Truth or Demon

CHAPTER 18

Killian started walking away, hoping it was going to be that easy. No such luck.

“Wait,” she said, before he was even a few steps away. “What? Seven?”

He turned back to her, and she shook her head. “I’m not going with you.”

He returned to stand in front of her again. “You’ve got to go with me.”

“Why?”

He frowned as if the answer should be totally obvious. Not that he expected the look to sway her. But he needed to buy himself a moment, because he didn’t have an answer to that one either.

Finally, after another I-should-think-this-would-be-evident look, he said, “If I go alone, then I’m that creepy guy, hanging at the bar, sipping the same watered-down drink, watching women. Making them uncomfortable.”

“I doubt any woman would feel that way about you,” she said, although her expression didn’t indicate whether that was a compliment or not.

“Really?”

If he was hoping for an outright compliment—which he was—she wasn’t biting.

“Why don’t you ask Ginger? I’m sure she’d go with you.”

“You know Ginger,” he said, hoping that was vague enough to make sense to her. Since he didn’t know Ginger at all.

Poppy sighed. “Yeah, I know she doesn’t like to go out when she has time with Madison.”

“Exactly.”

Poppy looked down at the floor, tracing the carpet design with a sock-covered toe. Finally, she said, “I don’t see how having another woman with you is going to help you meet women.”

Well, that wouldn’t be his strategy if he was really looking to meet women, but he wasn’t, so … “The women will see me hanging with a female friend and just assume I must be a good guy,” he said.

Poppy’s eyebrows drew together. “How will they know I’m only a friend?”

“They just will.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized they were pretty insulting. But did that matter? She wasn’t going to be with him. She was going to meet someone herself. That was the goal.

Eye on the goal.

They would just know.

Poppy told herself not to be offended. After all, she didn’t want to be seen as his girlfriend. She didn’t want to go at all.

“I can’t go,” she told him, starting to move away from him. She needed to get away. She didn’t like where any of her thoughts and feelings were going at the moment.

“Well,” he said with a big sigh, “I guess if you won’t go, I won’t either.”

No! That wasn’t good. She needed this man to be involved with someone for her own sanity.

She paused, struggling with the urge to growl in frustration. But instead she said, “Fine, I’ll go.”

Killian smiled. A breathtaking, stunningly beautiful smile.

Oh, she so needed him otherwise involved, and a night out was hardly a huge sacrifice to see that happen. Like it would take him more than a night to find a woman.

“See you at seven,” he said again, and headed down the hall. She watched him leave, then hurried back to her apartment.

Once inside, she told herself to force all thoughts of Killian and tonight out of her head. She had work to do.

Without further thought, she went to the kitchen and filled her favorite oversize mug with coffee. She added her usual abundance of cream and sugar.

Mug in hand, she went to her desk. She sat down and set the cup to her right within easy reach. Then she tidied up the chapters still askew from her attempt to work in bed. The papers clacked on the desktop as she lined up the edges, then she placed them directly in front of her. She lined up her red pencils. She liked to have three of them. That way if the tip broke, or got dull, she didn’t have to stop to sharpen it. She just reached for another.

With everything situated, she could now work. And not think about—anything else.

She took a sip of her coffee, picked up her pencil, then focused on the last portion of the manuscript she’d read, Title Risk and Insurable Interests.

She tossed down the pencil.

Really! How could he be so darned certain she’d be only seen as his friend by other women? Was she not attractive enough to be his girlfriend? Not interesting enough? Did they really look so unlikely to be together?

Okay, she knew that she wasn’t his usual style. She looked down at her baggy, ripped jeans. Jeans she wore because she worked at home, and what was the point of getting all dressed up to sit at a desk in her own place? They were comfy. And her shirt—she grimaced slightly as she realized that she was wearing her vintage Atari T- shirt—which was admittedly a little geeky. But she’d had the tee for years. Adam had been into vintage video games, so she’d bought it because she knew he’d like it.

She sighed. Okay, maybe she should part with this particular shirt. But overall her clothing was practical for her life. And she didn’t have a life that merited designer clothes.

Then she touched her hair, knotted on top of her head in her usual messy bun. But again, that was just sensible. She hated her long hair getting in her face when she worked.

And makeup. Well, there was no point at all in bothering with that.

So she didn’t sport the female equivalent of his style. But would a whole room of women honestly rule her out as his girlfriend?

She groaned at herself. Why did it matter? He was attractive, so she was naturally attracted to him, but she didn’t want him.

“He’s arrogant. Just look at the ‘friends’ comment. And he’s shallow. Look at how Old Navy threw him. And he can be totally rude.”

And you, my friend, are totally talking to yourself.

She was willing to bet crazy cat ladies always talked to themselves. She grimaced. Maybe Daisy had a valid reason for concern. Maybe she did need to get out there and meet people. Maybe half her reason for being so attracted to Killian was because he was actually the first man she’d done something with since … well, in a really long time.

Maybe tonight was the perfect time for her to meet some single men too. It certainly wouldn’t hurt her to mingle with them. To remember how to be comfortable around them. Then she wouldn’t focus all of her thoughts on a man who was so not her type. Yeah, why was she worried about being his type? He wasn’t hers.

“And we’ll see who’s mistaken for the friend.”

* * *

Poppy came out of her bedroom, tugging on the form-fitting turtleneck sweater. Now she remembered why it had sat in her dresser, unworn, for so long.

“Wow, you look great.”

Poppy looked up from frowning down at the snug garment.

“You really think so?”

“Trés chic,” Daisy said, and Poppy noticed her sister was working on her French homework.

“Nice.” But Poppy did smile. Daisy went back to conjugating obliger—to make someone do something. Which seemed apropos, although Poppy had no idea who was making whom go on this outing tonight.

Or what had made her decide to wear these clothes. She also wore a new pair of jeans, which just reminded her why she loved her old, worn ones. She felt more like a trussed chicken than a fashionista.

“Don’t look so miserable,” Daisy said. “You look fabulous.”

Poppy appreciated her sister’s compliments, but somehow they made her want to back out of this whole night even more. What if Daisy was just being kind and she looked … well, silly?

“Are you sure you are okay with me going out?”