“Whatever you have on the stove smells so good I might be close.”
“Don’t tease a man,” he says, turning back to the stove. “This is all Luke’s doing. He’s the chef of the family. He helped me out here.”
“Luke is your brother?” I ask, even though I know the answer, because I’ve committed to memory each little piece of information he’s told me about himself, little breadcrumbs thrown out here and there.
“Yeah.” He’s silent for a long minute as he stirs stuff on the stove. “I’m taking a break.”
I don't quite follow. “Okay. . . ?”
“From working," he clarifies. "I mean, I was working the rigs – that’s all I’ve done since I was eighteen – and I came back because of… some shit that happened with my family.” He sets down the spatula with a heavy sigh. “Do you want another scotch?”
I nod mutely. The prospect of actually talking about The Thing that I’m sure he’s going to ask about – my dead husband – makes me anxious as hell. Another shot of liquid courage might be just what the doctor ordered.
When Killian returns, he takes a sip from his glass before setting it down and reaching into the refrigerator. “I hope you like trout.”
“Did you catch that yourself?” I tease.
“This morning.”
I laugh. “I was joking, but of course you caught your own meal.”
He’s silent as he pours white wine and orange juice into a saucepan. “Aren’t you going to ask me what shit happened with my family?”
“Is that what you want me to ask you?”
He turns around and leans back against the counter. “Not really.”
I shrug. “Then I won’t ask you.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you anyway, because you ought to know. If there’s going to be more of… this or whatever.” He pauses. “I’m surprised the fucking gossips in town haven’t told you my whole life story already.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly popular with the gossips.”
“Yeah, well, neither is the Saint family. I guess maybe we’re more acceptable now, to some people here anyway mostly on account of the fact that we helped bring down the town sheriff and got the mining company out of here. Luke’s girl, Autumn – she owns a cider orchard on the other side of town – she shot the sheriff.”
I take another sip of scotch, butterflies dancing in my stomach. His brother’s girlfriend shot the town sheriff? What the hell am I getting myself into here?
My face must be pale, because Killian shakes his head. “Shit, this sounds worse than it is. I’m not very good at this.”
“You're not very good at talking about how your brother’s girlfriend shot the sheriff?” I tease.
“Hell, talking about any of it.” He pauses to put trout filets into the pan, sending up a plume of steam from the stovetop.
I shrug. “I’m not really good at talking about shit in general.” He turns around, stirring the pans on the stove and turning off the burners for everything except the fish, which he focuses on intently. “I want to tell you this, though. It’s – something I want you to know.”
I take a gulp of the scotch in the tumbler this time, waiting for him to drop a bombshell. He's about to confess he's shot someone, too. Or that he’s been married fifteen times.
Killian’s voice interrupts my panicked thoughts. “People in this town hate us. Not necessarily hate us, I guess. They look down on us. A lot of them still do, I think – even after Elias married River Andrews and everything –“
“River Andrews?” I interrupt.
Killian’s back is still turned to me as he slides food onto two plates. “Yeah, the movie star,” he says nonchalantly. Like it’s no big deal that one of the biggest actresses in Hollywood is married to his brother.
I can’t choke back my laugh.
“That’s funny?” he asks. He sets the plates down on the island. “I present to you Rainbow Trout with an Orange Saffron sauce, lemon jasmine rice, and… vegetables with some kind of fancy butter shit on them."
“Are you sure you’re not a cook? This looks amazing.”
Then he whisks the plates from under my nose, which is good, because in another second I’d have probably drooled on them. “Come on, I set us up outside.”
“Let me grab my sweater.” On the way back through the kitchen with my cardigan, I grab the phone, double-checking to make sure there are no text messages from Opal. Even though I know that Chloe is having fun, a nagging pang of guilt races through me. When I text Opal to make sure everything’s okay, she replies almost immediately.
I’m surprised by your restraint. I expected a frantic text an hour ago.
I text her back.
Haha. How’s Chloe?
She responds by sending a photo of Chloe in the backyard with a huge grin on her face and a watering can in her hand.
She’s just fine. We're about to eat pizza and watch a movie. Get back to your date. I’ll text you before she falls asleep so you can talk to her.