail complements the plunging V-neck bodice beautifully. Fancy but comfortable.
I look over at him, a smile tugging at my lips. “How did you get to be so smart, kid?”
“Because I inherited my brains from you, duh.”
Now it’s my turn to narrow my eyes. “Okay, what do you want?”
His face breaks into a mischievous grin. “Can I crash at Roland’s tonight? He just got the new CyberStrike.”
“Fine, but you better be ready to go in twenty minutes.”
He cocks his brow. “Mom, we both know you take longer than that to get ready.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Just get a change of clothes around.”
After I slip into the dress and apply some red lipstick, my hair resting over my shoulders in soft waves, I turn my attention to the watch on my dresser. Killian’s watch. The memory of him leaving it behind, whether intentionally or not, sends a thrill through me.
I slip it on, the weight of it comforting in a way I can’t quite explain but, at the same time, sending butterflies in my stomach.
When I enter the living room, Henry’s ready to go, his backpack next to him on the couch as he plays on his phone again.
“Better?”
When he looks up, he gives me an approving nod and a smile. “Much better.” He stands from the couch and grabs his bag. “You look beautiful, Mom.”
“Thanks, Henry.” I give him a side hug. “What would I do without you?”
He shrugs. “Probably get sick of people coming up to you, extending their condolences for your loss.”
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Clearly, you’ve inherited your sense of humor from your father.”
He slings his bag over one shoulder, eyeing my wrist. “Nice watch.”
“Thank you, it was a birthday gift...from a friend.” God, I hate lying to Henry, especially considering Neal lied to us both while he was having a secret affair with Wendy, but how can I possibly tell him the truth?
Oh by the way, kid, I had your twenty-four-year old idol over for lunch and didn’t think to include you. Then I kissed the fuck out of him, but don’t worry, it was a one time thing. And he left his watch behind, probably hoping he’ll see me again. And I’m going on this date with another man while I’m still thinking about the rockstar.
Nope, don’t think that would go over very well.
“Ready to go to your friend’s house?” I ask, changing the subject as quickly as possible.
“So, who’s this Walsh guy again?” he asks as we head out the door.
“He’s someone Elsa set me up with. He owns a furniture shop in town,” I explain, smoothing down my dress.
Henry furrows his brows. “If he’s such a nice guy, then why didn’t he come to pick you up?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Because I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.”
“I know you are, but I have to meet him to find out if he’s good enough for you.”
My eyes sting a little at that, a wave of emotion washing over me. I wrap my arm around his shoulders as we walk to my car. “I appreciate you wanting to look out for me, kid.”
“Just want to make sure you’re happy, Mom.”
I smile at him. “How about you meet him next time? If there is a next time.”
He grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Deal. Just don’t be surprised if I give him the third degree.”
I laugh. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
When I drop him off, Henry gives me one last piece of advice. “Have fun tonight, Mom. Don’t overthink it.”
I smile and hug him. “Thanks, kid. I’ll try.”
He gets out, and I watch him walk into his friend’s house. I take a deep breath and head to the restaurant I’m supposed to meet Walsh at, hoping the evening will be a pleasant distraction from the thoughts invading my mind of Killian and that damn kiss. Blair’s is an Italian restaurant not too far from where I live and is close to his furniture shop, so it’s a perfect meet-in-the-middle spot.
He’s already there when I arrive, standing when he sees me, a practiced smile on his face.
“Emma, hi, I’m Walsh. It’s great to meet you.” His handshake is firm, the eye contact steady.
“Nice to meet you too, Walsh.” My voice is polite, but the words feel hollow. We sit, and the small talk begins—a volley of questions and answers bouncing back and forth.
He’s nice enough—handsome, polite, and successful. Closer to my age. In fact, he might be a little older. Yet, as he goes on and on about his furniture shop, my attention keeps drifting.
“Emma?” His voice pulls me back.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I asked if you’d like to try the wine I picked out.” He motions to the bottle chilling beside us.
“Sure,” I answer, but the taste of red on my tongue doesn’t compare to the thrill of Killian’s lips pressed against mine, the memory sending an unwelcome warmth through me.
“...and that’s when I decided to expand into custom pieces.” Walsh’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “You wouldn’t believe the demand for handcrafted dining tables.”
I nod, forcing a smile. “That sounds...interesting.”
He continues, oblivious to my waning interest. “And then we started sourcing wood from sustainable forests. It’s been a game-changer for the business.”
I take a sip of my wine, glancing around the restaurant. Couples are laughing, waiters are bustling and there’s a general air of warmth and excitement I just don’t feel at our table. I try to engage, but there’s no connection, no chemistry. Not even the initial first date sparks.
Walsh leans forward, his eyes earnest. “What about you, Emma? What’s your favorite kind of furniture?”
I pause, searching for a polite response. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it in detail. I like pieces that are functional and comfortable.”
“Functionality is key,” he agrees, launching into another detailed explanation about ergonomic designs.
I nod along, fidgeting with my napkin, my thoughts drifting to Killian. The excitement, the thrill, the undeniable connection we shared—it’s all I can think about. Every word Walsh says just emphasizes the stark contrast between them. Which isn’t very fair to Walsh. I mean, how can you compete with Killian? You can’t.
“...and that’s why choosing the right wood is so important,” Walsh finishes, looking at me expectantly.
“Absolutely,” I reply, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to.
He smiles, seemingly satisfied with my response, and continues talking about his latest project. I glance at my watch discreetly, wondering how much longer I need to stay. We’ve only been here for about fifteen minutes, our food hasn’t even arrived, yet it feels like we’ve been here for an eternity and a half.
Needing a break, I excuse myself and hurry to the restroom.
As I stand in front of the sink, cursing myself for agreeing to this date, my phone buzzes in my clutch purse. I fish it out, a message lighting up the screen.
+44 7779 460726: I can’t get that kiss out of my head. I need to see you again.
My heart skitters, a smile tugging at my lips. The memory of our kiss flashes vividly in my mind, sending a chill down my spine. But here I am, on a date with Walsh, who has been nothing but kind but whom I have no interest in. Guilt twists in my gut as I type back.
Me: Who’s this?
+44 7779 460726: Ha! Cold.
+44 7779 460726: I got your number from the invoice. Hope that’s okay.
I click my tongue and sigh.
Me: Have the pieces arrived yet?
+44 7779 460726: Haven’t been home yet. Hear they look great.
+44 7779 460726: Anyway, about that kiss…
I roll my eyes and throw my phone back into my clutch purse before going to a stall and using the toilet. When I come out and wash my hands, my purse buzzes again.
+44 7779 460726: I know you read my last text. 🙂
I laugh.
Me: I can’t talk right now. I’m going to bed.
+44 7779 460726: No, you’re not.
Me: How do you know?
+44 7779 460726: Because it’s only 7.
+44 7779 460726: Also, you’re not at home.
Me: And how would you know that?
+44 7779 460726: Because I checked.
Me: You stopped by my house?
+44 7779 460726: I didn’t stop, I just happened to drive by a moment ago and notice all the lights were out.
Me: Happened to stop by? Right. 🙄
+44 7779 460726: Fine, I purposely drove by your house.
+44 7779 460726: Your turn to be honest 😁
Me: Stalker
I sigh.
Me: Okay, okay, I’m on a date. Happy?
+44 7779 460726: Am I happy you’re on a date with someone who’s not me? Not in the least. You’re really twisting the knife, love.🗡️💔
Me: Elsa set it up. I didn’t have a choice.
Okay, I did have a choice but he doesn’t have to know I only said yes to the date to forget about him .
+44 7779 460726: Are you enjoying the date?
Me: No, not really. Our food hasn’t arrived and I’m already bored to tears.
+44 7779 460726: Where are you? I’ll pick you up.
His offer hangs in the air, tempting like a decadent piece of chocolate. My heart races at the thought of leaving Walsh sitting alone, but also at the prospect of being whisked away by Killian.
I bite my bottom lip. not even believing I’m contemplating taking him up on his offer. This is ridiculous. I’m on a date with someone and actually considering ditching him for another man. But how often do I get asked out by a rockstar?
+44 7779 460726: Do I have to beg, Swan?
Me: Only if you want to…
+44 7779 460726: Will you go on a date with me? Please?🙏 🙏🙏
I can’t believe what I’m reading. Killian Jones is actually begging me to go on a date with him.
+44 7779 460726: I promise not to bore you.
I laugh. Like that could happen. I'd be entertained simply by getting lost in his eyes. I add his number to my contacts and shoot him my answer.
Me: I’m at Blair’s, 2901 Rowena Ave.
Killian: On my way.
I am so going to hell for this. For lying and ditching a perfectly nice guy for one who is almost half my age. So irresponsible.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the awkward conversation ahead. I clear my throat and hurry to the table where Walsh is sitting, my heart pounding in my chest. “Hey, Walsh...” My eyes are wide, feigning panic.
He looks up, concern knitting his brows. “Everything okay?”
“My son, Henry, just called. He went out to eat with some friends and got food poisoning.” I force an apologetic smile. “I have to go, I’m so sorry.”
Walsh’s face falls slightly, but he quickly masks his disappointment. “Oh no, I hope he’s alright. Do you need any help?”
“No, but thank you,” I reply, the guilt pressing down on me. “I just need to get to him as soon as possible.”
I reach into my purse and pull out some money, placing it on the table to cover my share of the food. “This should cover my part. I’m really sorry about this.”
Walsh shakes his head, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, Emma. Go take care of Henry. Maybe we can do this another time?”
“Yeah, maybe. Thanks for understanding.”
Without waiting for a response, I hurry out of the restaurant, my heart pounding with guilt and excitement. I step outside, the cool evening air doing little to calm my racing heart as I scan the street for Killian. I can’t help but wonder if I’m making the right choice, but the memory of our kiss and the anticipation of seeing him again push those doubts aside.
A minute later, a sleek, Audi R8 Spyder pulls up in front of me, its engine purring smoothly.
Killian rolls down the window, his million-dollar smile showing off his brilliant white teeth. “Hop in, love.”
I can’t help but smile, the thrill of seeing him again outweighing my guilt. I open the door and slide into the passenger seat, buckling my seatbelt. The smell of luxurious leather envelops me as he shifts into gear, the vehicle gliding forward with effortless power.
It’s surreal riding in a fancy car with Killian, who looks irresistible enough to eat. He’s wearing a well-fitted black leather jacket over a crisp white button-up shirt, the top few buttons casually undone. His dark jeans are perfectly tailored, accentuating his lean frame, and he’s completed the look with a pair of polished black boots. His silver chain with the skull and crossbones peeks out from beneath his shirt, and he has a few understated rings on his fingers, adding just a touch of rockstar edge to his ensemble. His hair is tousled in that perfectly messy way, and a hint of stubble lines his jaw, making me want to grab him and kiss him and finish what we’d started on Tuesday.
“Nice car.”
“Thank you, love, but I don’t actually own it. It’s a rental.”
I raise an eyebrow, wondering if there’s anything he does actually own. The trailer, the watch I’m wearing, the car. They’re all things given to him or loaned for temporary use. “A rental, huh? I guess being a rockstar doesn’t mean you have to own all the fancy toys.”
He chuckles. “Exactly. Sometimes it’s fun to try different things without the commitment.”
I hold up my wrist, showing him the silver timepiece. “I brought you your watch.”
He looks over and smirks. “It looks much better on you, love.”
As I lower my arm and twist the watch around my wrist, staring ahead blankly, I find myself wondering if his noncommittal approach extends to women as well. My stomach churns at the thought of this being just a fleeting experience, of him moving on to the next woman after he has his fill of me. Am I just another one of his rental toys?
I softly shake my head, thinking maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. Maybe I could take a page from his book. Maybe this is exactly what I need right now—a chance to explore, to feel something new, to have this experience without any strings attached, then return to my normal life. My normal, rockstar-free life. I deserve a little excitement, a little unpredictability. And with Killian, it feels like anything is possible.
I glance over at Killian, his profile illuminated by the city lights. He seems so at ease, so comfortable in his own skin. It’s refreshing and a little intoxicating. The pull of adventure, the lure of stepping outside my routine and embracing something exciting and different.
“You look stunning, Swan, by the way. Is that a new dress?”
Heat creeps up my cheeks and I smile back at him. “Thank you, but no, it’s not new. Henry picked it out of my closet, actually. He saved me from leaving the house looking like I was going to a funeral.”
Killian laughs, a deep, rich sound that makes my heart flutter. “Smart kid. I told you, he’s got great taste.”
“Yeah, he does. He was pretty insistent about it, too.”
“Well, I’m glad he was.” His eyes briefly flick over to me again, full of warmth. “You look perfect.”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.” I grin as I reach out, touching his arm.
“Thanks, love.” He tosses me a flirty smirk, placing his hand on my leg over my dress. The touch is very much welcome, but it makes this date all the more real. Too real.
As the car sails through the streets, my pulse quickens, a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. It dawns on me with an almost physical jolt—I’m on a date with Killian Jones. My heart races, and a cold sweat forms on my palms. This isn’t just any date. It’s a date with a celebrity, someone whose life is so far removed from my own, it feels like I’m stepping into a different world.
I glance over at Kilian, his easy confidence making me feel even more self-conscious. What if I say something stupid or do something embarrassing? What if I trip over my own feet or spill my drink all over him? My mind spins with all the possible ways I could ruin this evening. What if he sees through my insecurities and decides I’m not worth the effort?
“Emma?” Kilian’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, gentle yet concerned. “Are you alright?”
I swallow hard, trying to muster a reassuring smile. “Yeah, just...a little nervous, I guess.”
He pulls the car over to the side of the road, turning to face me fully. His eyes are soft, filled with understanding. “Are you sure you want to go on this date?” he asks gently. “Just say the word and I can take you back.”
I take a shaky breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. “I want this, Killian, but it’s been so long since I’ve been on a date. And now that I am, it happens to be with one of the hottest rock stars in the world, so I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
Killian smiles softly and pulls me close, cupping my cheek in his hand. “Don’t think of me as a rockstar, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “I’m just a guy who’s incredibly attracted to you.”
I laugh. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have a kid who has a poster of me on their bedroom wall.”
He arches a brow, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. “I wish I had a poster of you on my bedroom wall.”
I snort-laugh, playfully swatting him on the shoulder.
“Just be yourself, Emma. That’s all I want.”
His words break through the haze of panic, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
“And if it makes you feel any better,” he adds, his eyes locked on mine, “I’m just as nervous as you are.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Yeah, that actually does make me feel better.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle and lingering. His eyes hold mine, sparkling with desire and tenderness. Without another word, he leans in, closing the distance between us, and captures my lips with his. The kiss is electric, a surge of energy that sends shivers down my spine. My heart races, and I lose myself in the sensation, the world around us fading into oblivion.
His lips are warm and soft against mine, moving with a perfect blend of urgency and restraint. As our tongues touch, the kiss deepens, igniting a fire within me. My hands instinctively find their way to his neck, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.
Just as the intensity builds, Killian pulls away, his breath ragged and uneven. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed for a moment as if savoring the lingering connection. When he opens them, a playful smile tugs at his lips, a mixture of satisfaction and longing.
“If we continue like that,” he murmurs, his voice husky, “we won’t make our reservations in Malibu.”
I laugh softly, my own breath coming in short gasps. “You’re right. We should probably go.”
He gives me one last, lingering kiss on the lips before moving away.
As he pulls back onto the road, I straighten and take another deep breath, trying to focus on the moment. Maybe, just maybe, I can let myself enjoy this without overthinking it. Take it for what it is—a thrilling detour from the everyday, a chance to feel alive and desired.
Once I take a moment to recover from the kiss, I think about the last thing he said and furrow my brows at him. “Wait, you had time to make reservations? We only started texting about five minutes before you showed up at Blair’s.”
A sheepish smile spreads over his lips. “I made them earlier.”
“Oh, and you were sure I’d drop everything and go on a date with you?” I tease.
He chuckles, his cheeks pink as he scratches behind his ear. “I was hoping. I would’ve called you much earlier but we were performing at Rockville in Daytona and then tried to get some shut-eye during the four-hour flight back.”
I nod, understanding the demands of his world. “I get it. Life of a rockstar.” I smirk.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Aye, it can get pretty hectic. But I’m here now. So, what’d you tell your date?”
“That Henry has food poisoning,” I laugh a bit sheepishly. “It was the best I could come up with on the spot.”
“Well, I’m glad you decided to come with me,” he says, reaching over to grab my hand. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot since that kiss.”
“Me too,” I admit, my heart fluttering at his touch as I thread my fingers through his. “That’s why I agreed to go on the date with Walsh.”
Killian looks at me, lifting a brow. “You were thinking of me, yet you went on a date with someone else?”
I sigh. “I know, it’s stupid, but I was trying to forget you.”
He smirks, though there’s a softness in his eyes. “Forget me, huh? How’s that working out for you?”
I laugh. “Not well, obviously.”
Kilian squeezes my hand gently, his touch warm and reassuring. “I’m glad it didn’t work.” His eyes remain focused on the road, but his thumb strokes the back of my hand in soothing circles.
A smile pulls at my lips, the nerves from earlier melting away as I whisper, “Me too.”
I would really like also a copy of a helping hand. It was the first au ff and I got addicted. I wanted to reread it after your new published fic and now I see that it is gone. Love your writing, I hope you keep going ❤️❤️
Thank you for reaching out, love! I sent you a copy in your pm
At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.
Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn't ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?
The Idea of You AU
Rated: M
AO3
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5
CHAPTER FOUR
As Killian and I step into the foyer, my house feels more vibrant with him in it.
He removes his hat and sunglasses, placing them on the entryway table, the sunlight catching in his tousled hair, making the dark strands gleam with hidden shades of auburn. “Wow…your place has quite the charm, Swan.” His gaze flits around the room, taking in the eclectic mix of antique and modern that somehow reflects pieces of my soul.
I glance around, suddenly aware of the clutter that seems to be everywhere and wish I’d taken the time to make the house a little tidier this morning before taking Henry to school. “Sorry, it’s a little messy. Didn’t know I’d be having a rockstar over for lunch.”
He chuckles. “It’s perfect. It feels like a home.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, realizing he’s probably not used to being in a small house like mine. “Neal—uh, my ex—hated it. He called it a starter house. But…I always thought of it like a home, too.” I collect a few empty bowls and cups from the table, balancing them carefully as I make my way to the kitchen.
I set them in the sink and take a deep breath, trying to shake off the self-consciousness creeping in. Killian Jones is in my house, acting like this is just a typical Tuesday, when in reality, if people knew he was here, it would stir up a whole bunch of drama I’m not prepared for.
“So, this is where the magic happens?” A teasing smile plays on his lips as he enters the kitchen.
I can’t help but laugh as I slip an apron over my head and tie it around my waist. “Yep. Though, most of that magic comes from a box.”
His smile widens as he leans against the counter. “Something tells me you’re underselling your cooking skills.”
“We’ll see about that.” I wash my hands and gather the ingredients, my stomach fluttering with nerves. I grab a stick of butter, a block of vintage cheese and a ball of mozzarella from the refrigerator and pull out a grater from the drawer.
He furrows his brows, glancing from the grater to the cheeses, then back at me. “I thought you were making grilled cheese, love. Not that I’m complaining. I’ll eat whatever.”
“Don’t worry. I am making grilled cheese.” As I grate the cheese, I can practically see the wheels turning in his mind, probably trying to figure out why I’m going through the extra effort when I can just slap a slice of cheese on the bread. “I always use two different kinds of cheeses. Vintage for taste and mozzarella for the stretch.” I pinch a bit of the vintage between my fingers and turn toward him, offering the cheese in my hand. “Here, try this.”
Killian shifts closer, his mouth parting to claim the dangling cheese. His tongue grazes my fingertip in the process, a surprise that sends a sudden shiver down my spine, halting my breath momentarily. Heat spreads to my core, and I have to turn away from him and regain my composure, trying not to imagine him using that tongue on other parts of me. On my neck, my breasts, between my legs…
Holy hell.
I have to refrain from spraying myself down with the sink sprayer.
He groans and licks his lips, savoring the taste, but whether it’s the taste of the cheese or me, I’m not certain. “Mmmm, that’s delicious. But why not just use the pre-sliced cheese?”
I manage to continue grating, even though my heart is pounding. I glance up at him and smirk. “You’ll find out soon enough, trust me.” I turn my attention to the butter and hold up the stick. “Salted butter. Not the spreadable kind or the fake stuff. Just good old-fashioned butter. And if it’s not salted, add a sprinkle of salt.”
He chuckles, shaking his head but clearly intrigued. “Alright, I’m trusting you, Swan.”
I grab a partial loaf of sourdough and cut four slices. “My favorite bread is a nice sourdough. But not those super fancy ones that’ll break your teeth.”
Killian nods, taking mental notes. “Got it. Grated cheese, no fancy sourdough and always salted butter. You’re really serious about your grilled cheese, aren’t you?”
I shrug, smiling. “A good grilled cheese is an art form, and I’m a grilled cheese connoisseur.” I heat up the skillet, spreading butter generously on both sides of the sourdough slices. “Wait until you taste this. You’ll see why freshly grated cheese makes all the difference.”
He grins, his eyes sparkling. “Well, I feel honored being shown your top-secret recipe.”
My cheeks warm. “Well, it’s not every day I get to share it with a rockstar.”
“How did you start making grilled cheese like this?”
I smile, recalling those early days as I place all four slices on the hot skillet, the sizzle of melting butter and toasting bread filling the kitchen. “Well, it actually started when Henry was little. He used to be really picky about food.”
“Sounds like a typical kid.”
I nod. “There was a time when he would only eat grilled cheese. It was the one thing I knew I could always get him to eat without a fuss. So I started trying ways to improve upon it and experimented with different cheeses, breads and techniques until I found the perfect combination. It became our little tradition.”
He smiles. “Henry must love it.”
“Yeah, he does. It’s his favorite comfort food. But now, as a teenager, he eats anything I put in front of him. It’s like he’s making up for lost time.”
He chuckles. “That’s a teenage boy for you.”
“Exactly.” I shake my head. “One minute he’s refusing to eat anything that isn’t grilled cheese, and the next he’s raiding the fridge like it’s his personal buffet.”
“I remember those days all too well.”
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, and I pause from my task. Only seven years ago, Killian was a teenage boy himself.
Seven years ago.
I gulp, flipping two of the four slices of bread, trying to shake the thoughts away.
“Sounds like he keeps you on your toes.”
“Oh, definitely.” I pile on the freshly grated cheese. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Killian nods thoughtfully. “Are you two close?”
“Yeah, we are.” I smile, placing the golden brown sides of the other slices on the cheese. “I mean, he is my son and I am his mother, so we do drive each other up a wall sometimes, but, um…but yeah. He’s my favorite person.”
He smiles at that.
I turn around to face him, leaning against the counter with my arms crossed. “So what about you? You and your parents, are you guys close?”
“Oh. No, not really.” He shrugs. “I mean, they split up when I was very young. Mum remarried to, uh…‘Darren from Scunthorpe,’” he says, imitating an older, English man. “‘Good show, Killian.’”
I laugh at his impression. “You’re not a fan?”
He grins, shaking his head. “I mean, he’s nice enough. He’s just a twerp. And he’s from Scunthorpe, which is a bit of a shithole.” He chuckles. “He’s, uh, he’s not bad really.”
“What about your dad?”
Killian’s playful smile fades, and his brows knit together, his shoulders tensing slightly. “Dad’s wanted a lot more of a relationship with me and Liam in the last few years, which is really funny timing given he wasn’t really there for us the first sixteen years of my life.” He drums his fingers on the countertop, and it’s clear the subject stirs up a mixture of emotions in him. There’s a vulnerability there, one that resonates with me deeply. “Now he wants to be best mates. I don’t know. I mean, I want to be close to him, but…it’s hard to trust people, isn’t it?”
“It is. Wanting to let someone in but being afraid they’ll let you down.”
Killian nods, his gaze distant for a moment. “Exactly. It’s like…you want to believe people can change, but the past leaves its mark.”
“Yeah,” I agree with a nod, transferring the sandwiches to a cutting board, all too familiar with how hard it is to trust people. Even someone I was married to for thirteen years. “And what about Liam? You two must be pretty close?”
“Aye, we are. He can be a bit protective of me sometimes though, which is a little annoying.”
“Well, at least you have him.” I cut the sandwiches in half, plating them before grabbing two glasses from the cupboard.
He chuckles, the tension in his shoulders melting like the cheese between our sandwiches. “Yeah, Liam’s always been there.”
“Iced tea?”
“Sure, love.”
I grab the pitcher from the refrigerator and pour us both a generous amount.
“Sometimes he’s more like a father than a brother, always looking out for me.”
“That’s a good thing. Having someone who has your back, even if it can be a bit much at times.”
Killian nods, a fond smile creeping onto his face. “True. I guess I can’t complain too much. He means well.”
As we settle at the table with our grilled cheese sandwiches and iced teas, Killian picks up the two halves of the sandwich with both hands, holding them close together. “Now here’s the true test…” He carefully pulls them apart, the gooey cheese stretching in a perfect, melty arc. His eyes widen, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Look at that,” he marvels, the cheese forming a stringy bridge between the two pieces of bread. “This is the stuff of dreams.”
I laugh as I pick up the two halves of my own sandwich, pulling them apart. “ This is freshly grated cheese.”
We both take a bite, his eyes closing briefly as he savors his. “Bloody hell…this is…”
“Simple fare?” I finish for him, though his approving glance makes me feel as if I’ve crafted a feast fit for royalty.
“It’s the best damn grilled cheese I’ve ever had.”
I laugh, a warmth spreading through me. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Henry has good taste.” He takes another bite. “I can see why he likes it so much.”
“There’s nothing like a mean grilled cheese made the right way.”
“But tell me, are you sure these are mean? They seem pretty nice to me.”
“Oh, they’re definitely mean.” I take a sip of my tea. “They may look nice, but they’ll ruin all other grilled cheeses for you.”
The intensity of his gaze makes my breath hitch. “I’ll take my chances.”
I suddenly feel like we’re no longer talking about grilled cheese.
“Something tells me men say the same about you.”
Heat creeps up my neck, a betraying blush I can’t seem to control. “If only Neal had felt the same. My grilled cheese wasn’t good enough for him.” The laugh that follows is hollow, betraying the hurt that still lingers. “Turned out he had a taste for something else.”
“Then he’s an idiot.” He scratches behind his ear as if he’s nervous to ask something. “This Neal bloke…can I ask what happened?”
I normally don’t like to divulge this much with someone new, but the walls I’ve built around myself, safeguarding my heart from further cracks, have started to crumble, brick by stubborn brick ever since I met Killian. “Well, for context, um…I had just moved to L.A. I wanted to be in the art scene in Downtown New York, but I could afford to be in the art scene in Downtown L.A.”
He nods, listening intently. “Mmhm.”
“So I met Neal at a party in Echo Park.”
“Hate him already,” he says with a small chuckle, but the tension in his jaw betrays his attempt at humor.
I manage a laugh, but it quickly dissolves into a sigh. “It’s getting late. I think maybe we should…”
“Swan.” Killian’s voice is gentle yet firm, cutting through my attempt to change the subject.
“Killian?”
“We’re just talking. We’re two people with trust issues who need to open up a little.” He leans in slightly, his eyes searching mine with genuine curiosity. “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”
I meet his gaze, the weight of my past bearing down on me. “Oh, you want to know the worst thing that can happen when you open up to someone?”
“Please tell me,” he says softly, his eyes urging me to share.
“Okay. I’ll tell you.” I take a deep breath, the familiar ache in my chest returning. “Neal, he was very intelligent, outgoing, very driven…”—I shrug—“and we really liked each other. So we got together, fell in love, got married, got pregnant…although not in that order.”
Killian listens intently, his brow furrowing slightly.
“We were kind of young. With a baby. We put our heads down. He was crushing it at work. The gallery had finally opened, Henry was at school, but eventually, there was, uh, distance. There was a drift. But I thought, you know, ‘okay, that’s normal. So you didn’t get a fairy tale. Grow up, Emma.’”
My voice trembles as I continue, reliving the painful memories. “And then one night about three years ago…we were out at dinner with his work friends, and, um, I was repeating some stupid gossip about, uh, someone we all knew, who cheated on their spouse, and the whole table went silent. Like, you know that feeling when you walk into a room and you know everybody was just talking about you? And I look at Neal, and he won’t look at me.” Tears threaten to spill from my eyes as the raw emotions of that moment flood back. “He wouldn’t look at me,” I whisper.
Killian’s expression softens, his hand reaching across the table to cover mine.
“So we got back to the house, paid the sitter, and I asked him. He said her name was Wendy. She was a…young lawyer at his firm. The thing that I’m the most angry about is I was so nice about it. I offered to forget it. I said, for us, for our family, for the good of our family, I would…I mean, people make mistakes…I’ll forget…I’ll…I’ll forgive it.” My voice breaks slightly, the pain of betrayal still fresh. “And then he said…he didn’t want to move past it. He was in love. Then he left.”
Killian’s grip tightens on my hand. “I’m sorry, Swan.”
The tears spill over now, running down my cheeks unchecked. “So that, in my experience, is the worst thing that can happen when you open yourself up to someone.”
With his free hand, he reaches over and wipes away my tear, his other one still squeezing mine. “Well…we’re still here,”—Killian looks around and gestures toward our plates—“eating great fucking sandwiches.”
I manage a watery laugh, grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood. “They are great, aren’t they?”
“And maybe we’re not all Neal,” he murmurs.
I nod, wiping under my eye with the back of my hand, though the pain of the past still lingers. “I’ll take that under consideration, Killian Jones.”
His expression sours like he's in pain. “Oh, please not the first and last name.”
I lean over the table. “Do you not like that?”
“It’s the kiss of death,” he replies with a hint of a smile. “It just doesn’t tell the whole story.”
“I see that.” My voice is barely a whisper, my heart heavy with the weight of old wounds. “What should I call you then?”
“Killian will do.”
“Killian will do what?” The words slip out unbidden before I can stop them.
He stares at me, his mouth parting, looking just as surprised as I feel. My heart is pounding, the air thick with tension. Then he darts his tongue out, and my eyes follow the movement as he licks his lips. “What would you like me to do, Swan?” His voice is deep and husky, making my heart pound.
Many things.
Oh, so many things.
A litany of images flutter through my mind, unfiltered. Killian kissing me, Killian touching me, Killian undressing me. Whispering filthy things in my ear, burying that sinful tongue inside my pussy. Driving his cock into me.
Judging by how strong he looks, the muscles in his arms, the grip on my hand and the way he strummed his guitar at Coachella, I have a feeling he’s good in bed.
Very good.
On the other hand, it’s been so long since I’ve been with a man, I doubt he’d have to do much to unravel me.
I could also think of a few things I’d like to do to him…
Closing my eyes, I try to dispel the images making my palms sweat. My panties wet.
“Um, well, I think I’m going to take care of these dishes.” The words tumble out high-pitched and hurried as I pull my hand from his and stand up.
He gently grabs my arm. “Swan, let me do them.”
I shake my head. “I am not letting you do my dishes.”
“Why not? You made lunch, it’s the least I can do. It would be my honor.”
“Killian…” Before I can argue further, my phone rings. I sigh and head to the kitchen to pick it up from the counter. Killian is bringing the dishes over to the sink as I answer it, heading to another room.
“Hey, Els, what’s up?”
“Would you like to tell me why I returned to the gallery to find out Killian Jones from Midnight Moon stopped by to buy every single piece and then left with you in your car?”
“Uh, yeah. He needed some art to fill his space in London,” I reply, trying to keep my voice casual. “He was so impressed with the selection, he wanted to see more, so I took him to Anna’s warehouse, then we went to lunch. That’s it.”
“You took Killian Jones to lunch?!” She practically squeals.
I smile at her enthusiasm. “I know, it’s pretty surreal. But he’s actually really down to earth.”
“Okay, I need all the details later. Promise me?”
“Promise. I’ll fill you in on everything. But really, there’s not much to tell. We’re just discussing art.”
“Sure Em, whatever you say,” she teases, obviously not buying the mystery. “Call me later.”
“Will do.” I hang up and return to the kitchen to find Killian washing my dishes. I can’t help but lean against the doorway and cross my arms, appreciating the sight. Killian Jones is taking time on his day off to scrub my dishes. Something I can’t even get my teenage son to do. Something Neal refused to do when he lived here. “You know, you could’ve just put them in the dishwasher,” I say, moving toward him.
He shrugs. “I’m not afraid to use my hands, love.”
There’s something so sinful about the way he says that, it has me wondering if he’s thinking the same thing I am. “Besides, it’s just a few dishes.”
I scoff and grab them from the rack, drying them off and putting them into the cupboard. “Try telling that to Henry.”
He laughs, a rich, warm sound that fills the kitchen. “Teenagers, huh?”
“Yeah.” I shake my head. “He’s a good kid, just... selective about his chores.”
We finish the last of the dishes and head out of the kitchen. As we move into the living room, Killian’s gaze lands on my piano in the corner. He walks over to it, a look of curiosity and admiration on his face.
“You play?” he asks, running a finger gently over the keys.
“Not really. I only got it because Henry begged and pleaded for it. Then Neal bought him a guitar and now it just sits here, collecting dust.”
I look at him, a spark of curiosity lighting up inside me as I remember him telling me about his piano lessons. “What about you? Do you still play?”
“It’s been a while.”
“I’d love to hear something.”
He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Are you sure you want to hear me butcher your piano?”
I laugh, nudging him gently. “I highly doubt you could butcher anything, Killian. Come on, play something for me.”
He hesitates for a moment, then steps around to sit on the bench. His fingers hover over the keys before they descend with practiced ease, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.
The melody is soft at first, a gentle tune that gradually builds in complexity and emotion. It’s unlike anything I’ve heard before, and I’m rooted to the spot as I watch him, a warmth spreading through me. The way he immerses himself in the music, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, his long lashes resting against his cheeks. The way he seems lost in the melody, his fingers moving gracefully across the keys, each note flowing effortlessly from his touch. His posture is relaxed yet focused, shoulders slightly hunched. There’s a raw, unguarded beauty about him in this moment, a stark contrast to the confident rockstar persona he usually exudes.
The music swells, cresting like waves against the shore, each note resonating with feeling. I’m captivated by the way his fingers move effortlessly across the keys, coaxing a beautiful tune out of the instrument. It’s clear he’s more than just a casual player, he’s deeply connected to the music.
It’s not until he finishes, the last notes lingering in the air, that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
My heart beats a rhythm akin to the haunting melody Killian has just graced the silence with. “Did you write that?” My voice is hushed, almost reverent.
He looks up at me with a smile. “Yeah, it’s one of mine. I’ve never played it for anyone…until now.”
Killian has just shared a piece of his soul he’s never shared with anyone, and it’s exquisite.
“So beautiful,” I breathe out, my feet carrying me closer to where he sits. “The music isn’t too bad either.” The words are teasing, light, but they’re weighted with an undertone of raw admiration I can’t quite hide.
“Isn’t too bad? I’ll take that as high praise coming from you.” There’s a playful glint in his deep blue eyes, his lips pulling into a smirk. “Are you flirting with me, Swan?”
“Maybe I am,” I admit, my own voice barely above a whisper. I stand between him and the piano, our eyes locked.
Parting his knees, he reaches out and takes my hand, pulling me closer until I’m standing between his legs. My heart races as the space between us shrinks, the heat intensifying, and for a moment, the world outside disappears.
Without thinking, I run my fingers through his hair, feeling the softness of it beneath my touch. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in my scent, his chest rising and falling with each breath.
When he opens his eyes again, they’re filled with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken even more. The air around us feels charged, electric, as if any moment, it could ignite. My fingers trail down from his hair to his jaw, tracing the line of it, the slight stubble prickling my fingertips.
His free hand comes up to rest on my waist, pulling me even closer. Our bodies are almost touching now, the heat radiating between us. His fingers tighten around mine, and he leans in close, his breath warm and unsteady against my skin, his face only centimeters from my breasts. Each nerve ending in my body is hyper-aware of him, of his touch, his breath, the intensity in his gaze. He presses a kiss against my chest, my heart fluttering beneath his lips as they venture daringly toward the deep v-neck of my dress and the valley of my breasts. A surge of sensation sweeps through me as his stubble drags across my skin, his tongue darting out to taste me. It’s so soft and warm, and I thread my fingers through his hair and let out soft moans that echo off the walls around us.
It’s potent, intoxicating, yet beneath the heady thrill, doubts surface, whispering I’m too old for him. He must be able to sense the battle raging inside me, because he stands up and towers over me, closing the distance between us, and we angle our heads toward each other until our noses touch, until we’re sharing the same air, the same magnetic pull that seems to draw us together against all logic or reason. We simply look at each other, the world narrowing down to the space we occupy. Suddenly, he’s not a rockstar with the world at his feet and I’m not a single mom with sixteen years on him—we’re just two people drawn together by an undeniable attraction. And in that moment, I surrender to it.
Slowly, he leans in, his lips brushing against mine, tentative at first, as if testing the waters. But the moment our lips touch, it’s like a dam breaks. My hands move to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as if I’m afraid to let go. His arms wrap around me, pulling me into him, and I respond in kind, my hands finding their way to his hair, tangling in the dark locks. The kiss deepens, and it’s as if we’re both starved for this contact, this affirmation of the desire that’s been building since our very first encounter.
It’s passionate and intense, a conflagration sparked by the meeting of two souls who recognize something kindred in each other. And as we lose ourselves in the kiss, everything else falls away—the age difference, the messiness of life, the world outside. There’s only this moment, this connection.
My breath catches as the kiss escalates, a crescendo of need that has my heart thundering against my ribs. I’m lost in the sensation, the warm press of Killian’s lips, the firmness of his body against mine. When we finally pull back, both of us are breathless and his eyes are dark with desire, my own cheeks flushed with the intensity of the moment. We cling to each other, caught in the storm of our own making, our foreheads resting together, breaths mingling, hearts beating in tandem. His hand reaches up, fingertips brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch sending shivers down my spine.
I shake my head, a smile stretching over my lips. “I’m too old for you.” I start to turn away from him, but the way he pulls me back to him and whispers breathlessly, “No, you’re not,” has me claiming his lips again.
As the kiss heats up, building higher and higher, I fall back into the keyboard, my ass striking a discordant medley of notes that reverberate through the room. The jarring sound snaps me back to reality. I push him away and start to distance myself, letting out a long breath and throwing broken words over my shoulder as I go, “I could be your mother.”
“But you’re not.”
“But I could be,” I insist once more. I turn around, his young face completely wrecked, his eyes glazed over like he just took a hit off something.
“But you’re not.”
The last of my resistance crumbles, and I reach for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him back to me. Our lips meet again in another searing kiss, this time with a fervor that sends sparks dancing across my skin, the kiss heating up, building much faster this time.
The world tilts on its axis, everything sharpening into startling clarity—the taste of him, the heat of his body, the sound of our mingled breaths. We’re moving together now, a dance of lips and tongues.
His hands roam over me, mapping the curve of my spine, over my breasts, the dip of my waist, stoking the fire raging inside me. Somehow, we’re both more and less than ourselves in this moment, stripped down to pure emotion, pure connection. The space around us fades, the sounds of the world dimming until there’s nothing but our ragged breathing and moans, as we devour each other, adrift in our bubble of sensation. It’s hot and intense, a blaze that neither of us can control, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to try.
He cages me against the wall, his body pressing against me. His lips are insistent, persuasive, mapping a path down my neck that leaves a trail of fire in their wake. He slips his hand through the slit of my dress, gripping my thigh as he presses into me, his thickness against my center, and God, it feels so good, but like a crack in a dam, reality seeps through the haze of desire, and panic flares inside me. I know if we continue like this, he’s going to be buried inside me, taking me against this wall in about ten seconds.
With a gentle but firm push, I ease back, putting space between us. It’s too much, too fast, and there’s an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with the physical exertion.
His eyes are still closed, his lips slightly parted as if he’s under some kind of spell.
“Can I take you back to your hotel?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He opens his eyes and shakes his head but doesn’t move away from me just yet. We stand there for a few more moments, hearts still racing as we try to regain our composure, our breathing heavy from the intensity of the kiss we just shared.
“Uh, no, it’s fine. Tiny’s outside.”
I stride toward the front door as fast as I can so I’m not tempted to change my mind and take him up to my bedroom.
“So when can I see you again?” he asks, his voice soft and hopeful as he follows behind me.
When I spin around in front of the door, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that tugs at my heart. “Killian,” I murmur, trying to find the right words. My mind is a whirlwind of emotions, the reality of our situation settling in again.
“Swan,” he replies, almost pleading.
“I can’t do this,” I say firmly.
“Why’s that?”
I gesture between us. “Because you’re you and I’m me, and we just don’t fit,” I explain, trying to keep my voice steady.
“But that kiss…”
“Was a one-time thing,” I finish for him.
He gives me a determined look, his jaw set. “We’ll see,” he murmurs, grabbing his hat and sunglasses from the entryway table.
I roll my eyes and turn around, opening the door for him. “Glad you enjoyed the grilled cheese.”
He smirks, putting on his hat. “You were right, Swan. It has definitely ruined other grilled cheese sandwiches for me.”
My lips twitch into a smirk of my own as I wonder if he’s talking about the sandwich or me. I close the door behind him and watch through the window as he heads to the car waiting for him and gets in.
When the car drives off, disappearing down the road, I let out a long sigh and turn around, closing my eyes, my heart still pounding.
The sound of a car pulling up in the driveway breaks the silence and has my heart skittering in panic. I quickly tidy my hair and open the door to see Henry bounding up the steps, his backpack slung over one shoulder.
He comes inside, Neal following behind him. “Hey, Mom.”
“Sup?” I greet him cheerfully, still feeling the effects of that kiss.
Henry takes one look at me and narrows his eyes. “Are you high?”
I shake my head, trying to look as composed as possible. “No, I’m not high,” I reply defensively, my voice coming out more high-pitched than intended.
They exchange skeptical glances.
“Did Elsa give you a gummy again?” my son asks.
“No, she didn’t. I’m fine, really.”
Henry rolls his eyes and heads upstairs. “Whatever you say, Mom.”
Neal lingers in the doorway, watching Henry disappear. Once he’s out of earshot, he reverts his eyes to me. “Hey, Ems, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
I cross my arms, bracing myself.
Oh God.
I’m hoping he’s not about to tell me Wendy is pregnant or something. “What is it, Neal?”
He hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I feel bad about asking you to break your plans at the last minute to take Henry to Coachella. I was thinking maybe we could have lunch sometime? My treat. Just to make it up to you.”
"Neal, I don’t think..." I start to say, aware of the olive branch he's extending, yet skeptical of what thorns might lie beneath its leaves.
"Come on, Ems." He sighs. "For Henry's sake. Let's at least try to be civil for him, mend some fences."
Civil? Mending fences? Neal's good at weaving these phrases into a narrative that suits him.
No is on the tip of my tongue, yearning to leap out. It's a simple syllable, yet it weighs heavy in my chest. I want to deny him, to establish boundaries where they've been blurred before. But instead, I find myself nodding, euphoria still pumping through my veins and the lingering excitement from that kiss making me feel light-headed, almost like I am high. “Yeah, sure. We can do that.”
Neal’s eyes widen in surprise. “Great. I’ll call you to set something up.”
“Great.”
He eyes me suspiciously once more. “Are you sure you’re not high?”
I wave off his accusation with a laugh, unable to suppress the damn smile from my lips. I want to tell him I'm not high, that this is what I look like when I've just been thoroughly kissed by a twenty-four-year-old rockstar who loved my fucking grilled cheese sandwiches, but instead, I settle with, “Yes, I’m sure.” Closing the door behind him, I lean against it for a moment, gathering my wits.
When I catch my reflection in the mirror by the door, I look like a wreck. My hair is tousled, my cheeks flushed, a giddy smile plastered on my face, makeup smudged. No wonder they think I’m high.
I sigh, shaking my head at myself and running my hands through my hair. My eyes are drawn to the table, the gleam of a wristwatch catching my attention. It looks familiar. Like Killian’s Tag Heuer watch. I pick it up, my brows furrowed. He must have left it here on purpose, considering he was wearing it the entire time he was here. I shake my head and bring the watch to my room so Henry doesn’t question me about it.
I can’t stop replaying that kiss in my mind. Killian’s touch, the way he made me feel. The rush of emotions from earlier still pulses through me, leaving me light-headed and strangely exhilarated. But as the euphoria wears off, reality begins to settle in.
Neal’s unexpected proposal for lunch caught me off guard, and in the heat of the moment, I said yes. The kiss Killian and I shared obviously clouded my judgment and made me forget about the resentment and anger I feel toward Neal.
Fuck.
I don’t want to go out to lunch with my ex, the man who lied and cheated on me.
At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.
Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn't ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?
The Idea of You AU
AO3
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3
CHAPTER THREE
I’m at my desk Monday morning, checking work emails when Elsa enters my office, her presence bringing a welcome distraction. I look up at her as she hands me a coffee, the warmth of the ceramic mug comforting as I take it from her.
“Thanks, Elsa.” Nursing the hot beverage, I close my eyes in appreciation of the caffeine. I stayed up a little too late last night, my stomach full of butterflies like it has been for the last two days. I haven’t been able to get a certain rockstar and those damn blue eyes out of my head. And it’s stupid, really. I’ll never see him again—other than in the visions invading my mind—and I’ll simply become a distant memory to him. If he even remembers me at all.
With her own coffee mug in hand, Elsa perches herself on the edge of my desk, her blue eyes sparkling. “So, how was your weekend at Coachella?”
I lean back in my chair, a smile spreading across my lips as I recall the joy on Henry’s face. “Henry and his friends had the time of their lives.”
Elsa’s face lights up with a smile. “And you had the meet and greet with Midnight Moon, right? How was that?”
“It was great. Killian, especially, was so cool to Henry.”
“Killian Jones?” Elsa’s eyebrows shoot up. “The lead singer? Tell me more.”
“He was charming,” I admit. “And very kind. He took the time to chat with Henry and his friends.”
“That’s great. I’m glad they had such a great time. And what about you? Did you have fun?”
I nod, not even having to think about it. “I did. Just seeing Henry so happy made me happy. You know, they even invited us to the after-party.”
Elsa’s jaw drops. “No way! You went to the after-party?”
I nod, pulling out my phone. “And we met Mary Margaret Blanchard. David, the keyboardist, took this picture of us.” I show her the photo.
Her eyes go wide with envy. “You met Mary Margaret?” She practically squeals. “I’m so jealous!”
I laugh, enjoying her reaction. “Yeah, she was really sweet. Henry was star-struck, and she was so kind and patient with him.”
Elsa gazes at the photo, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’m happy for you, but also so, so jealous.”
I smile. “It was definitely one for the books. Oh, and by the way, were you able to get a refund for the reservation? If not, I will totally pay you back for it.”
“I wouldn’t let you do that. But it doesn’t matter because I got the refund.”
Relief washes over me. “That’s good.” After I take another sip of my coffee, I look up at her. “What about you? How was your weekend?”
Elsa’s eyes light up, a big grin spreading across her face. “I’m glad you asked…”
I laugh, the mischievous glint in her eyes making me wish I hadn’t. “Oh boy, what happened?”
“Well, I was having lunch with Anna at Granny’s, and she was telling me about this guy she met…he’s like a friend of a friend of a friend or something. Anyway…he sounds absolutely perfect.”
I furrow my brows. “Your sister’s married.”
“I know.” Elsa rolls her eyes playfully. “I didn’t mean he’s perfect for her. I meant he’s perfect for you.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really,” she insists, leaning forward, her eyes buzzing with excitement. “From what I hear, he’s smart, funny, kind and quite the looker. More importantly, he’s single.”
I want to ask if he has blue eyes, silky black hair, tattoos and a British accent. And if he can sing and strum the guitar like nobody’s business. But I think better of it. It’s probably best I not mention the flirtatious banter I exchanged with Killian. Or the message he left on the autographed picture. I would sound as bad as Neal. The age gap isn’t as wide between Neal and Wendy as it is between me and Killian, but pretty damn close. So, instead, I shake my head and set my coffee down, returning to my emails. “Thank you, Els. I really appreciate you looking out for me, but I’m not interested.”
“Come on, Em, what’s the harm in meeting him? One date. Just give him a chance.” She stands from my desk. “It’ll be good for you to get out, meet some people your own age.”
I gape at her.
My own age?
Can she read my mind?
The autographed photo with his message is the only evidence of the interaction I had with Killian, but I haven’t shown anyone or told anyone about it, and it’s safely tucked away in my desk drawer.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Henry is an awesome kid and all, but you deserve to think about yourself once in a while. You deserve to be happy.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t tell me you’re in cahoots with him and his friends, too?”
She laughs. “No, but there’s a reason we all keep telling you the same thing.”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “I am happy.” But I don’t know who I’m trying to convince—her or myself.
Elsa heads for the door, turning around to look at me. “Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Okay,” I reply, waving her off with a half-hearted smile. “I’ll think about it.”
I don’t plan on thinking about it. As the door clicks behind her, I let out a deep sigh, sinking back into my chair. The office feels quieter, almost too quiet.
Opening my desk drawer, I take out the photo from Coachella, gazing at me and Killian, his arm draped around my shoulders and mine hidden behind his back. We were so close, with big smiles on our faces. I flip it over and read the message, though I don’t really need to. Every word is sketched into my mind, unerasable, like a permanent marker on paper.
That night still feels like a dream. A rockstar had given me his rapt attention, even appeared to be interested in me, said I was beautiful. He made me feel like Emma, the younger version of me before all my responsibilities and obligations.
It’s been a long time since I let myself even think about dating. But maybe Elsa’s right. Maybe it’s time to step out of my comfort zone and see what’s out there.
But as I set the photo down, I know my heart isn’t in it. It hasn’t been in a while.
My mind drifts back to Killian’s smile, the way his eyes lit up when he talked to Henry and the warmth in his voice when he called me Swan. I can still remember his scent and how his hand felt against mine and can’t help but replay the moments I spent with him in my mind. His genuine interest, the way his eyes lingered on mine—a connection that stirred something inside me.
But reality quickly sets in. He’s a world away from my own, a fantasy who doesn’t belong in my quiet life.
I shake my head, pushing the thoughts aside.
Just focus on Henry and the gallery.
But deep down, I know that night at Coachella will stay with me, no matter how hard I try to forget it.
~*~
The days drag by as I attempt to get the handsome British rockstar out of my head. But it never works very well. I’ve been listening to his songs on the drive to work every day. And I might be delusional, but I keep thinking—hoping—he’ll show up at the gallery since Henry told him the name. But I know it’s just a pipe dream. He’s far too busy to visit some art gallery in Storybrooke, which—even with a population of 29,000—is just a small blip on the radar of Los Angeles.
Two weeks after Coachella, Elsa is out meeting clients, and I’m engrossed in appraising an oil painting when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I call out, not taking my eyes off the screen.
Ruby steps in, her voice carrying a sense of urgency. “Emma, you’re needed out here.”
I barely avert my gaze from my computer screen as I finish the sentence I’m writing, not wanting to break my train of thought. “Okay, give me just a sec.”
“No, like right now.”
When I look up, there’s tension in her posture, her eyes wide. At the same time, her red lips, which match her headband and the streak in her chocolate brown locks, are twitching with a hint of a smirk.
Rising from my desk, I adjust my brown blazer, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, as I make my way to the door. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just…I need you out here.”
Pausing, I narrow my eyes at her and the mischievous glint in her green eyes, wondering what she’s up to. Or rather, what Elsa’s up to. “That guy Elsa was trying to set me up with isn’t here, is he?”
“No.” She grabs my hand and drags me out of my office. “This is better, I promise.”
When we step into the exhibition room, I stop dead in my tracks. My breath catches as a rush of emotions floods through me—excitement, disbelief and a touch of nervousness.
Standing there twenty feet away from me is none other than the rockstar himself.
Killian Jones.
My heart skips.
August, the gallery attendant, speaks to him so casually, as if this place isn’t being graced by a celebrity. “She and Elsa really use their inclusive space to showcase a diverse range of artwork, celebrating unknown artists from various backgrounds and ensuring their gallery highlights different perspectives and styles.”
Meanwhile, Ruby is all googly-eyed and twirling her red streak of hair as if there’s an otherworldly glow surrounding Killian.
“And there she is now.” August draws Killian’s attention toward me as I stand here with my jaw on the floor.
I struggle to find my voice, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts.
Why…why is he here?
Killian flashes a charming grin, stepping closer. “Hi, love.”
Time freezes as I take in his presence, his blue eyes almost hidden underneath a ball cap but no less captivating, the faint stubble on his jawline and the confidence in his stance that matches his illustrious status. The world around me blurs, and all I can focus on is the intensity of his gaze, piercing and magnetic. I can’t help but stand here in awe, my heart pounding, as the world-renowned rock star greets me with such ease and familiarity.
“Hi,” I finally manage, barely containing the surprise and maybe a bit of excitement bubbling up inside me. “What brings you here?” Behind him, Tiny’s on the other side of the picture window, waiting by his car.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but we met at Coachella.” His choice of clothing feels somewhat stifling for the usual balmy California climate. A hoodie and baggy sweatpants—I’m guessing to dodge the watchful eyes of lurking paparazzi and eager fans.
Of course, I remember meeting him. How could anyone forget meeting one of the hottest rock stars on the planet? I let out a nervous laugh. “Yes, I remember you.”
“So, you two know each other?” August chimes in. “Great. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
“Thank you. We’re okay, August,” I reassure him with a smile as I approach, trying to regain my composure.
“Okay,” he says with a nod before moving away to give us some privacy.
“This is quite a surprise.”
Killian shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I did some online sleuthing for an Emma Swan of Storybrooke,” he admits with a sheepish grin, carding a hand through his hair. “And, uh, well, I have this very large, empty flat in London that desperately needs some artwork.” His gaze sweeps around the gallery with a glint in his blue eyes. “So I was thinking maybe you could show me some?”
“Really?” My pulse quickens, and I watch him move with that casual grace as he absorbs the pieces on display. “Okay. Um...why don’t we start in the back with the ceramics?”
“You read my mind,” Killian replies with his usual heart-melting smile as we make our way toward the pieces.
“These were thrown by a fantastic potter, Susan Hable,” I explain, gesturing toward them, my stomach in knots. I’m surprised by how steady my voice is.
“Hmm.” He arches a brow. “She threw them…at a wall?”
“No, no...” I pause, realizing he probably isn’t familiar with pottery terms. “You know, like the classic pottery scene in Ghost.”
His brows furrow in confusion. “Ghost?”
“Yeah, the movie.” I shake my head, also realizing he’s probably too young to have even heard of it. “Never mind. Anyway, throwing is what they call it when they shape the clay on the wheel.”
“Ah, I see,” Killian nods in understanding.
As we continue to discuss the artwork, August and Ruby whisper loudly behind us.
“Who is he?” August asks.
“That’s Killian Jones from Midnight Moon. Where have you been?”
“Being in my thirties, obviously.”
I bring my attention back to Killian as he leans in closer to admire one of the ceramic pieces. “The silhouettes of these echo Susan’s fascination with gesture and movement.”
“I can see that.” His eyes are locked on mine, though I’m wondering how much he’s actually paying attention to what I’m saying.
“Yeah, her work’s very popular.”
“Great.” He motions toward the ceramics. “I’ll take all of these.”
“Sorry, what do you mean?” I ask, certain I misheard him.
“Oh, just everything in this general area would be great,” he says casually, as if he just spotted a sale on a produce display at the grocery store.
I can’t believe my ears. Killian actually wants to purchase everything in this section of the gallery?
“Ruby,” I call out, catching her attention.
“What’s up?” She approaches us with a bright smile.
“So, um…this client would like to buy all these pieces,” I inform her.
“Oh. Okay.” She exchanges a glance with me before looking at Killian.
“Hi, Ruby,” he greets with a smile.
Ruby swoons, her red lips spreading into a grin. “Hey...”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Right, I’ll get that all dealt with,” she assures.
“That’s Ruby.” I nod toward her as she busies herself with the paperwork.
“Seems nice,” Killian remarks absentmindedly, his attention already drifting toward the next display.
“She’s very nice. She’s hardworking, competent, single,” I add, refraining from saying closer to your age out loud.
“What are these pieces over here?” He makes his way over to a section featuring artwork by Amanda Friedman. “These took my fancy.”
I follow behind him, my eyes drifting toward the window, where fans and paparazzi have gathered outside, snapping photos, vying for a glimpse of him.
“Killian, I love you!” they shout through the glass.
He seems unfazed by the commotion.
I turn my attention back to the artwork. “Um…these pieces are by a local artist, Amanda Friedman, from Eagle Rock. She chose to feature a powerful light source. These are shot on a medium and large format camera on film. No digital manipulation.”
“So cool. I’ll take them all.”
“What?” I ask, momentarily stunned.
“If you could bubble wrap them, I’ll send someone over later to pick them up.” He points to a display of bowls. “These bowls are lovely, by the way.”
“Thank you.” I knit my brows, wondering what his intentions are exactly.
“And the spaghetti tiles? I mean, the detail is just beautiful.” He points to an abstract painting. “And whatever this is, I want it in my home.”
As he continues to point out pieces he wants, conflicting emotions are swirling inside me. His praise seems genuine, and I can’t help but feel flattered for the artists who worked so diligently to create these pieces, but his eagerness and nonchalance to throw money at everything he sees feels almost disrespectful.
“Actually,”—he turns back to me with a decisive nod—“I want to buy everything. Every single piece.”
“Every piece?” The words tumble out, incredulous. On one hand, I’m elated he’s showing support for the artists, even though he could easily afford luxury artwork, but I also have to wonder if he’s just buying everything to impress me or to win my affection through the creations in my art gallery. I have to admit, though, my cheeks heat at the idea of Killian Jones thinking he has to buy out my entire gallery to win me over.
“Aye.”
My jaw clenches as I stride over to him with purpose, causing him to step back. “This is real art, and these are real artists, who take their work very seriously, as do I,” I assert, emphasizing the significance of his acquisitions. “They made it with a great deal of care, and you’re coming in here like…I don’t know…like you’re buying apples or something,” I say, trying to convey my respect for the artists and their craftsmanship.
“Honestly, I’ve been looking for art like this for so long, and I genuinely connect with it. So I would really like to buy it if it’s okay with you,” Killian responds earnestly, his tone soft.
I want to resist, to protect the art from being reduced to mere possessions, but how can I refuse all the sales from this man? His charming smile and puppy-dog eyes make it hard to deny him. I acquiesce with a sigh, my business acumen kicking in despite the flutter in my stomach. “Okay. We can have them shipped to your home in London, if you’d like.”
He smiles. “Sounds perfect. And for the record, you’ve never seen me buy apples before,” he says defensively. “It’s fucked up.”
A smirk pulls at my lips as I picture him being picky about his fruit.
His eyes meet mine. “So, are you going to show me something else?”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Don’t you have a football stadium to get to or a photo shoot to attend?”
Killian rubs his chin, like he’s thinking. “Well, um, what’s the day today?”
“Tuesday.”
He shakes his head with a smirk. “Nope, don’t have any of those until Wednesday.”
“Well, I actually would love to show you some more art, but you just bought everything in the gallery,” I point out.
Apology flashes in his eyes. “Oh. Well. that was incredibly rude of me.”
More screaming outside draws my attention toward the window, and I gesture a thumb toward it. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Aye.” His eyes twinkle mischievously, his tone light and teasing as he looks back at me. “Well, if you have nothing left to show me, then I’m gonna have to go find another art gallery owned by a different art dealer…”
“Okay, okay,” I relent with a laugh, amused by his persistence and curiosity. “My partner, Elsa, has a sister who’s an artist I like very much. She has a warehouse in Arendelle. She’s not there right now, but I have a key.”
Killian arches an eyebrow, his lips curving into a half smile that sends a ripple of warmth through me. “I’ve been dying to go to Arendelle for the longest time. You have no idea.”
“The middle of nowhere, Arendelle?”
“The middle of nowhere is my favorite place in the world,” he replies playfully.
“Why don’t you have your driver meet us out back, and we’ll go to Arendale,” I propose.
He shrugs. “I mean, we could just go in your car?”
My mouth falls open in shock. “Oh. Uh, yeah.” I was not expecting that. “We could...” I fumble for words at the thought of him being in my car. “It’s just, well, it’s a bit messy right now.”
He smiles, his eyes catching mine. “Swan, I don’t mind.”
~*~
Against the fluttering in my chest, I lead the way out of the gallery through the back door. The afternoon sun glares down as we step onto the sidewalk. Unlocking the passenger door, I open it for him and wince. “Sorry about the mess,” I apologize again, sweeping a stack of papers off the seat in a clumsy attempt at tidiness and moving them to my cluttered backseat with coffee cups, art catalogs and Henry’s soccer cleats.
“Emma,” he murmurs, holding my gaze for a second longer than necessary, “it’s fine.” Once I move out of his way, he slides into the seat with a grace that belies his height, easing into the chaos of my shitty-ass yellow Bug without complaint.
Climbing into the driver’s side, I start the car, the engine roaring to life.
“Sorry about all this.” He leans forward and deftly grabs the lever on the side of the seat, reclining all the way back.
I can’t help but glance over at him in his horizontal position. “Of course,” I reply with a small smile, though inside I’m fighting off a laugh. It’s not every day a celebrity is hiding out in my car.
The city skyline recedes behind us, and I focus on the road, hyper-aware of Killian’s presence, my grip tightening on the steering wheel as I drive us away from the chaos.
“It’s best if you don’t make eye contact with them,” Killian advises.
I glance into the rearview mirror to make sure we’re not being followed. Once the car is out of view from the crowds outside the art gallery, the tension in my shoulders eases slightly. “I think we’re in the clear.”
Killian sits up and looks around, his shoulders relaxing. “Wow, love…you’re a natural.” With a swift pull of the lever, the seat springs upright with a little more power than he expected, and he coughs in surprise when it hits his back, eliciting a giggle from my lips.
The drive to Arendelle is only fourteen minutes, but it stretches out like an eternity, my pulse racing. I’m driving through Los Angeles with Killian Jones beside me. I steal a glance at him looking every bit the rock star in my all-too-ordinary world. Here he is, this precious commodity, riding in the passenger seat of my Bug, his life in my hands. If anything were to happen to him on my watch, I would be forever culpable. It’s like driving with Henry as a newborn all over again—the pressure, the fear. It’s a bit overwhelming, to say the least.
The warehouse finally looms ahead, a sprawl of brick and metal tucked away in Arendale’s industrial district.
When I park in the shadowed alcove, we get out and head toward the entrance. I bend over, slipping the key into the padlock. Killian steps forward to assist me with the heavy warehouse door, and I thank him as we lift it together.
The heat of the warehouse is stifling, or maybe just being in Killian’s presence makes it hard to breathe. Either way, I remove my blazer, revealing the navy green maxi dress I’m wearing. It has short, ruffled sleeves, a cinched waist adorned with a matching belt, and a side slit that comes up to my thigh. I hang up my jacket on the smock rack, and when I turn around, I catch Killian’s eyes raking up and down my form, making my cheeks heat.
Realizing he’s been caught, he averts his eyes and clears his throat, his gaze sweeping over the eclectic array of canvases and sculptures. “Lead the way, Swan.”
I have to fight back the smirk threatening to spread over my lips as I show him around.
We weave through the space, the clicks of my high heels slowing as I point out pieces that catch his eye—abstracts swirling with emotion, portraits that seem to look right through you.
His genuine interest and thoughtful questions melt away the nerves in my stomach. His rockstar persona fades away, leaving just a curious and attentive listener, his eyes lighting up with every detail I share.
Then we reach it—my favorite piece. The scene on the canvas seems alive, an enchanted forest rendered in colors so vibrant and otherworldly, it practically vibrates off the page. Rays of sunlight filter through the painted foliage, casting whimsical patterns of dancing shadows on the woodland floor.
“Anna’s sending all these pieces to a gallery show in New York, but she never sends this one.”
“Why’s that?”
I shrug. “She doesn’t want to.”
For a long moment, we simply stand there, side by side, lost in the enchantment of colors. “Wow,” he breathes. “What’s it called?”
“Unclose me. It’s like stepping into another world, isn’t it?”
“Exactly,” he agrees, his voice hushed, as if the magic might dissipate at any moment. “It’s mesmerizing.”
“I always get lost in it, too,” I confess, crossing my arms, our shoulders almost touching. “It’s like she captured a dream and gave it form.”
He nods, silently acknowledging the sentiment. “What do you feel when you look at it?”
A pregnant pause swells between us as if time itself is holding its breath, waiting for me to encapsulate the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me into a single word. So, with a dreamy smile, I breathe the only word that comes to mind when I look at it. “Everything.”
His eyes catch mine, and he smiles. My gaze drifts back to the canvas, and I let out a sigh.
We stand there, sharing the silence, the only sound the distant hum of the city beyond the walls of the warehouse.
“How did you meet Elsa and Anna?” Killian asks, leaning closer.
“Uh, I met Elsa in college. Freshman year.” I smile at the memory. “We were both majoring in art history and one night, she was, uh, blasting a Fiona Apple song from her dorm room. I knew since then we’d be friends.”
“And what made you two want to open your own gallery?”
“Well, about twelve years ago, when Anna was fresh out of art school, she was struggling to worm her way into the art world. So, Elsa came up with the idea of opening the gallery. Neal was always working, and I was a stay-at-home mom to a four-year-old and growing very stir-crazy, so I was immediately on board. We both believed in Anna’s art and wanted to sell her stuff in our gallery along with other incredibly talented but unknown artists. So Swan Fall—after our last names—was born.”
Killian nods, his eyes blue and intense as he stares at me, absorbing everything I’m telling him. “And your other artists? Where do you find them?”
“Different ways. Um, some are local talents Elsa and I have discovered at art shows and fairs. Others come from recommendations within the art community or they reach out to us themselves. Social media has been a great tool for finding emerging artists, too.”
“Well, you both have a talent for finding talent,” he quips.
I laugh, my cheeks flushing. “I love the hunt, honestly. There’s something thrilling about finding an artist whose work resonates with me, and then seeing it resonate with others. It’s like uncovering hidden gems.”
Killian’s smile deepens, and he takes a step closer. “It shows. I can tell how much you care about the art and the stories behind them.”
“Each piece is like a part of our family. We get to know the artists, their inspirations, their struggles. It makes every sale more personal. I love seeing people connect with the art the way I do.”
Killian looks at me, a spark of admiration in his eyes. “I can see that. It’s not just about selling art for you.”
“Exactly. It’s about creating a community, a connection.” I reply, my voice full of conviction. “Art has a way of bringing people together.”
He nods thoughtfully.
“We often host events where our artists come and talk about their work. You should come sometime.”
“I’d love that,” he says with a smile that lights up his eyes.
“What about you?” I ask, shifting the focus from me. “What’s your life story?”
He raises a brow. “That was your life story? Something tells me that’s only a small part of it, love.”
“It is,” I admit with a smile. “But I want to know how one finds oneself in a rock band?”
He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “You know, joining the band wasn’t part of the original plan.” His eyes twinkle with the memory. “Music always was a huge part of mine and Liam’s life, but I always pictured myself doing my own thing. My brother and his friends had already formed a band under a different name. But they were unhappy with their lead singer and were looking for a replacement.”
He pauses, glancing at me, and I nod, encouraging him to continue.
“I had already written some songs, and I’d steal Liam’s guitar when he wasn’t home. Well, one day, he caught me red-handed, playing one of my songs. But instead of being angry, he was impressed. He was only mad I was holding out on him. He brought me in to audition for the band.”
A soft smile plays across his lips. “The guys instantly fell in love with me and offered me the spot. I told them I’d join on two conditions: I was to be the sole songwriter and the lead vocalist. They agreed, not that they had much of a choice. Liam told them if they didn’t let me join, he and I were going off on our own. Plus, they only had four tunes at the time, and there I was, offering my entire notebook of songs and ideas. They would’ve been fools to say no.”
He looks at me, his eyes softening with a hint of vulnerability. “And that’s how I joined the band,” he murmurs. “It was a leap of faith, but it paid off.”
“And what about the band’s name?”
“It was inspired by sheet music I had since I was a kid when I was taking piano lessons. The cover had a picture of an owl and the moonlit sky, and above it, the words ‘Midnight Moon’ were scrawled in bold letters. It was one of the first songs I learned to play on the piano. That image, that title, always stuck with me. It felt...destined.”
Killian chuckles softly. “But now it feels like we’re just polaroids on a wall, really. You got David, Prince Charming. Merlin, The Wizard. Will, Knave of Hearts. Liam, he’s got that swagger. Plus, he’s British.”
“And what about Killian?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Oh, I’m just a brooding British poet.” He chuckles, the sound warm and infectious. “Works a charm, really.”
His eyes meet mine, and in that moment, I see not just a rock star, but a dreamer, an artist, a brother. I wonder if he knows exactly how talented he is.
“Something tells me that’s only a small part of the story.”
A silence falls over us, thick and charged, sweat beading on my forehead, not just from the boiling warehouse, but from the proximity, the unspoken connection crackling between us. The air’s electric, heavy with something unnameable, and for a moment, time stands still. My heart races, the same intensity reflected in Killian’s striking blue eyes, as if we’re both caught in a magnetic pull, unable to break free.
There’s also a nagging doubt and fear that keeps me on edge. I just can’t understand why he’s so interested in hearing about my life story and my favorite artwork and my gallery, and why we’re standing here in a warehouse, staring into each other’s eyes like we’ve known each other our entire lives.
I blink and take a step back, breaking the trance.
He runs a hand through his hair, the spell of the moment dissipating like smoke. “Uh, I’m starving. Do you want to grab a bite to eat?”
“I’m not sure…” My voice trails off as I make my way toward the exit.
Killian follows behind me. “What…what do you mean?” he asks, his eyes searching mine when I turn around to look at him.
I shrug, the heat of the warehouse pressing down on me, making everything feel a bit surreal. “I’m not sure what we’re doing here in a boiling hot warehouse in Arendelle, swapping life stories.”
“Well, I told you. I-I love Arendelle.”
I cock my head at him, prompting him to be honest with me.
He sighs in defeat and looks down at the floor, his hands in his pockets. “The truth is…I don’t meet people like you very often. Most people think they already know me. Killian Jones, the untouchable rock star. But that’s not me. Not really.” He finally looks up at me again. “I don’t know. It’s just easy to talk to you. And at the same time,”—he pauses for a beat, his voice softening, lips twitching into a smirk—“you’re one tough lass to impress.”
I furrow my brows and widen my eyes, feigning confusion, my mouth falling open. “Oh, is that what you were trying to do?” I tease, the corners of my lips pulling into a smile.
He places a hand on his heart. “Ouch. The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
I laugh.
He clears his throat. “And for the record, I think you’re smart, you’re an amazing mum and you know, y-you’re also just…” He looks away, scratching behind his ear. “You’re very…very sexy.”
“Sexy?” I repeat, my cheeks burning. I haven’t been called sexy in…I don’t know how long—I certainly haven’t felt sexy since before I became pregnant with Henry seventeen years ago.
“Or whatever,” he adds, grinning sheepishly as he finally looks up at me, his cheeks as red as mine feel.
We share a laugh, the tension breaking a little.
“So I guess what I’m doing here is…just trying to get to know you better,” he admits, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Well…I do appreciate your honesty,” I say, trying to be as casual as possible, but on the inside, my heart is racing at the idea Killian Jones finds me sexy. Forty-year-old me. Very sexy were his exact words. And well, coming from a twenty-four-year-old, it’s the best thing I’ve heard in years.
~*~
As we pull away from the gallery, listening to Fiona Apple, per his request, I steal a glance at Killian, who gazes out the window, lost in thought. I look ahead, trying to focus on the road and not on my fluttering heartbeat. But it doesn’t work very well. I look over at him again, and this time, our eyes meet, the connection fleeting and innocent, but it sends my heart skyrocketing, heat rising up my neck. I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips and I can see a similar one plastered on his face from the corner of my eye. I’m a blushing schoolgirl all over again.
“So, what should we eat?” I ask him.
Killian tilts his head slightly, his fingers drum absently on his knee, and a faint crease forms between his eyebrows. “Uh, we could go back to my hotel in Beverly Hills and order some room service.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Uh, that’s…kind of a drive.”
Truthfully, it’s only about thirty-seven minutes from here, but the thought of going back to his hotel room is too overwhelming and is putting too many inappropriate thoughts in my head.
“Aye, you’re probably right. I was just throwing out some options.”
“Okay, okay…” I purse my lips as we pull up to a red light. “How about, um, Salt & Pepper on Brand Boulevard?”
“Is that a popular spot?” He clears his throat, slipping on the sunglasses he forgot to put on when we left the warehouse.
“Um, it’s pretty popular, I guess. It’s…” When I look over, the people in the car next to us are craning their necks to get a better look at Killian, reminding me of his celebrity status. The driver’s eyes widen in recognition, and they point excitedly at him and take pictures like he’s at an animal exhibit at the zoo or something.
“That’s Killian Jones!” one squeals.
Killian tenses beside me, his posture stiffening as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Okay, uh…” He leans his elbow on the door and runs a hand over his chin, his usual easy smile fading, replaced by a tight, guarded expression.
Blood bubbles under my skin, my heart squeezes and I feel very protective, wanting to take him away from the unwanted attention. Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I make up my mind right then. “Actually, let’s go to my place. I’m gonna make you a sandwich.” Henry’s still in school and won’t be home for a few more hours, so I know it’s safe to bring Killian there. “I make a mean grilled cheese, and it’s paparazzi-free.”
“Grilled cheese?” He looks over at me, lips pulling into a smirk. “Sounds perfect.”
I plaster on a fake smile at the gawking strangers, wave and turn left at the green light as they continue to sit there, still star-struck.
At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.
Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn't ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?
The Idea of You AU
AO3
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5
CHAPTER THREE
I’m at my desk Monday morning, checking work emails when Elsa enters my office, her presence bringing a welcome distraction. I look up at her as she hands me a coffee, the warmth of the ceramic mug comforting as I take it from her.
“Thanks, Elsa.” Nursing the hot beverage, I close my eyes in appreciation of the caffeine. I stayed up a little too late last night, my stomach full of butterflies like it has been for the last two days. I haven’t been able to get a certain rockstar and those damn blue eyes out of my head. And it’s stupid, really. I’ll never see him again—other than in the visions invading my mind—and I’ll simply become a distant memory to him. If he even remembers me at all.
With her own coffee mug in hand, Elsa perches herself on the edge of my desk, her blue eyes sparkling. “So, how was your weekend at Coachella?”
I lean back in my chair, a smile spreading across my lips as I recall the joy on Henry’s face. “Henry and his friends had the time of their lives.”
Elsa’s face lights up with a smile. “And you had the meet and greet with Midnight Moon, right? How was that?”
“It was great. Killian, especially, was so cool to Henry.”
“Killian Jones?” Elsa’s eyebrows shoot up. “The lead singer? Tell me more.”
“He was charming,” I admit. “And very kind. He took the time to chat with Henry and his friends.”
“That’s great. I’m glad they had such a great time. And what about you? Did you have fun?”
I nod, not even having to think about it. “I did. Just seeing Henry so happy made me happy. You know, they even invited us to the after-party.”
Elsa’s jaw drops. “No way! You went to the after-party?”
I nod, pulling out my phone. “And we met Mary Margaret Blanchard. David, the keyboardist, took this picture of us.” I show her the photo.
Her eyes go wide with envy. “You met Mary Margaret?” She practically squeals. “I’m so jealous!”
I laugh, enjoying her reaction. “Yeah, she was really sweet. Henry was star-struck, and she was so kind and patient with him.”
Elsa gazes at the photo, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’m happy for you, but also so, so jealous.”
I smile. “It was definitely one for the books. Oh, and by the way, were you able to get a refund for the reservation? If not, I will totally pay you back for it.”
“I wouldn’t let you do that. But it doesn’t matter because I got the refund.”
Relief washes over me. “That’s good.” After I take another sip of my coffee, I look up at her. “What about you? How was your weekend?”
Elsa’s eyes light up, a big grin spreading across her face. “I’m glad you asked…”
I laugh, the mischievous glint in her eyes making me wish I hadn’t. “Oh boy, what happened?”
“Well, I was having lunch with Anna at Granny’s, and she was telling me about this guy she met…he’s like a friend of a friend of a friend or something. Anyway…he sounds absolutely perfect.”
I furrow my brows. “Your sister’s married.”
“I know.” Elsa rolls her eyes playfully. “I didn’t mean he’s perfect for her. I meant he’s perfect for you.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Oh, really?”
“Yes, really,” she insists, leaning forward, her eyes buzzing with excitement. “From what I hear, he’s smart, funny, kind and quite the looker. More importantly, he’s single.”
I want to ask if he has blue eyes, silky black hair, tattoos and a British accent. And if he can sing and strum the guitar like nobody’s business. But I think better of it. It’s probably best I not mention the flirtatious banter I exchanged with Killian. Or the message he left on the autographed picture. I would sound as bad as Neal. The age gap isn’t as wide between Neal and Wendy as it is between me and Killian, but pretty damn close. So, instead, I shake my head and set my coffee down, returning to my emails. “Thank you, Els. I really appreciate you looking out for me, but I’m not interested.”
“Come on, Em, what’s the harm in meeting him? One date. Just give him a chance.” She stands from my desk. “It’ll be good for you to get out, meet some people your own age.”
I gape at her.
My own age?
Can she read my mind?
The autographed photo with his message is the only evidence of the interaction I had with Killian, but I haven’t shown anyone or told anyone about it, and it’s safely tucked away in my desk drawer.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Henry is an awesome kid and all, but you deserve to think about yourself once in a while. You deserve to be happy.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t tell me you’re in cahoots with him and his friends, too?”
She laughs. “No, but there’s a reason we all keep telling you the same thing.”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “I am happy.” But I don’t know who I’m trying to convince—her or myself.
Elsa heads for the door, turning around to look at me. “Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Okay,” I reply, waving her off with a half-hearted smile. “I’ll think about it.”
I don’t plan on thinking about it. As the door clicks behind her, I let out a deep sigh, sinking back into my chair. The office feels quieter, almost too quiet.
Opening my desk drawer, I take out the photo from Coachella, gazing at me and Killian, his arm draped around my shoulders and mine hidden behind his back. We were so close, with big smiles on our faces. I flip it over and read the message, though I don’t really need to. Every word is sketched into my mind, unerasable, like a permanent marker on paper.
That night still feels like a dream. A rockstar had given me his rapt attention, even appeared to be interested in me, said I was beautiful. He made me feel like Emma, the younger version of me before all my responsibilities and obligations.
It’s been a long time since I let myself even think about dating. But maybe Elsa’s right. Maybe it’s time to step out of my comfort zone and see what’s out there.
But as I set the photo down, I know my heart isn’t in it. It hasn’t been in a while.
My mind drifts back to Killian’s smile, the way his eyes lit up when he talked to Henry and the warmth in his voice when he called me Swan. I can still remember his scent and how his hand felt against mine and can’t help but replay the moments I spent with him in my mind. His genuine interest, the way his eyes lingered on mine—a connection that stirred something inside me.
But reality quickly sets in. He’s a world away from my own, a fantasy who doesn’t belong in my quiet life.
I shake my head, pushing the thoughts aside.
Just focus on Henry and the gallery.
But deep down, I know that night at Coachella will stay with me, no matter how hard I try to forget it.
~*~
The days drag by as I attempt to get the handsome British rockstar out of my head. But it never works very well. I’ve been listening to his songs on the drive to work every day. And I might be delusional, but I keep thinking—hoping—he’ll show up at the gallery since Henry told him the name. But I know it’s just a pipe dream. He’s far too busy to visit some art gallery in Storybrooke, which—even with a population of 29,000—is just a small blip on the radar of Los Angeles.
Two weeks after Coachella, Elsa is out meeting clients, and I’m engrossed in appraising an oil painting when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I call out, not taking my eyes off the screen.
Ruby steps in, her voice carrying a sense of urgency. “Emma, you’re needed out here.”
I barely avert my gaze from my computer screen as I finish the sentence I’m writing, not wanting to break my train of thought. “Okay, give me just a sec.”
“No, like right now.”
When I look up, there’s tension in her posture, her eyes wide. At the same time, her red lips, which match her headband and the streak in her chocolate brown locks, are twitching with a hint of a smirk.
Rising from my desk, I adjust my brown blazer, sleeves rolled up at the elbows, as I make my way to the door. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just…I need you out here.”
Pausing, I narrow my eyes at her and the mischievous glint in her green eyes, wondering what she’s up to. Or rather, what Elsa’s up to. “That guy Elsa was trying to set me up with isn’t here, is he?”
“No.” She grabs my hand and drags me out of my office. “This is better, I promise.”
When we step into the exhibition room, I stop dead in my tracks. My breath catches as a rush of emotions floods through me—excitement, disbelief and a touch of nervousness.
Standing there twenty feet away from me is none other than the rockstar himself.
Killian Jones.
My heart skips.
August, the gallery attendant, speaks to him so casually, as if this place isn’t being graced by a celebrity. “She and Elsa really use their inclusive space to showcase a diverse range of artwork, celebrating unknown artists from various backgrounds and ensuring their gallery highlights different perspectives and styles.”
Meanwhile, Ruby is all googly-eyed and twirling her red streak of hair as if there’s an otherworldly glow surrounding Killian.
“And there she is now.” August draws Killian’s attention toward me as I stand here with my jaw on the floor.
I struggle to find my voice, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts.
Why…why is he here?
Killian flashes a charming grin, stepping closer. “Hi, love.”
Time freezes as I take in his presence, his blue eyes almost hidden underneath a ball cap but no less captivating, the faint stubble on his jawline and the confidence in his stance that matches his illustrious status. The world around me blurs, and all I can focus on is the intensity of his gaze, piercing and magnetic. I can’t help but stand here in awe, my heart pounding, as the world-renowned rock star greets me with such ease and familiarity.
“Hi,” I finally manage, barely containing the surprise and maybe a bit of excitement bubbling up inside me. “What brings you here?” Behind him, Tiny’s on the other side of the picture window, waiting by his car.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but we met at Coachella.” His choice of clothing feels somewhat stifling for the usual balmy California climate. A hoodie and baggy sweatpants—I’m guessing to dodge the watchful eyes of lurking paparazzi and eager fans.
Of course, I remember meeting him. How could anyone forget meeting one of the hottest rock stars on the planet? I let out a nervous laugh. “Yes, I remember you.”
“So, you two know each other?” August chimes in. “Great. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
“Thank you. We’re okay, August,” I reassure him with a smile as I approach, trying to regain my composure.
“Okay,” he says with a nod before moving away to give us some privacy.
“This is quite a surprise.”
Killian shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I did some online sleuthing for an Emma Swan of Storybrooke,” he admits with a sheepish grin, carding a hand through his hair. “And, uh, well, I have this very large, empty flat in London that desperately needs some artwork.” His gaze sweeps around the gallery with a glint in his blue eyes. “So I was thinking maybe you could show me some?”
“Really?” My pulse quickens, and I watch him move with that casual grace as he absorbs the pieces on display. “Okay. Um...why don’t we start in the back with the ceramics?”
“You read my mind,” Killian replies with his usual heart-melting smile as we make our way toward the pieces.
“These were thrown by a fantastic potter, Susan Hable,” I explain, gesturing toward them, my stomach in knots. I’m surprised by how steady my voice is.
“Hmm.” He arches a brow. “She threw them…at a wall?”
“No, no...” I pause, realizing he probably isn’t familiar with pottery terms. “You know, like the classic pottery scene in Ghost.”
His brows furrow in confusion. “Ghost?”
“Yeah, the movie.” I shake my head, also realizing he’s probably too young to have even heard of it. “Never mind. Anyway, throwing is what they call it when they shape the clay on the wheel.”
“Ah, I see,” Killian nods in understanding.
As we continue to discuss the artwork, August and Ruby whisper loudly behind us.
“Who is he?” August asks.
“That’s Killian Jones from Midnight Moon. Where have you been?”
“Being in my thirties, obviously.”
I bring my attention back to Killian as he leans in closer to admire one of the ceramic pieces. “The silhouettes of these echo Susan’s fascination with gesture and movement.”
“I can see that.” His eyes are locked on mine, though I’m wondering how much he’s actually paying attention to what I’m saying.
“Yeah, her work’s very popular.”
“Great.” He motions toward the ceramics. “I’ll take all of these.”
“Sorry, what do you mean?” I ask, certain I misheard him.
“Oh, just everything in this general area would be great,” he says casually, as if he just spotted a sale on a produce display at the grocery store.
I can’t believe my ears. Killian actually wants to purchase everything in this section of the gallery?
“Ruby,” I call out, catching her attention.
“What’s up?” She approaches us with a bright smile.
“So, um…this client would like to buy all these pieces,” I inform her.
“Oh. Okay.” She exchanges a glance with me before looking at Killian.
“Hi, Ruby,” he greets with a smile.
Ruby swoons, her red lips spreading into a grin. “Hey...”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Right, I’ll get that all dealt with,” she assures.
“That’s Ruby.” I nod toward her as she busies herself with the paperwork.
“Seems nice,” Killian remarks absentmindedly, his attention already drifting toward the next display.
“She’s very nice. She’s hardworking, competent, single,” I add, refraining from saying closer to your age out loud.
“What are these pieces over here?” He makes his way over to a section featuring artwork by Amanda Friedman. “These took my fancy.”
I follow behind him, my eyes drifting toward the window, where fans and paparazzi have gathered outside, snapping photos, vying for a glimpse of him.
“Killian, I love you!” they shout through the glass.
He seems unfazed by the commotion.
I turn my attention back to the artwork. “Um…these pieces are by a local artist, Amanda Friedman, from Eagle Rock. She chose to feature a powerful light source. These are shot on a medium and large format camera on film. No digital manipulation.”
“So cool. I’ll take them all.”
“What?” I ask, momentarily stunned.
“If you could bubble wrap them, I’ll send someone over later to pick them up.” He points to a display of bowls. “These bowls are lovely, by the way.”
“Thank you.” I knit my brows, wondering what his intentions are exactly.
“And the spaghetti tiles? I mean, the detail is just beautiful.” He points to an abstract painting. “And whatever this is, I want it in my home.”
As he continues to point out pieces he wants, conflicting emotions are swirling inside me. His praise seems genuine, and I can’t help but feel flattered for the artists who worked so diligently to create these pieces, but his eagerness and nonchalance to throw money at everything he sees feels almost disrespectful.
“Actually,”—he turns back to me with a decisive nod—“I want to buy everything. Every single piece.”
“Every piece?” The words tumble out, incredulous. On one hand, I’m elated he’s showing support for the artists, even though he could easily afford luxury artwork, but I also have to wonder if he’s just buying everything to impress me or to win my affection through the creations in my art gallery. I have to admit, though, my cheeks heat at the idea of Killian Jones thinking he has to buy out my entire gallery to win me over.
“Aye.”
My jaw clenches as I stride over to him with purpose, causing him to step back. “This is real art, and these are real artists, who take their work very seriously, as do I,” I assert, emphasizing the significance of his acquisitions. “They made it with a great deal of care, and you’re coming in here like…I don’t know…like you’re buying apples or something,” I say, trying to convey my respect for the artists and their craftsmanship.
“Honestly, I’ve been looking for art like this for so long, and I genuinely connect with it. So I would really like to buy it if it’s okay with you,” Killian responds earnestly, his tone soft.
I want to resist, to protect the art from being reduced to mere possessions, but how can I refuse all the sales from this man? His charming smile and puppy-dog eyes make it hard to deny him. I acquiesce with a sigh, my business acumen kicking in despite the flutter in my stomach. “Okay. We can have them shipped to your home in London, if you’d like.”
He smiles. “Sounds perfect. And for the record, you’ve never seen me buy apples before,” he says defensively. “It’s fucked up.”
A smirk pulls at my lips as I picture him being picky about his fruit.
His eyes meet mine. “So, are you going to show me something else?”
I plant my hands on my hips. “Don’t you have a football stadium to get to or a photo shoot to attend?”
Killian rubs his chin, like he’s thinking. “Well, um, what’s the day today?”
“Tuesday.”
He shakes his head with a smirk. “Nope, don’t have any of those until Wednesday.”
“Well, I actually would love to show you some more art, but you just bought everything in the gallery,” I point out.
Apology flashes in his eyes. “Oh. Well. that was incredibly rude of me.”
More screaming outside draws my attention toward the window, and I gesture a thumb toward it. “Does that happen a lot?”
“Aye.” His eyes twinkle mischievously, his tone light and teasing as he looks back at me. “Well, if you have nothing left to show me, then I’m gonna have to go find another art gallery owned by a different art dealer…”
“Okay, okay,” I relent with a laugh, amused by his persistence and curiosity. “My partner, Elsa, has a sister who’s an artist I like very much. She has a warehouse in Arendelle. She’s not there right now, but I have a key.”
Killian arches an eyebrow, his lips curving into a half smile that sends a ripple of warmth through me. “I’ve been dying to go to Arendelle for the longest time. You have no idea.”
“The middle of nowhere, Arendelle?”
“The middle of nowhere is my favorite place in the world,” he replies playfully.
“Why don’t you have your driver meet us out back, and we’ll go to Arendale,” I propose.
He shrugs. “I mean, we could just go in your car?”
My mouth falls open in shock. “Oh. Uh, yeah.” I was not expecting that. “We could...” I fumble for words at the thought of him being in my car. “It’s just, well, it’s a bit messy right now.”
He smiles, his eyes catching mine. “Swan, I don’t mind.”
~*~
Against the fluttering in my chest, I lead the way out of the gallery through the back door. The afternoon sun glares down as we step onto the sidewalk. Unlocking the passenger door, I open it for him and wince. “Sorry about the mess,” I apologize again, sweeping a stack of papers off the seat in a clumsy attempt at tidiness and moving them to my cluttered backseat with coffee cups, art catalogs and Henry’s soccer cleats.
“Emma,” he murmurs, holding my gaze for a second longer than necessary, “it’s fine.” Once I move out of his way, he slides into the seat with a grace that belies his height, easing into the chaos of my shitty-ass yellow Bug without complaint.
Climbing into the driver’s side, I start the car, the engine roaring to life.
“Sorry about all this.” He leans forward and deftly grabs the lever on the side of the seat, reclining all the way back.
I can’t help but glance over at him in his horizontal position. “Of course,” I reply with a small smile, though inside I’m fighting off a laugh. It’s not every day a celebrity is hiding out in my car.
The city skyline recedes behind us, and I focus on the road, hyper-aware of Killian’s presence, my grip tightening on the steering wheel as I drive us away from the chaos.
“It’s best if you don’t make eye contact with them,” Killian advises.
I glance into the rearview mirror to make sure we’re not being followed. Once the car is out of view from the crowds outside the art gallery, the tension in my shoulders eases slightly. “I think we’re in the clear.”
Killian sits up and looks around, his shoulders relaxing. “Wow, love…you’re a natural.” With a swift pull of the lever, the seat springs upright with a little more power than he expected, and he coughs in surprise when it hits his back, eliciting a giggle from my lips.
The drive to Arendelle is only fourteen minutes, but it stretches out like an eternity, my pulse racing. I’m driving through Los Angeles with Killian Jones beside me. I steal a glance at him looking every bit the rock star in my all-too-ordinary world. Here he is, this precious commodity, riding in the passenger seat of my Bug, his life in my hands. If anything were to happen to him on my watch, I would be forever culpable. It’s like driving with Henry as a newborn all over again—the pressure, the fear. It’s a bit overwhelming, to say the least.
The warehouse finally looms ahead, a sprawl of brick and metal tucked away in Arendale’s industrial district.
When I park in the shadowed alcove, we get out and head toward the entrance. I bend over, slipping the key into the padlock. Killian steps forward to assist me with the heavy warehouse door, and I thank him as we lift it together.
The heat of the warehouse is stifling, or maybe just being in Killian’s presence makes it hard to breathe. Either way, I remove my blazer, revealing the navy green maxi dress I’m wearing. It has short, ruffled sleeves, a cinched waist adorned with a matching belt, and a side slit that comes up to my thigh. I hang up my jacket on the smock rack, and when I turn around, I catch Killian’s eyes raking up and down my form, making my cheeks heat.
Realizing he’s been caught, he averts his eyes and clears his throat, his gaze sweeping over the eclectic array of canvases and sculptures. “Lead the way, Swan.”
I have to fight back the smirk threatening to spread over my lips as I show him around.
We weave through the space, the clicks of my high heels slowing as I point out pieces that catch his eye—abstracts swirling with emotion, portraits that seem to look right through you.
His genuine interest and thoughtful questions melt away the nerves in my stomach. His rockstar persona fades away, leaving just a curious and attentive listener, his eyes lighting up with every detail I share.
Then we reach it—my favorite piece. The scene on the canvas seems alive, an enchanted forest rendered in colors so vibrant and otherworldly, it practically vibrates off the page. Rays of sunlight filter through the painted foliage, casting whimsical patterns of dancing shadows on the woodland floor.
“Anna’s sending all these pieces to a gallery show in New York, but she never sends this one.”
“Why’s that?”
I shrug. “She doesn’t want to.”
For a long moment, we simply stand there, side by side, lost in the enchantment of colors. “Wow,” he breathes. “What’s it called?”
“Unclose me. It’s like stepping into another world, isn’t it?”
“Exactly,” he agrees, his voice hushed, as if the magic might dissipate at any moment. “It’s mesmerizing.”
“I always get lost in it, too,” I confess, crossing my arms, our shoulders almost touching. “It’s like she captured a dream and gave it form.”
He nods, silently acknowledging the sentiment. “What do you feel when you look at it?”
A pregnant pause swells between us as if time itself is holding its breath, waiting for me to encapsulate the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me into a single word. So, with a dreamy smile, I breathe the only word that comes to mind when I look at it. “Everything.”
His eyes catch mine, and he smiles. My gaze drifts back to the canvas, and I let out a sigh.
We stand there, sharing the silence, the only sound the distant hum of the city beyond the walls of the warehouse.
“How did you meet Elsa and Anna?” Killian asks, leaning closer.
“Uh, I met Elsa in college. Freshman year.” I smile at the memory. “We were both majoring in art history and one night, she was, uh, blasting a Fiona Apple song from her dorm room. I knew since then we’d be friends.”
“And what made you two want to open your own gallery?”
“Well, about twelve years ago, when Anna was fresh out of art school, she was struggling to worm her way into the art world. So, Elsa came up with the idea of opening the gallery. Neal was always working, and I was a stay-at-home mom to a four-year-old and growing very stir-crazy, so I was immediately on board. We both believed in Anna’s art and wanted to sell her stuff in our gallery along with other incredibly talented but unknown artists. So Swan Fall—after our last names—was born.”
Killian nods, his eyes blue and intense as he stares at me, absorbing everything I’m telling him. “And your other artists? Where do you find them?”
“Different ways. Um, some are local talents Elsa and I have discovered at art shows and fairs. Others come from recommendations within the art community or they reach out to us themselves. Social media has been a great tool for finding emerging artists, too.”
“Well, you both have a talent for finding talent,” he quips.
I laugh, my cheeks flushing. “I love the hunt, honestly. There’s something thrilling about finding an artist whose work resonates with me, and then seeing it resonate with others. It’s like uncovering hidden gems.”
Killian’s smile deepens, and he takes a step closer. “It shows. I can tell how much you care about the art and the stories behind them.”
“Each piece is like a part of our family. We get to know the artists, their inspirations, their struggles. It makes every sale more personal. I love seeing people connect with the art the way I do.”
Killian looks at me, a spark of admiration in his eyes. “I can see that. It’s not just about selling art for you.”
“Exactly. It’s about creating a community, a connection.” I reply, my voice full of conviction. “Art has a way of bringing people together.”
He nods thoughtfully.
“We often host events where our artists come and talk about their work. You should come sometime.”
“I’d love that,” he says with a smile that lights up his eyes.
“What about you?” I ask, shifting the focus from me. “What’s your life story?”
He raises a brow. “That was your life story? Something tells me that’s only a small part of it, love.”
“It is,” I admit with a smile. “But I want to know how one finds oneself in a rock band?”
He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “You know, joining the band wasn’t part of the original plan.” His eyes twinkle with the memory. “Music always was a huge part of mine and Liam’s life, but I always pictured myself doing my own thing. My brother and his friends had already formed a band under a different name. But they were unhappy with their lead singer and were looking for a replacement.”
He pauses, glancing at me, and I nod, encouraging him to continue.
“I had already written some songs, and I’d steal Liam’s guitar when he wasn’t home. Well, one day, he caught me red-handed, playing one of my songs. But instead of being angry, he was impressed. He was only mad I was holding out on him. He brought me in to audition for the band.”
A soft smile plays across his lips. “The guys instantly fell in love with me and offered me the spot. I told them I’d join on two conditions: I was to be the sole songwriter and the lead vocalist. They agreed, not that they had much of a choice. Liam told them if they didn’t let me join, he and I were going off on our own. Plus, they only had four tunes at the time, and there I was, offering my entire notebook of songs and ideas. They would’ve been fools to say no.”
He looks at me, his eyes softening with a hint of vulnerability. “And that’s how I joined the band,” he murmurs. “It was a leap of faith, but it paid off.”
“And what about the band’s name?”
“It was inspired by sheet music I had since I was a kid when I was taking piano lessons. The cover had a picture of an owl and the moonlit sky, and above it, the words ‘Midnight Moon’ were scrawled in bold letters. It was one of the first songs I learned to play on the piano. That image, that title, always stuck with me. It felt...destined.”
Killian chuckles softly. “But now it feels like we’re just polaroids on a wall, really. You got David, Prince Charming. Merlin, The Wizard. Will, Knave of Hearts. Liam, he’s got that swagger. Plus, he’s British.”
“And what about Killian?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Oh, I’m just a brooding British poet.” He chuckles, the sound warm and infectious. “Works a charm, really.”
His eyes meet mine, and in that moment, I see not just a rock star, but a dreamer, an artist, a brother. I wonder if he knows exactly how talented he is.
“Something tells me that’s only a small part of the story.”
A silence falls over us, thick and charged, sweat beading on my forehead, not just from the boiling warehouse, but from the proximity, the unspoken connection crackling between us. The air’s electric, heavy with something unnameable, and for a moment, time stands still. My heart races, the same intensity reflected in Killian’s striking blue eyes, as if we’re both caught in a magnetic pull, unable to break free.
There’s also a nagging doubt and fear that keeps me on edge. I just can’t understand why he’s so interested in hearing about my life story and my favorite artwork and my gallery, and why we’re standing here in a warehouse, staring into each other’s eyes like we’ve known each other our entire lives.
I blink and take a step back, breaking the trance.
He runs a hand through his hair, the spell of the moment dissipating like smoke. “Uh, I’m starving. Do you want to grab a bite to eat?”
“I’m not sure…” My voice trails off as I make my way toward the exit.
Killian follows behind me. “What…what do you mean?” he asks, his eyes searching mine when I turn around to look at him.
I shrug, the heat of the warehouse pressing down on me, making everything feel a bit surreal. “I’m not sure what we’re doing here in a boiling hot warehouse in Arendelle, swapping life stories.”
“Well, I told you. I-I love Arendelle.”
I cock my head at him, prompting him to be honest with me.
He sighs in defeat and looks down at the floor, his hands in his pockets. “The truth is…I don’t meet people like you very often. Most people think they already know me. Killian Jones, the untouchable rock star. But that’s not me. Not really.” He finally looks up at me again. “I don’t know. It’s just easy to talk to you. And at the same time,”—he pauses for a beat, his voice softening, lips twitching into a smirk—“you’re one tough lass to impress.”
I furrow my brows and widen my eyes, feigning confusion, my mouth falling open. “Oh, is that what you were trying to do?” I tease, the corners of my lips pulling into a smile.
He places a hand on his heart. “Ouch. The truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
I laugh.
He clears his throat. “And for the record, I think you’re smart, you’re an amazing mum and you know, y-you’re also just…” He looks away, scratching behind his ear. “You’re very…very sexy.”
“Sexy?” I repeat, my cheeks burning. I haven’t been called sexy in…I don’t know how long—I certainly haven’t felt sexy since before I became pregnant with Henry seventeen years ago.
“Or whatever,” he adds, grinning sheepishly as he finally looks up at me, his cheeks as red as mine feel.
We share a laugh, the tension breaking a little.
“So I guess what I’m doing here is…just trying to get to know you better,” he admits, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Well…I do appreciate your honesty,” I say, trying to be as casual as possible, but on the inside, my heart is racing at the idea Killian Jones finds me sexy. Forty-year-old me. Very sexy were his exact words. And well, coming from a twenty-four-year-old, it’s the best thing I’ve heard in years.
~*~
As we pull away from the gallery, listening to Fiona Apple, per his request, I steal a glance at Killian, who gazes out the window, lost in thought. I look ahead, trying to focus on the road and not on my fluttering heartbeat. But it doesn’t work very well. I look over at him again, and this time, our eyes meet, the connection fleeting and innocent, but it sends my heart skyrocketing, heat rising up my neck. I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips and I can see a similar one plastered on his face from the corner of my eye. I’m a blushing schoolgirl all over again.
“So, what should we eat?” I ask him.
Killian tilts his head slightly, his fingers drum absently on his knee, and a faint crease forms between his eyebrows. “Uh, we could go back to my hotel in Beverly Hills and order some room service.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Uh, that’s…kind of a drive.”
Truthfully, it’s only about thirty-seven minutes from here, but the thought of going back to his hotel room is too overwhelming and is putting too many inappropriate thoughts in my head.
“Aye, you’re probably right. I was just throwing out some options.”
“Okay, okay…” I purse my lips as we pull up to a red light. “How about, um, Salt & Pepper on Brand Boulevard?”
“Is that a popular spot?” He clears his throat, slipping on the sunglasses he forgot to put on when we left the warehouse.
“Um, it’s pretty popular, I guess. It’s…” When I look over, the people in the car next to us are craning their necks to get a better look at Killian, reminding me of his celebrity status. The driver’s eyes widen in recognition, and they point excitedly at him and take pictures like he’s at an animal exhibit at the zoo or something.
“That’s Killian Jones!” one squeals.
Killian tenses beside me, his posture stiffening as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Okay, uh…” He leans his elbow on the door and runs a hand over his chin, his usual easy smile fading, replaced by a tight, guarded expression.
Blood bubbles under my skin, my heart squeezes and I feel very protective, wanting to take him away from the unwanted attention. Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I make up my mind right then. “Actually, let’s go to my place. I’m gonna make you a sandwich.” Henry’s still in school and won’t be home for a few more hours, so I know it’s safe to bring Killian there. “I make a mean grilled cheese, and it’s paparazzi-free.”
“Grilled cheese?” He looks over at me, lips pulling into a smirk. “Sounds perfect.”
I plaster on a fake smile at the gawking strangers, wave and turn left at the green light as they continue to sit there, still star-struck.
At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.
Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn't ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?
The Idea of You AU
Rated: M
AO3
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5
CHAPTER TWO
With a map of the venue in my hands, I navigate the sea of sun-kissed faces and ubiquitous cowboy hats, music blaring from every direction.
As Henry and his friends are busy figuring out the band line-up, I grow nostalgic for simpler times when Neal and I came here. We were young and foolish, caught up in the excitement and carefree spirit of the festival.
“Hey, kid, did you know your father and I were here seventeen years ago?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yep, we came here to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. They’re his all-time favorite band.”
I nod. “That’s the night you were conceived,” I share casually, the memory bittersweet. I’m grateful for what came of it—Henry—but resentful of what Neal did to me. To our family.
Henry scrunches up his nose, and his friends laugh. “Mo-ooooom, TMI,” he groans.
“Vampire Weekend’s about to play!” Violet squeals.
“Let’s go!” Roland shouts excitedly.
The three of them take off, ready to leave me in the dust.
“Guys, guys, guys, wait!” I call after them, grabbing three water bottles from my purse.
The teens slow down and return to me, apologies tumbling from their lips.
I hand them each a bottle. “Don’t forget to text me if you need anything,” I remind them, hoping they’ll make wiser choices than Neal and I did that fateful night.
“Thanks, Mom! You’re the best.” The disarming smile he flashes is a mirror of his father’s.
“Okay. Bye.”
He turns away, his brown hair ruffled by the soft breeze as he and his friends run through the crowd. “Love you, Mom!”
“Love you, too!” I sigh as I watch them disappear into the mass, my motherly instincts twinging with the usual cocktail of pride and worry. But today’s their day to have fun, and I know they’ll make smart choices.
I set my sights on the VIP lounge for a reprieve from the crowds and all the noise. When I enter, a familiar tune by Midnight Moon pours from the speakers. I only recognize the song since Henry and his friends are constantly listening to them. And their tracks are all we sang along to on the way here.
The blast of cool air is a welcome relief from the blazing sun and the relaxing atmosphere, as opposed to the chaos outside, melts away the tension from my shoulders. I head over to the plush seating and plop down on a sofa, letting out a deep sigh. Taking out the book from my purse, I sit back, reading to pass the time before the meet and greet.
“So, are you ready to get mooned?” a woman across from me chirps.
When I look up, she appears to be around my age, wearing a Midnight Moon t-shirt and is all wide-eyed and bursting with eager energy in her seat.
“Sorry?”
“Midnight Moon! The band, you know?” She laughs, a tinkling sound that feels slightly out of place amidst my confusion. “Once a Moonhead, always a Moonhead,” she sing-songs.
“Ah, no…I’m not—” I pause, realizing the mix-up. “I’m here with my son. He’s the moonhead.”
“Whatever you say.” She winks. “So, who’s your favorite?”
“Um—”
“Oh sorry, who’s,”—she makes air quotes—“ your son’s favorite?”
I laugh, not sure if I should entertain the question.
“Mine’s Merlin.” She grabs the rolled-up poster beside her and unfurls it, pointing to said band member, who might be young enough to be her son. “Just look at him! So dreamy!”
I glance around, still trying to dodge her questions, the topic hitting a little too close to home. “You know, I actually have to use the restroom. Could you point me in the right direction?”
“Of course!” She gestures to a set of doors. “Just out there. The VIP ones are on the right.”
“Thank you.” I offer her a polite smile as I tuck my book into my purse and stand, making my way out the door.
Neal and I didn’t have VIP passes when we came here—we could barely afford general admission—so I have no idea where I’m going. There’s a row of trailers, and I’m not sure if they’re all VIP or if those are the ones even further to the right.
A woman in a blue polo shirt and khakis emerges from one, pouring sanitizer into her hands as if she just used the toilet. It could be an employee restroom, considering there’s a radio clipped to her shirt, but there’s no sign on the door indicating otherwise. And she’s already gone before I can ask her.
Taking my chances, I head over and ascend the steps with caution. When I pull open the door and peek inside, the trailer appears to be vacant.
It’s surprisingly neat and inviting for a Coachella restroom, the calming, fresh scent of sea salt wafting through the air, a surprising but pleasant contrast to the dusty desert outside. But then again, this is the VIP area.
When I remove my sunglasses and lower my hat, my eyes are immediately drawn to the vibrant painting of the sea adorning the wall. The deep blues and greens seem to swirl and dance on the canvas. As an art dealer, I can’t help but appreciate the intricate patterns and the meticulous attention to detail.
I make my way to what I assume is the restroom, but as I reach for the door, it’s already sliding open. Taken aback, I retract my hand, a man pausing in the doorway when he catches sight of me.
Holy. Hell.
My breath hitches as I look up, and his eyes—a piercing blue that rivals the depths of the sea—meet mine. He’s fresh out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel draped low around his waist, beads of water rolling down the sides of his face and chiseled stomach.
His arms and chest are inked with tattoos, and his wet hair is as black as a midnight sky. A small silver hoop glints in one ear and a chain necklace with a skull-and-crossbones pendant hangs from his neck.
He’s alarmingly gorgeous.
But also young. Very, very young .
His gaze sweeps around before returning to mine, stealing my breath yet again. His lips twitch into a crooked smile, his brows knitting together. “Uh, hi.”
“I...I’m so sorry,” I manage once words return to me. “I was looking for the restroom?”
He lifts a brow, his eyes widening as he points a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh. You need to use the restroom?”
“Yes, I uh...” Before I can finish tripping over my words, he gracefully steps aside.
“Of course, love.” The words roll off his tongue in a smooth accent.
Because naturally, the beautiful man towering over me has an accent—British, if I’m not mistaken.
“Um, thank you.” I offer an appreciative smile before stepping past him and into the bathroom. I slide the door shut and lock it, wisps of steam and the scent of cologne and soap tingling my senses.
It seems strange, though—do people usually shower in the VIP restrooms?
I do my business and go about freshening up, applying a new coat of lip gloss and fixing my wind-blown hair before coming back out.
It’s not until I find him fully dressed—in a black shirt and dark denim jeans—lounging comfortably on the couch, sipping a can of coke that things finally click into place. This isn’t just any trailer. It’s someone’s personal space.
His personal space.
“Hi, again.” He flashes a heart-melting smile.
Dread pools in my stomach, and my throat goes dry. “This is your trailer, isn’t it?” My words hang awkwardly between us.
He chuckles, a sound that seems to ease the nerves in my stomach but unfortunately doesn’t erase what happened. “Well, I don’t literally own it, but aye, this is my trailer. I’m part of a band. We’re performing on the main stage in about an hour.” He sticks out his hand. “Killian Jones.”
As I slip my palm into his, my fingers brush against the cool metal of various rings adorning his fingers and the rugged leather bracelets encircling his wrist.
His grip is firm, fingers callused but warm, his defined arms bulging. And when I look up at him— really look at him—his dewy, pale skin is smooth and free of blemishes. He straddles the line between innocent youth and the maturity of a gentleman, with a baby face and eyes that speak of wisdom beyond his years.
But God, how young is he?
Young enough to be my son?
And good Lord, he smells intoxicating, like spice and leather and a rich, earthy blend of vetiver.
“Wait, Midnight Moon?” My voice is barely above a whisper when it dawns on me.
“Yeah.” His admission leaves me stunned and speechless.
“I absolutely know who you are.” My heart skips a beat and my jaw hangs open, my mind spinning as I try to wrap my head around the fact I’m shaking hands with a freaking rock star. That I used his toilet, that I’m in his trailer.
Oh God .
I just broke into Killian Jones’ trailer.
But why is he being so nice about it?
And also, how did I not recognize him before? “You just um…you look different without the…” I gesture a hand over my face.
“Guyliner?”
I nod and laugh. “Yeah.” A flush creeps up my neck, warming my cheeks.
“And you are?”
My heart pounds against my ribcage.
That’s a good question.
Who am I again?
Oh right.
“Emma…Emma Swan.” I suddenly realize we’re still shaking hands—or rather holding hands, as neither of us is moving at this point. “Okay then…I’ll just…” Releasing him, I point toward the exit. “I’ll just see myself out.” And find a hole to crawl into so I can die of mortification. “Again, very sorry.” I make a dash for the door.
“No harm done. But since you’re here…” he starts, causing me to stop and look back at him, leaving the door hanging open. He stands, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that sends shivers down my spine. He runs a hand through his hair and breaks eye contact, only to glance at me from under long, dark lashes. “Do you want to join me for a drink?”
I blink at him. “A drink?” The words echo in my head as I try to process what he’s asking. Is Killian Jones actually inviting me to have a drink with him? I mean, how could I possibly say no to that? Millions of fans would kill for this opportunity.
“Aye.” His confirmation comes with another one of those heart-stopping smiles.
I shut the door before I can talk myself out of it. “Uh, sure. Why not?”
Killian smiles and gestures to the sofa. “Great. What’s your poison?”
As I sit, the initial awkwardness and embarrassment melt away. He points at some alcoholic beverages on top of the mini-fridge. “Uh, we have beer,”—his hand hovers over some craft brews—“we have wine, rum…” He pulls open the fridge door, revealing an assortment of brightly colored cans and bottles—some familiar brands and others not so much. He names off a few of them as he finally turns back to look at me, his blue eyes sparkling.
I opt for a can of Steaz, and he hands me the drink, taking a seat next to me. My heart skitters as I realize I’m now sitting next to a freaking rock star. We clink glasses—or rather, cans—and as he takes a sip of his Coke, I’m still not even sure how I slipped into his trailer unnoticed.
“So,” I say, trying to make light of the situation, “you might want to think about firing your security. They didn’t even notice me wandering in here.”
Killian chuckles, the sound warm and rich. “Actually, I was thinking of giving him a raise.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Oh? And why’s that?”
“Because if he hadn’t been so lax, I wouldn’t have met you,” he replies with a charming smile.
I can’t help but laugh and refrain from telling him we still would have met, since I’ll be at the meet and greet with Henry and his friends, though it won’t be in such an intimate setting. “Well, in that case, I’m glad he’s terrible at his job.”
We share a laugh as the door swings open, revealing a burly man as he pokes his head in. “Jones, they’re almost ready for you.” His eyes move to where I’m sitting on the couch, his brows furrowing. “Who are you?”
I’m guessing he’s the bodyguard we were just talking about.
“It’s okay, Tiny.” Killian waves off his concern. “She’s, uh...a friend.”
A friend? The word feels too intimate for our accidental encounter.
There’s another knock on the door before Tiny has time to close it.
“Knock, knock, Jones.” A woman with dark waves cascading over her shoulders strides into the trailer.
A young man trails in after her, likely her assistant, carrying a sleek black leather jacket in a plastic garment bag.
“Hello, Regina,” Killian greets with a cordial smile as he stands from the couch.
She holds up her palms, her eyes sparkling with excitement, red lips spreading into a grin. “We’ve got exciting news! The TAG Heuer campaign is ours.”
“Oh?”
“They want you to showcase one of their watches,” she informs him.
“Fantastic.” Killian glances at me, his smirk carrying a hint of amusement, coaxing a smile from my lips.
“Let’s do away with these,” she suggests, gesturing toward his bracelets.
Killian cooperates as they assist him with his accessories and the rest of his outfit.
I sneak away, not that Regina acknowledged my presence anyway, and I close the door behind me. She’s probably used to finding random women in Killian’s trailer with him. Though I doubt any as old as me.
The noise of the festival comes rushing back, a stark contrast to the quiet of the trailer. I walk back towards the VIP lounge, my thoughts swirling.
Did that really just happen? Did I really just have a drink with Killian Jones? Thee Killian Jones?
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of disbelief. He was charming, no doubt about that. And his smile...I could get lost in that smile. In those eyes. But it wasn’t just his looks. He was very kind, for someone whose personal space was encroached upon. And it makes me feel so much better about my son idolizing him.
Henry has posters of Midnight Moon plastered all over his bedroom walls, he plays their songs on repeat, knows all the lyrics by heart and constantly talks about how cool Killian is.
As a mother, it’s always a bit nerve-wracking to see your child idolize a celebrity. You worry about the influence they might have, especially in an industry often tainted by scandal and superficiality. But meeting Killian and witnessing his warmth and patience firsthand has lifted a tremendous weight from my shoulders.
Killian wasn’t just putting on a show for a fan or a camera, he was genuinely considerate. The way he handled the situation with grace, making me feel comfortable despite the awkward intrusion, spoke volumes about his character. It reassures me Henry’s admiration isn’t misplaced. If anything, it strengthens my belief that Killian is someone worthy of my son’s respect and admiration.
I drain the last drop of Steaz, about to throw it into a trash bin when I look down at the white and peach label. It’s just a can, I tell myself. But it’s more than that. It’s a reminder of the unexpected, unforgettable encounter with a rockstar. With Killian Jones. So I slip it into my purse, a small smile playing on my lips.
~*~
If I hadn’t seen the five band members enter the room, I’d still know they did based on the ear-splitting shrieks that break out. I have to cover my ears, but it does very little to drown out the sound, and I’m cursing myself for not bringing earplugs.
Killian’s wearing the black leather jacket and his guyliner, the Tag Heuer watch glinting on his wrist when he waves at his screaming fans. He glances my way, and I’m pretty sure my face is redder than a tomato as the image of him in nothing but a towel invades my mind, uninvited. His lips twitch into a smirk, and his cheeks turn pink, as though he’s reading my mind.
There’s a wordless exchange between us I swear is charged with heat, but I know it’s all in my head. He only recognizes me as the old lady who snuck into his trailer. I avert my gaze, a blushing smile spreading across my lips as I mumble to myself. “Get it together, Emma.”
Henry and his friends are buzzing with excitement as they line up for the photo op. He leans into me so I can hear him as he names off the members from left to right: “Will, Merlin, David, Killian’s older brother, Liam…and that’s Killian on the end.”
I move my eyes from Killian to his brother, noticing the resemblance, the same striking sea-blue eyes. Only Liam has a messy mop of unruly brown curls as opposed to Killian’s sleek, black hair, mussed to perfection.
“Just promise you won’t do or say anything embarrassing,” Henry pleads.
Too late for that, I think to myself and place my hand over my heart, feigning offense. “I would never.” Not on purpose anyway.
When it’s our group’s turn, Henry and his friends all pose next to their favorite band members, Violet sandwiched between Will and Merlin, Roland between David and Liam, and Henry squished between the two brothers.
“What’s your name, lad?” Killian asks, his arm settled around Henry’s shoulders.
“I’m Henry.”
Killian looks over at me, pointing. “You must be the older sister, I presume?”
I laugh, tickled pink by the notion, though I know he’s merely being nice. “Uh no, I’m his mom.”
Killian’s jaw drops in disbelief, making my cheeks heat. “Really?” He looks over at Henry. “That’s your mum?”
Henry nods, a big smile on his face. “The one and only.”
Killian looks at me again, the corners of his lips curling into a smirk as if me having a teenage son doesn’t deter him in the least. “Alright, Henry’s mum, want to hop in?”
I wave off his invitation. “I’m good, thanks.”
But Killian persists, a playful glint in his eyes. “Oh, come on now. Don’t you want a memento of this day with your son?”
He has a point. Glancing at Henry for assurance, not wanting to disrupt his moment of joy as I’d promised him earlier, I find him nodding enthusiastically and gesturing me over.
Relenting, I step into the frame on the end beside Killian, his arm casually draping around my shoulders, a light but electrifying touch that jolts straight through me. My pulse races as if I’m the one about to step on stage. I wrap my arm around his back, once again getting lost in his scent and being so close to him, his thumb brushing my shoulder.
I smile for the camera, all the while trying to steady the flutter in my chest and ignore the sparks I’m sure I’m only imagining.
I order two copies of the photo, one for myself and one for my son, and join them in line for autographs. When it’s finally our turn, Henry and his friends introduce themselves to the members and present their merchandise for them to sign.
They’re all ecstatic, chatting and laughing with the guys. I stare at Killian as he interacts with them, asking them what school they go to and what grade they’re in. He’s so patient and genuine, making each of them feel special. He listens intently to their excited chatter, responding with interest and enthusiasm.
“So, Henry, what’s your favorite song?” Killian asks.
Henry’s eyes widen with excitement. “I love all of them, but ‘Echoes of the Past’…the guitar solo is epic!”
Killian chuckles, a deep, rich sound that makes Henry beam with pride. “That’s one of my favorites to play, too. Do you play any instruments?”
Henry nods eagerly. “Yeah, I’m learning guitar. Maybe one day I can play like you.”
“I’m sure you will,” Killian says with encouragement. “Keep practicing.”
Henry’s eyes sparkle at the thought, and I can see how much this moment means to him. It’s like Christmas morning and he’s ten all over again. “Mom, come on!” Henry tugs on my arm, snapping me out of my reverie.
Suddenly, I’m face-to-face with Killian Jones again, his eyes locking onto mine. My heart races, and for a moment, I’m at a loss for words.
“Hello again,” he says with a grin that makes my knees weak.
“Hi,” I manage, heat rising in my cheeks.
“Emma, isn’t it?”
Henry glances between us with furrowed brows. “Wait, how do you know my mom’s name?”
“Oh, we met earlier…” I’m just surprised Killian remembers me at all.
“That’s right, in the line for the bathroom,” he adds with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Hey, little brother, aren’t you gonna introduce me?” Liam asks from beside him.
“It’s younger brother,” Killian groans as if he’s asked Liam not to call him that a million times. He gestures with the pen in his hand. “Liam, this is Emma, Emma, this is my pain in the arse brother, Liam.”
Liam reaches out his hand to shake mine. “Nice to meet you, lass.”
I smile. “Very nice to meet you.”
Killian glances between me and my group. “How would the four of you like to come backstage after the show?”
The three teens’ gasps are audible, sharp intakes of breath.
“Seriously?” Henry asks, his green eyes wide.
“Absolutely,” Killian confirms, a warm smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Can we, Mom? Please?” Henry begs, turning to me with an expression I haven’t seen since he was little and wanted one more bedtime story.
“Okay,” I relent, a thrill of excitement rushing through me. “We’ll go.”
“Brilliant.” Killian’s smile widens. “What are your seat numbers? I’ll have Tiny come get you after the show.”
Henry and his friends call them out and exchange high-fives and squeals, unable to contain their elation.
Killian looks down at me, then back up, pointing with his pen. “Would you like me to sign that?”
With knitted brows, I glance down at myself to see what he’s referring to.
Oh right.
The photo is in my hands.
I completely forgot I was holding it. “Sure.” I hand it over.
His lips twitch into a smile as he scribbles his name and a message on the back of the picture before sliding it back to me. I handle it like it’s one of the precious pieces at my art gallery, carefully tucking it into my purse.
Stepping aside for the next eager fan, we navigate through the throng of people, exiting the tent into the balmy evening.
The sun dips lower, streaking the sky with pinks and oranges as we make our way to the main stage area. My heart thumps a steady beat, syncing with the distant pulse of bass as the current act wraps up. We settle into the sea of bodies as Henry and his friends chat excitedly, their earlier fatigue forgotten.
When Midnight Moon takes the stage, the energy erupts. Lights flash, slicing through the dusk, illuminating the band in bursts of color. The first chords strike, and the crowd roars its approval. Killian’s voice soars over the assembly, commanding yet intimate as he strums the guitar. He carries the spotlight so effortlessly, and I can’t help but get caught up in the excitement, cheering along with everyone else.
Fans are waving signs proclaiming their love for their favorite band member, some decorated with glitter and bright colors, making them stand out even in the dim lighting. Glow sticks illuminate the sea of people, creating a shifting pattern of light. Swooning fans scream and sing along to every word, the air thick with the shared enthusiasm and adoration for the band.
There’s something so mind-boggling about meeting the biggest rock band of the decade, who is currently owning the stage, and not only that but being in the lead singer’s trailer and having a conversation with him. Then being invited to the after-party. It puts butterflies in my stomach, something no one has done in years.
When I glance at Henry, his face is beaming, and something shifts inside me—a loosening, a surrender to the moment and the music. I let the rhythm take me, swaying and singing along to the lyrics with Henry and his friends.
“Yeaaaahhhh!” Henry shouts over the booming music and other screaming fans.
Roland jumps in. “So epic!”
“I love you, I love you, I love you!” Violet shrieks at the band.
Henry nods enthusiastically. “This is the best night ever! Wahoo!”
I can’t help but smile from ear to ear. When I agreed to bring them here, I was so sure the only enjoyment I would get out of tonight would be from witnessing my son meet his idol and have fun, but I have to admit, I’m having fun, too.
As I watch Killian on stage, I can definitely see the appeal. His presence is magnetic, drawing everyone in with his raw talent and undeniable charm. The way he pours himself into each note, every strum of the guitar, is captivating. It sucks me in, and suddenly I’m sixteen again, fawning over my favorite band. The rush of excitement, the thrum of the music and the infectious energy of the crowd all make me feel like a giddy teenager caught up in the magic of a perfect concert.
And any resentment I felt from Neal bailing at the last minute is gone. Because he’s the one who missed out on this opportunity to be with his son, to witness the sheer joy on our son’s face, to witness him meet his idol. Henry will remember this night for the rest of his life, and I get to be a part of it. So maybe I should thank Neal. But that might be the concert-high talking.
The last note echoes into the night, screams and cheers thundering around us. I’m almost certain Killian’s dazzling smile and flirtatious wave are directed at me, but that can’t be right. He’s just looking in my general direction. That’s all.
Tiny, who is actually a mountain of a man with a surprisingly gentle smile, greets us with wristbands and hands over all-access passes—the golden ticket to the after-party.
As we follow him through the throngs of concertgoers, Henry chats animatedly with Violet and Roland, their eyes alight with a post-concert buzz. They’re dissecting every song, every chord, and I can’t help but smile at their unabashed enthusiasm.
When we reach a set of large, unmarked doors, Tiny pushes them open. The room is spacious and lively but intimate. A few tables are scattered around, each with elegant floral centerpieces and an assortment of gourmet snacks, the aroma of freshly baked hors d’oeuvres wafting through the air.
There’s a bar in one corner, serving a variety of drinks, and the bartenders are dressed in trendy festival attire, skillfully mixing drinks while chatting with guests.
I take a deep breath, the air thick with energy. I can’t believe I’m at the Midnight Moon after-party and can’t wait to tell Elsa.
“Mom, that’s Mary Margaret Blanchard!”
I follow Henry’s gaze to a woman whose presence seems to draw all the surrounding light toward her. She stands in a constellation of admirers, her dark pixie haircut framing her high cheekbones and wide, expressive eyes, laughter bubbling from her crimson red lips.
“Mary Margaret Blanchard,” I murmur under my breath, sharing in Henry’s awe.
Every Thursday night, with a bowl of buttered popcorn and Milk Duds melted on top, we watch as Mary Margaret saves lives with a scalpel and a steady hand on our TV screen. “She’s even more stunning in person.”
I edge closer to the throng of guests, my pulse quickening in this rarefied air. We drift through the small crowd, familiar faces from album covers and magazine spreads intermingle with close friends and family of the band. Sidney Glass, who works for Rolling Stone magazine, holds court among a group of eager listeners.
When Mary Margaret’s whistle slices through the din, sharp and spirited, heads swivel in unison toward the entrance. The room erupts with applause and cheers, heralding the arrival of Midnight Moon. The members enter like gods descending from their celestial realm, the energy kicking up about ten notches. Champagne corks pop, crystal glasses overflowing with golden, bubbly liquid.
Killian’s smile lights up the room, that familiar tousle of dark hair and those piercing blue eyes making my heart race. Beside him, Liam nods and waves like a lighthouse guiding them through the sea of adulation.
Will, David and Merlin follow, each exuding their own brand of charm. Will’s laugh, full-bodied and contagious, sparks a cluster of guests into a chorus of chuckles. David’s fingers tap an imaginary keyboard on his thigh. And Merlin, with that impish grin, looks ready to drum up mischief at a moment’s notice.
The band members make their rounds, their presence orbiting the room like satellites. I watch in fascination as star-struck faces light up and hands reach out for a touch, a handshake, a shared moment in the glow of fame. Will has amassed a small audience, his animated gestures painting pictures in the air as he regales them with stories.
Henry and his friends weave through the clusters of people, sidestepping a server who’s balancing a tray of sparkling flutes. I follow closely behind, my heart racing with a cocktail of anticipation and nerves.
But why am I so nervous?
This is for Henry.
Violet and Roland gravitate toward their favorite band members as Henry and I reach the inner circle where Killian’s laugh, rich and husky, cuts through the hum of conversation. He’s swapping stories with Liam, their camaraderie as palpable as the bass line that still echoes in my memory from the concert.
And then Killian’s gaze moves to us, and he strides over. “You made it!” He offers a high-five that Henry returns enthusiastically.
“Of course, we wouldn’t miss it. Your show was awesome!”
Killian’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, a genuine expression that reaches his captivating blue eyes. “Thanks, Henry. That means a lot.”
Henry’s cheeks flush as he stands a little taller next to the star with a look of admiration.
As Killian engages him in a conversation about music that lights up the teenager’s face, I’m an observer caught in the gravitational pull of the moment. It’s clear that for all the fame and acclaim, he’s kept a piece of himself rooted in the realness of life outside the spotlight.
He talks to Henry like they’re best friends, asking about his favorite bands and his guitar lessons, and even sharing a few tips on how to master tricky chords. It’s clear Killian cares about his fans, and he’s making Henry feel like the most important person in the world right now.
As I watch their interaction, my heart swells with gratitude. Here we are, backstage, caught up in the whirlwind life of a musician who could have shrugged us off with a simple nod. Instead, he stands here, giving Henry a moment he’ll undoubtedly replay in his head for weeks. Maybe years.
It’s one thing to admire someone’s talent from afar, but seeing Killian take the time to connect with my son on such a personal level makes me appreciate him even more.
David approaches with the radiant actress, Mary Margaret, on his arm like an ethereal accessory.
“David, you remember Henry and his mum, right?” Killian asks him.
David’s blue eyes light up with kindness, a charming smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, from the meet and greet.” He shakes our hands. “Enjoying the party?”
“We definitely are.” My words are a bit breathless as I take in the effortless grace of the woman beside him.
He turns to her. “This is my girlfriend, Mary Margaret Blanchard.”
“We know who you are.” Henry shifts from foot to foot, his earlier confidence waning in the glow of Mary Margaret’s presence. “My mom and I watch your show all the time.”
She beams at him, and I swear her smile rivals the glitz of any Hollywood premiere. “Really? That’s so sweet of you to say. I’m glad to hear you enjoy it.”
“We never miss an episode,” I add.
Her eyes light up with delight, and she lets out a laugh that sounds like pure sunshine. “Well, thank you both.”
Henry takes out his phone, his nervousness melting away a bit under her warm gaze. “Would it be okay if I got a picture with you?”
“Of course!” Her voice rings with an easy cheerfulness as she turns to me. “Would you like to be in the picture, too?”
“Uh…” I stammer for a split second, the offer catching me off guard. “Oh, you really don’t have to...”
But she waves it off with a graceful flick of her wrist, dismissing my protest. “Come on.” Her green eyes sparkle.
“Okay.” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and step beside Henry, who grins over at me. His joy, pure and unguarded, nudges aside any lingering reluctance.
“Thanks, Mary Margaret.”
She takes his phone and extends it to David. “Hey, babe, could you take a photo for us, please?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.” He grins and takes the phone, his fingers deftly adjusting the screen before he holds it aloft, angling for the perfect shot.
She wraps an arm around each of us, pulling us in close. The camera clicks, and David hands Henry his phone.
Henry beams, his earlier shyness completely gone. “Thank you, Mary Margaret! This is so cool!”
She smiles warmly at him. “Anytime. Enjoy the rest of the party!”
As she moves away to mingle with other guests, Henry turns to me, his eyes shining with happiness. “Mom, this is the best night ever!”
A smile spreads over my lips. “I’m glad you’re having a good time, kid.”
Roland and Violet eventually return to us, and Liam brandishes bottles of soda like trophies, handing them to the three teens. “So, who’s up for a little backstage tour?”
The teens perk up immediately.
“Lead the way,” Henry says, the informal title of tour guide now bestowed upon Liam, who grins and gestures for them to follow him.
Meanwhile, Killian closes the distance between us, that charming grin on his face. “Emma Swan…” His voice is stripped of its amplified power but no less compelling. He holds out a hand, not as the untouchable rockstar, but as someone genuinely pleased to see me.
I take it, once again appreciating the calluses pressed against my smooth palm.
“Enjoying the party?”
“Absolutely.” I return his smile. “Henry’s having the time of his life. Thank you so much for inviting us.”
“It’s my pleasure.” He licks his lips as he releases my hand. “Would you like some champagne?”
I bite my bottom lip and shake my head. “I shouldn’t. I’m the driver.”
“Come on, love, one drink won’t hurt. Live a little,” he coaxes with a wink that makes my heart stutter. “You deserve to let go and have some fun once in a while.”
The polite refusal is on the tip of my tongue, but the playful challenge in his eyes and the way he calls me love makes it impossible to resist. And so, I let go—a little. “Alright, just one,” I say firmly.
His smile widens as he motions to a passing server, who stops with a tray of drinks. He picks up two flutes and hands me one, his fingers brushing against mine in a way that sends a small shiver down my spine.
“I mean, it’s not every day a rockstar asks me to have a drink with him twice in one day?”
He chuckles, and we take a sip, the rich, bubbly liquid dancing on my tongue, a thrill running through me.
"So, tell me Killian Jones, why did you let me use your bathroom and invite me for a drink instead of throwing me out?"
He smirks, his eyes twinkling. “Well, how often does a beautiful woman accidentally stumble into my trailer?”
My cheeks heat, and I raise an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on my lips. “Please, a rockstar like you? I bet it happens all the time.”
Killian shakes his head, his smile dimming a bit. “You’d be surprised. It’s not every day I meet someone who doesn’t even recognize me.” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a huskier tone. “It’s refreshing.”
“I don’t doubt it.” I roll my eyes. “I’m sure it gets tiring having so many screaming fans throw themselves at you.”
“It can be rather exhausting, actually.” Killian laughs but not in a cocky way. There’s a softness to the sound, a warmth, his eyes lighting up. “But nights like these make it all worth it.” Silence fills the air between us for a beat as his eyes lock on mine with an intensity that makes my heart skip.
This is surreal. Here I am, backstage at Coachella, sipping champagne with Killian Jones, while my son is having the time of his life. It all seems too perfect, too magical, to be real.
I can’t help but wonder if this is a dream, one of those fleeting moments of bliss that vanishes as soon as the morning light breaks through the darkness. Will I wake up soon, back in my ordinary life, with nothing more than the memory of this extraordinary fantasy?
“So, your son seems to have enjoyed the show,” Killian remarks, nodding toward Henry, who is animatedly discussing something with David.
I nod. “Music is his world. He gets that from his father.” I laugh. “And well, you’re his idol if you couldn’t tell.”
Blush paints his cheeks as a cocky smile blooms over his lips. “Is that so?”
“Very much so. His father bought the tickets for the meet and greet,” I reveal hesitantly, “and he was supposed to be here with him. He…” I pause and shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek to refrain from bashing my ex in front of this gorgeous rockstar. I mean, the man has more important things to do than listen to me prattle on as I air out my dirty laundry. “Anyway, uh, he canceled last minute, so here I am.”
Killian raises a brow. “So his father, but not your husband?”
“Well, he was my husband,”—the past tense puts a bitter taste in my mouth—“but now he’s just my son's father.”
“Hmm. And what about you, Emma? What’s your world like when you’re not taking your son to rock concerts?”
“My art gallery, mostly. And quiet. Nothing quite as loud as this.” I gesture to the chaos around us with a small smile.
“Quiet can be good,” he acknowledges, and there’s a pause—a heartbeat when his eyes are searching mine.
“Sometimes too quiet,” I confess, more to myself than to him. The words slipped out, unbidden, and his gaze softens with a knowing that startles me. It’s disarming how quickly he peels back layers without trying.
“Perhaps a little noise isn’t such a bad thing then,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.
“Perhaps,” I agree, the word floating between us like a challenge.
I’m aware of the space he occupies, close but not imposing. He’s not just a picture in a magazine or a figure on a stage. He’s real, standing right before me.
I balance the stem of the flute between my fingers, the bubbles a delicate dance of nerves and excitement.
After polishing off my drink, I switch to water, and time slips by unnoticed as we chat at a table, the conversation flowing easily. I learn more about his journey in the music industry, his passion for songwriting and the close bond with his bandmates. It’s clear Midnight Moon is more than just a band to him—it’s a family.
“So, Emma, tell me about this art gallery of yours.”
“I own it with my best friend, Elsa. It’s a contemporary space in downtown Storybrooke, showcasing emerging artists and some established ones. We focus on provocative, thought-provoking pieces.”
“What’s your favorite piece in the gallery?” His interest feels like more than polite small talk—it’s as if he truly wants to understand the world I inhabit.
“Killian...” I search his face, looking for the telltale signs of polite disinterest I’ve come to expect from guys his age. But all I see is intrigue, a warmth that beckons me closer to the flame. “Why—why are you so interested in my gallery?”
“Because it’s part of you,” he answers simply, shrugging off the question as if the answer is obvious. “And I want to know more about you, Swan.”
I laugh. “Okay…” As I describe a recent acquisition, a vivid abstract painting that caught my eye and refused to let go, the weight of his interest is like a tangible thing. It’s flattering how he listens, really listens, as if my small corner of the world might hold the same significance as his sprawling stage.
But beneath the flattery lies a tremor of doubt, a crack in the foundation of my composed exterior. There’s no way a man as gorgeous and young as Killian, with the world at his fingertips, is interested in me, a forty-year-old divorcee and single mother who juggles art deals and parent-teacher conferences.
“Sounds captivating,”—there’s no mistaking the parallel in his gaze—“much like the woman who speaks of it.”
“Killian, I…” The words tangle, unsure of their direction, my cheeks heating. I’m not used to being seen like this, not just as a mother or a professional, but as a woman with desires and dreams that have long been dormant. I avert my eyes, pulling my phone out of my purse to check the time. “It’s getting late. We should probably get going.”
When I look up at him, his expression is too much like disappointment, his bright baby blues losing some of their sparkle. But, no, that can’t be right. Killian is this twenty-something-year-old rock star who could have any woman he wants, and there’s no way he’d be interested in an old lady like me. He’s just being nice, that’s all this is.
“Of course, love.”
I gather my son and his friends, and Killian follows us to the exit.
“So, uh…what did you say the name of your art gallery was?” he asks curiously, scratching behind his ear.
“Swan Fall,” Henry pipes up before I can respond. “It’s in Storybrooke. You should check it out sometime.”
Killian nods thoughtfully, his eyes flickering with promise. “I’ll definitely do that. Thanks, Henry.”
I manage a small smile. “Thank you again for this.”
“It was my pleasure. Thank you for coming.”
The teens bid their final farewells, and as we step outside into the cool night air, I take a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering of my heart.
Tonight was unexpected, and I’m not sure how to process it all. But one thing is certain—Henry’s not the only one who will remember this day for years to come.
On the drive back to the hotel room, Henry, Violet and Roland recount every detail of the evening. Their excitement is contagious, and despite my own whirlwind of emotions, I can’t help but smile.
It’s well past midnight when we arrive, and I drop my purse off on the couch as soon as we enter the room. Henry, Violet and Roland stake their claims on the queen-sized beds. The boys take one, sprawling out, still chatting about the concert. Violet curls up on the other one, her phone screen casting a soft glow as she scrolls through the pictures they took. Eventually, the three of them fall asleep, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I retreat to the couch, the exhaustion of the day catching up with me. But there’s one thing I can’t shake from my mind. Or rather, one person.
Grabbing my phone, I pull up Google and type in his name—Killian Jones.
The information I’m looking for pops up right away.
Age: 24
I stare at the number, letting it sink in. On one hand, he’s older than I thought he was…but he’s still young enough to be my son…well if I got pregnant at sixteen. Nevertheless, he’s sixteen years younger than me— a whole Henry younger. Not that it matters anyway. I’ll probably never see Killian again, and he’ll never think of me again.
So there’s that.
I glance over at my purse, noticing the back of the photo peeking out. The one taken just before the concert. Killian had autographed it and left a message on the back. My heart speeds up, which is completely ridiculous. Killian just left a message similar to the ones he writes to all of his adoring fans. I’m no one special. But I’m still curious to see what he wrote. So I pull out the photo, reading the back of it.
Good Gods, Swan. That smile of yours just might be the inspiration behind a few of my future songs. Looking forward to seeing you at the party tonight.
—an adoring fan, Killian Jones
At forty, Emma Swan is living her best life. She's happily single and owns a thriving art gallery with her best friend Elsa. And of course, there's the love of her life, her teenage son, Henry.
Since the divorce three years ago, her carefully curated life has been quiet, peaceful, ordinary. She couldn't ask for anything more. So why does the one guy she ends up falling for have to be the rockstar her son has a poster of on his bedroom wall, whose life is nothing short of extraordinary?
The Idea of You AU
Rated: M
AO3
Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5
CHAPTER ONE
I close my eyes and blow out the candles, “4” and “0” nestled among the strawberries and buttercream roses.
Forty.
It still hasn’t sunk in yet.
I open my eyes, smoke curling into the air as the room erupts with cheers and party horns. A big smile overtakes my face, even if this party was against my wishes. Elsa’s idea, of course. She knows I’m not one for fuss on my birthday, yet here I am, surrounded by friends and family in my dining room. But I’m not complaining.
“Mom, did you make a wish?” Henry’s green eyes gleam with the same anticipation he had when he was a little boy waiting patiently to open his birthday presents.
And what amazes me the most about today is not the fact I’m forty, but the fact my son is already sixteen. It seems like only yesterday when I was holding this precious bundle of joy in my arms, prepared to give him the world.
Elsa cuts the cake and hands me the first slice, white chocolate ganache drizzling down the side.
Gathering some frosting on my finger, I reach out and touch Henry’s nose, leaving a dollop on the tip. I laugh as his eyes widen in surprise.
“Mo-oooom!” He groans and tries to wipe it off, but I quickly scoop him into a hug, kissing his cheek.
“I already have everything I need,” I whisper, holding him close.
And it’s true.
I have everything I could possibly ask for.
Henry, who is growing like a weed, is my pride and joy. His passion for music, his unwavering loyalty to his friends and his boundless energy are constant reminders of how lucky I am to be his mom.
Elsa, who’s not just my business partner. She’s my confidante, my cheerleader, my rock. And our art gallery is thriving, a dream we’ve nurtured into reality. The success we’ve seen this year is nothing short of incredible. Each exhibition seems to surpass the last, drawing in larger crowds and garnering more acclaim.
So, my wish was simple: let this year be uncomplicated, a smooth sail.
Another banner year.
Henry’s laugh, which I swear deepens with each passing day, tumbles from his lips and he returns the hug, wrapping his arms around me. “Love you, Mom.”
My heart swells. “I love you too, kid.” I squeeze him tightly.
As we pull apart, the frosting is still on his nose, and it makes me laugh all over again.
“Time for presents!” Elsa sidles up beside us, her silver-blond hair shimmering under the soft light. She hands me an envelope, a mischievous twinkle in her cool blue eyes.
I take it, my mouth falling open. “You did not.”
“Oh, but I did!” she chirps, clapping her hands excitedly. “Just open it!” She’s practically bouncing on her heels.
Sighing in defeat, I tear it open to see what she’s up to now. I find a brochure for the Ojai Retreat and Inn with a reservation for a cottage overlooking the mountains. The thought of solitude, immersing myself in art and drinking wine sounds amazing. I gape at her, my heart melting. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I did because you’d never do something like this for yourself.” Elsa wraps an arm around my shoulders. “And don’t worry, it’s only for the weekend—the same weekend Henry’s going to Coachella with his friends.”
“Wow, Els...” I trail off, warmth spreading through me. “This...this is incredible.” The words tumble out, tripping over my sudden surge of excitement.
“Em, you deserve this.” She gives me a squeeze, her voice firm with certainty, as though she’s prescribing medicine rather than gifting a getaway. “You’ve been working so hard and taking care of everyone else. It’s time you did something just for you .”
“Yeah, Mom. Treat yourself,” Henry adds with a grin.
I look down at the brochure again and laugh. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just promise me you’ll relax and enjoy it.” Elsa smiles. “And maybe bring back some inspiration for our next exhibition.”
I laugh, a weight lifting off my shoulders as I pull her into a hug. “I promise. Thank you, Elsa.”
“You’re welcome.”
I allow myself to bask in the excitement of a weekend alone, no schedules, no responsibilities—just me, myself and I, and maybe a good book or a spa day.
“Here, I got you something, too.” Henry hands me a neatly wrapped package, making me swoon once again.
“Awww, Thank you, kid.” My fingers work through the ribbons and paper, revealing a leather-bound sketchbook and a set of professional drawing supplies - smooth graphite pencils, an assortment of charcoal sticks and vibrant pastels nestled in a box carved from polished mahogany.
“These are perfect.” It’s been a while since I’ve drawn anything, but he knows I’ve been wanting to get back into it.
“Thought you could use them on your trip.”
My eyes sting with tears at his and Elsa’s thoughtfulness, and I pull them in for another hug. “See? Why would I wish for anything else when I have you two?”
~*~
As I lay out clothes for my upcoming trip, anticipation is a fluttering bird in my chest. It’s been so long since I took a trip, and even longer since I’ve taken a solo trip. Actually, I don’t know if I’ve ever taken a solo trip. Other than to the bathroom. I smile, imagining the quiet mornings I’ll spend sipping coffee on my private terrace, basking in the peace and quiet and picturesque view of the mountains.
Sliding the last of my blouses into the suitcase, I leave my room, spotting Henry’s suitcase open on his bed, a chaotic jumble of clothes threatening to spill out. I enter his room and refold his shirts—the black one with the Midnight Moon logo stretched across the front needs to be on top, he insists—and tuck in the edges so everything fits just right.
“Mom, have you seen my—”
“Chargers?” I interject before he finishes, pointing to the side pocket, where they're neatly coiled. “Packed and ready.”
“Thanks.” He flashes a toothy smile. “This is going to be epic!”
“Make sure you thank your dad for the tickets,” I remind him as I zip up the suitcase. Neal splurged on VIP passes for Henry and his two best friends and a meet and greet with Midnight Moon. The lead singer is Henry’s idol, and he’s been talking about this trip for months.
“Will do.” Henry scoops up his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder and grabbing his suitcase, already halfway through the door.
“Sunscreen!” I call after him, grabbing the tube from his bed.
The car ride to Neal’s house thrums with excitement, Violet and Roland sitting in the backseat and Henry up front.
“Mom, did you know Killian always crowd surfs at his concerts?”
“Sounds dangerous,” I reply, raising an eyebrow.
Henry waves off my concern. “Yeah, but it’s so cool!”
“Just promise me, you’ll make smart choices, okay? I need you in one piece.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” he assures me. “Besides, I’ll have Violet and Roland with me. We’ll look out for each other.”
“You better. And stay hydrated.”
“I know. You worry too much,” he teases with a grin.
One that’s too much like Neal’s.
Even just thinking his name evokes a dull ache, like an old bruise that never quite healed. Three years have trickled by since our divorce, since I watched my marriage crumble between my fingers.
“Mom?” Henry’s voice pulls me back, his brows furrowed.
I don’t realize how tightly I’m gripping onto the wheel until I look at my hands and see how white my knuckles are. “Sorry, just lost in thought.” I muster a smile as I loosen my grip. My past with Neal is a closed chapter, one I’ve painstakingly learned to turn the page on. Now, it’s about Henry and me, about being the best single mom I can be while juggling canvases and clients who demand my constant attention.
“Mom, if you get lonely, promise you’ll text me, okay?”
I cock my head at him. “I’m gonna be fine, kid,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. “I just want you to be happy and have the best time.”
The look he flashes me with tells me he doesn’t quite believe me. “Are you happy?” he asks, his eyes searching mine as I glance over at him.
I chuckle, touched by his concern. “Yes.”
Violet leans forward, sticking her head between our seats. “No, but, like, really, though?”
I raise an eyebrow, glancing between them. “What is going on? Are you guys in cahoots or something?”
The three teens share a conspiratorial laugh.
“Just focus on being selfish teenagers, all right?” I shake my head, a smile spreading over my lips.
I ease my car into the sprawling driveway of Neal’s mansion, a monster of stone and glass. The teens chat among themselves, oblivious to the tight smile plastered on my face—a mask I’ve mastered over the years.
“Okay, everyone grab your stuff,” I instruct, popping the trunk. I step out as the teens scramble to collect their belongings. When Neal emerges from the house, I take a deep breath, trying to push down the anger and sadness his presence always unleashes inside me.
“Thanks for driving us, Mom.” Henry hoists his backpack over one shoulder and wraps me in a quick hug.
“Have fun, kid.” I squeeze him tight before letting him go. “And text me if you need me.”
“I will. Thanks, Mom.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too!”
“Bye, Emma! Thank you!” Roland and Violet call out, waving.
“Bye! Have so much fun!” I watch as the three teens head down the walkway, their suitcases rolling behind them.
“There he is!” Neal envelops Henry in a big hug. “Ready for the big weekend, buddy?”
“Yeah!”
I slip back into the driver’s seat, trying to escape unnoticed as Neal greets Violet and Roland. But before I can put on my seatbelt, he’s already sauntering my way, his hands nonchalantly tucked into his pockets, wearing that all-too-familiar grin that never quite reaches his eyes. He taps on my window, making me groan.
Damn.
I plaster on the phoniest of smiles and roll down the window.
“Hey, Ems.”
I cringe at the way he says my name. “Neal.” I keep it curt, civil.
“Thanks for dropping them off.”
“Well, I didn’t really have a choice, did I?”
“They’re excited for Coachella then?”
“Absolutely,” I assure with a nod that's more for show than agreement. “They’ve been looking forward to this for months.” We exchange a few more pleasantries, the kind that taste like cardboard—flavorless and forgettable.
The front door swings open, and there she is—Wendy. Her youth is almost offensive, a stark contrast to the weathered lines of betrayal etched in my heart.
She waves with the enthusiasm of someone who’s never felt the sting of life’s harsh truths. “Hi, Emma!” she chirps as she approaches me. “So great to see you.”
“Hi, Wendy. My smile is tight, muscles tensing. “Henry’s looking forward to spending time with both of you.” Each syllable tastes like vinegar in my mouth,
“We’ll take great care of them,” she says, her perkiness grating against my nerves. “We’re going to have so much fun this weekend!”
“Absolutely,” I respond, the words scraping out like gravel.
“Would you like to come in for a drink?” she offers.
“Thanks, but I should be on my way,” I say, eager to escape. I’d rather gouge out my eyeballs than have a drink with the two of them.
“Of course, big plans?” Neal inquires, his tone casual yet probing.
“Something like that,” I deflect with a tight smile and back out of the driveway, letting out a long breath once they’re out of sight.
~*~
I wake up early the next day and stretch, relishing the rare quiet of a morning all to myself. The sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow in my bedroom. I smile, thinking about the mini-retreat I’m heading to later. A weekend of solitude, art and relaxation awaits me.
The shrill ring of my phone slices through the silence like ice cold water. Glancing at the screen, Neal’s name flashes like alarm bells.
I answer, my stomach filling with dread. “Hey, Neal. What’s up?” I say, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
“Ems,” he begins frantically with a sigh, “look, something’s come up. An emergency meeting with the Tokyo office. I can’t take Henry and his friends to Coachella.”
My eyes widen, his words waking me up way more than coffee ever could. “Are you serious right now?!” My heart sinks. “Neal, you promised him.” The words are clipped, tasting bitter on my tongue.
“Please, Emma. It’s not like I have a choice.” His tone holds that familiar edge of exasperation, as if it’s my fault he’s unreliable.
“You always have a choice,” I snap. Just like he had a choice to not cheat on me with Wendy. And to stay and try to repair our marriage after I offered to forgive him.
“This is a huge business deal. I have to fly out today.”
“Why can’t Wendy take them?”
“She’s coming with me.”
My jaw clenches. “Of course she is,” I say hollowly. “Neal, I have plans. I was really looking forward to this weekend.”
“I know, I know, but I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Can you please just take them? Everything’s paid for, the hotel, the meals, it’s all set. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the rising irritation. For months, Henry has been ramped up about seeing his all-time favorite band at Coachella, so how can I possibly refuse? I can’t bear the thought of seeing those sad, puppy-dog eyes when Neal drops him off to abandon him for another business trip. It breaks my heart every time his dad disappoints him. “Okay.” The word is a white flag, signaling defeat, resignation pooling in my stomach. “I’ll take them.”
“Thank you, Ems. I owe you one.” His words ooze like honey over thorns. “I’ll drop them off in a couple of hours.”
“Anything for Henry.” My tone is sharp enough to draw blood—if only words could wound as deeply as his actions.
Hanging up, I let out a sigh. There goes my weekend of solitude. I text Elsa to let her know, hoping she can get a refund for the cancellation.
Me: Hey, Els. So there has been a change of plans—I can’t go to Ojai this weekend. Neal had to cancel last minute, so I’m taking Henry and his friends to Coachella. I’m so sorry!
I hit send, a pang of disappointment in my gut. My phone buzzes almost immediately with Elsa’s reply.
Elsa: That’s a bummer! But can’t say I’m surprised about Neal flaking. I’ll call the hotel and cancel the reservation. Don’t worry about a thing! You can rebook for another time.
Me: Thanks, Els! You’re the best. I owe you one! ❤️
Elsa: I know😉 Have fun and take loads of pics! ❤️
I smile at her message, feeling a bit better about canceling the trip she gifted me for my birthday. Elsa always knows how to lift my spirits.
With that settled, I take a quick shower, letting the hot water wash away my frustration. Elsa’s right. It is so like Neal to bail on his son at the last minute, forcing me to be the one to clean up after another one of his messes and save the day.
As I step out and dry off, I mentally prepare myself for the loud, bustling energy of Coachella as opposed to a quiet retreat. I throw on a comfortable yet stylish outfit—denim shorts, a flowy red top and a pair of brown leather cowboy boots—and grab my cowboy hat with an adjustable chin strap that’s accompanied me to many festivals in the past.
I curl my hair into soft beach waves and complete the look with a swipe of shiny, pink lip gloss.
Since we’re staying in Indio overnight, it’s a good thing I already packed, albeit for a slightly different type of trip. So after I make a few adjustments to my outfits, I grab my suitcase and purse, heading out the door.
I’m loading my luggage into my trunk as Neal’s silver Range Rover pulls up, a knot forming in my stomach. Henry, Violet and Roland spill out excitedly and gather their things from the back. I’m just glad Henry doesn’t seem dispirited about his dad not being able to go with him. He seems unfazed, almost as if he expected Neal to cancel. And expected me to save the day.
“You look so cute!” Violet gushes as I try to cram her suitcase into my already overflowing trunk. “I love your hat and those boots!”
“Thanks Violet. I figured since I’m going, I might as well get into the festival spirit.”
“You totally nailed it,” Henry chimes in, his grin wide.
I smile at him. “Thanks, kid.”
Closing the trunk, I turn around, leaning against my Bug and crossing my arms as Neal steps out of his car.
His jaw drops, his eyes widening when they scan over my attire, his awestruck expression only adding to the turmoil inside me. “Ems, you look…”
As far as I’m concerned, he lost the right to look at me that way when he replaced me with someone else. “Ready for Coachella?” I finish for him, trying to keep my tone light despite wanting to punch him.
“Thanks again for taking them. I owe you big time.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Have fun, you guys!” With a final wave, Neal gets into his car.
As he drives off to seal yet another deal that matters more to him than his own son, I stand there, my carefully laid plans scattered like leaves in a storm. Yet, despite the frustration curdling inside me, I won’t let his failings cast a shadow over what should be a momentous experience for Henry and his friends.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” I announce, ushering the teens into the car.
“Mom, I’m really sorry about your trip,” Henry says sadly once we’re on the road.
“Hey, don’t worry about it.” I offer a big smile as I look over at him, tapping him on the shoulder. “I get to spend time with you, right? That’s what matters.” The truth of it settles in my chest, warming me more than any solo getaway ever could.
I shake off all the negative thoughts about Neal and focus on spending time with my son and his friends.
And who knows, maybe, just maybe, the festival will be as epic as Henry says it will be.
Hey, maybe i missed something but did you take your fic a helping hand down???
Hello @earanemith, you are correct, I did take A Helping Hand down. I published it as an original novel called, Hard to Handle. I can send you a copy of AHH if you'd like.
I am an avid Captain Swan shipper/reader and love your stories. I am also a Frozen Jewel (Liam and Elsa) shipper and was wondering: would you ever consider writing a fic about them?
Hello, lovely!
I've wanted to write them before but couldn't think of anything specific so I never got around to it, I've just always written them as a side couple in cs fica.
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