Page 22 of Roommate
“Snarky,” Kieran offers.
“Yeah.” They really are.
He jerks a thumb at the talking turkey. “I just channel my inner Zara when I’m changing up the weekly wisdom.”
I snort. It’s the first funny thing I’ve heard Kieran say. He doesn’t talk to me, and he isn’t chatty with the customers, but sometimes I’ve heard him and Audrey laughing together, so I know he’s capable of joy.
He’s still Mr. Enigma. I wish I could say that I didn’t care, or that I haven’t been watching him, but that would be a lie. I’m definitely tuned in to the Kieran channel, even if the signal is sometimes hard to make out.
“So, uh, is your dad okay now?” I ask, hoping to keep the conversation alive.
He makes a face and then climbs down from the stool. “He’ll be fine. And he’s cranky as ever.” He bends down, and I absolutely do not check out his ass as he retrieves the chalk off the floor. It’s in two pieces.
Kieran lays the broken pieces carefully in a tray of chalk on the counter. Even the tray is beautiful, with at least two dozen colors, each of them long and perfect. Except the salmon piece, which is now a glaring imperfection among the carefully kept rainbow.
“Oh man,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
I nod at the chalk. “It was perfect before.”
Kieran looks down at the tray and shrugs. “Perfect-looking art supplies don’t stay that way very long. Unless you don’t use ’em. And then what’s the point?” He turns to me and removes the tray of muffins out of my hands, and I realize I’m still standing here holding them like a dummy.
He slides the tray onto the counter and then uses tongs to arrange half a dozen muffins on a plate.
Meanwhile, I’m watching his back muscles flex, because Kieran is hot, and I have no shame. A man is the very last thing in the world that I need right now, but nobody ever said I was smart. If I were better at self-preservation, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
“You want to make yourself useful and unlock the front door?” he asks without a glance in my direction.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, snapping out of it. I hope Kieran doesn’t tell Zara that I’m a slacker. “I’ve got a couple more things to finish up in the kitchen, and then I’ll help you with the morning rush.”
Kieran says nothing. He readies the counter for our first customers and ignores me.
On my way back into the kitchen, I allow myself one quick glance at his biceps straining the sleeves of his T-shirt. Because I never did have any self-control.
* * *
Zara comes in three hours later, beaming. “Check it out!” she says. “I slept until seven and played with my kid. And the customers still got served.”
“And the building is still standing,” I add from behind the counter. I’m wiping down the espresso machine because we’re experiencing a midmorning lull.
“Anything to report?” she asks, hanging her jacket on a hook.
“Nope,” Kieran says. He’s eating one of my bagels slathered with cream cheese.
Zara points at him. “You want to take off? I know things are still nuts at your house.”
“Sure,” he says, then crams the last bite into his mouth. “Thanks.”
“Dude,” Zara says. “Where’s my bagel? Tell me you still have sesame.”
“I saved you some in back,” I promise her. “Sesame and poppyseed.”
“Score,” she says. Then she snaps her fingers. “Kieran, wait!”
He stops halfway to the door.
“Look.” She grabs something out of the pocket of her hanging jacket—a key ring. “It happened. They’re gone.”
