Page 64 of Flirting with the Rock Star Next Door
And I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I’d heard from friends that they had weird, stalkerish fans show up at their house, but I’d never had it happen to me. Besides, this was Killian’s sister. Did she count as a stalker fan or a standard fan?
On the other hand, would your everyday fan show up at your doorstep?
“You didn’t ask,” Killian said.
“Wha—?” his sister said. “Because you never even gave me a hint that—”
“I don’t hint. I state. I’m a man.”
“Can I see her? Please?” She started hopping, the top of her head appearing intermittently over his shoulder. “She’s my favorite author!”
I sighed, wishing I were somewhere else. I was not ready to meet a fan, no matter how much she liked me, especially when it was Killian’s sister.
“She might not want to,” he said. “You can’t just barge in.”
“I’m here to visit you. And it isn’t my fault that instead of being home, you’re over here with my favorite author.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault?” Killian said.
“Okay, fine! I’m only about ten percent here to see you, and ninety percent hoping I’d run into Emma Grant. I just didn’t want to sound like a freak. Now come on! I missed her book signing in D.C.!”
Since I didn’t want any bloodshed, verbal or otherwise, I stepped forward and gently tapped Killian’s shoulder, all the while thanking my lucky stars that I’d picked up the trash the night before, and that I was in a T-shirt that was only four or five years old and my yoga pants had been freshly laundered this week. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
Then I looked at the petite woman. She had a sleek brown bob, warm with a hint of golden highlights, but her eyes were the same intense blue as Killian’s. The bridge of her small, narrow nose was freckled, and unlike her brother, her complexion was milky white, typical of somebody who worked in an office all the time. The Axelrod T-shirt she wore had autographs from all the band members, and her black denim shorts were neat and looked new. She even had her nails done in pink. There was nothing remotely dark or evil about her, but I reminded myself not to judge a book by its cover. My dad was clean-cut and suave, with the kind of smile that put you at ease, but he was a complete dick.
Killian’s sister stared at me like I’d just saved her from Genghis Khan’s Mongol horde. Meanwhile, I was trying to remember whether I’d brushed my hair. And I wished I were wearing something other than a black T-shirt that said Short Your Innocence and Long Your Pain. I’d custom-ordered it the day I became disillusioned with my old corporate job and drank like my liver was made of titanium.
“Wow. You’re Emma Grant,” she whispered.
“And who are you?”
“I’m Miriam, but please call me Mir. All my friends do.”
Were we…friends?
“I absolutely adore your books,” she said.
My cheeks heated. I could never get used to this. I was still stunned and ridiculously blessed that people not only read my books, but really liked them. Mainly because every time I reread my old books, I wanted to rephrase things, work in new character motivations and tweak descriptions and dialogue. It was an oddly contradictory feeling, because I was generally proud of my writing.
“Hi. Thank you,” I said with a smile, hoping she was too star-struck to notice anything except the fact that she was meeting her favorite author. Then I remembered her brother was a big freakin’ celebrity. She wouldn’t stay impressed for long.
Sure enough, her gaze dropped to my shirt. “That’s such a cool saying.”
“Yeah,” I said vaguely.
“I don’t think you’ve written anything angsty, though. Are you going to?” Mir asked me, half curious, half anxious. “I really love your rom-coms.”
“It’s a shirt I bought on a whim. I’m still writing rom-com,” I said with a smile that would hopefully reassure this woman.
“Oh, awesome. Angsty books make me cry, which makes my eyes swell up like dinner rolls, you know? Not a good look when I have to go to work.”
“I’m sure,” I said, waiting for her to reveal her dark side or go wherever she needed to go to. But she just stood there, her eyes bright and expectant. “Do you want to come in?”
“You don’t have to,” Killian said.
“Shut up,” Mir muttered, then turned to me. “Can I?” she said in her regular voice. Then she nodded to herself. “Yeah, of course. I’d love to. Thank you.”
She was flustered. It was cute. And it made me wonder what she’d done to deserve that ringtone.
