Killian’s own smile slipped. He couldn’t imagine that Poppy would share anything about their kisses with her little sister, but what else could have Daisy looking ready to kill?
“What’s wrong with her?” he asked, deciding to play dumb.
“She’s way hungover.”
Ah, yeah. He would have guessed that if his guilty conscience hadn’t taken him in the direction of their kisses.
“She ran into one of Adam’s old musician buddies.”
Daisy’s expression instantly grew much less ferocious. “Oh.”
Killian nodded in agreement. And in truth, seeing Eric
“So, I’m going on the assumption that there was no matchmaking last night?”
He shook his head. “None. But I’m starting to know Poppy better.” Much better. Intimate details about her— like her feel. Her taste. Her smell. “So it will be easier to find the right guy.”
“That’s good,” Daisy said. “It sucks she ran into that guy. No wonder she looks so upset and miserable.”
More guilt landed square on his chest.
“I’ll go check on her.”
“That’s nice.” Daisy made a face that stated she was impressed. Man, she so wouldn’t be if she knew the truth.
Daisy’s bag chimed. Her cell phone was receiving a text.
She didn’t even bother to check it. “That’s Madison. I’m running late. See you later.”
Daisy smiled and dashed off. Killian watched her go, smiling slightly. It was sort of amusing how quickly and easily she’d just come to accept him. He was an effin’ demon.
Somehow he didn’t think Poppy would accept that tidbit of information with such aplomb.
But he wasn’t here to tell her about his real self.
When he entered the apartment, he expected to find Poppy lying on her couch. But the living room was empty. The office?
No. The bedroom was empty too. And he could see into the bathroom, but he doubted she was down there if the door was open. So that left the kitchen.
When he walked in, Poppy sat at the table, her head facedown on her crossed arms. Then she heard his footfalls, and she raised her head, a wan smile on her pale face.
When she realized it was him, her smile vanished, and her face looked even sicker, a whitish-gray color.
The second less-than-thrilled greeting of his morning.
“I thought you were Daisy.”
“I figured. You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” she said flatly, then let her head fall back down on her arms.
He smiled sympathetically. Not that he’d ever been sick or had a hangover. But he could see it wasn’t pleasant.
He’d also read about remedies for hangovers. He read everything. One of the things he’d read said that something in eggs could help a rough morning after.
He crossed to the fridge, checking the shelves for an egg container. Finding it, he placed the carton on the counter, then gathered some butter and some bread. He crouched, searching a cupboard next to the stove for a frying pan.
“What are you doing?” she finally asked, barely turning her head to look at him.
“Making you some breakfast. It will help.”
She made a noise that sounded distinctly like a gag, then fell silent again.
He found the pan he was looking for, other pots and pans clattering as he pulled it out.
“Must you be so loud? ‘Cause that
He winced. “Sorry. I’ll be more careful.” He set the pan down gently on the burner. Then he returned to the cupboards to find a bowl to whisk the eggs. There were more
Poppy groaned.
He suppressed a chuckle, knowing that noise would be especially unappreciated.
He went to her side and leaned down, slipping one arm under the crook of her legs, while the other came around her back. Before she could stiffen or pull away, he lifted her, holding her up against his chest.
“W-what are you doing?” she sputtered, her eyes wide and her hangover momentarily forgotten.
“I’m moving you to the living room. There is no point in your being out here.”
He carried her carefully, making sure not to jar her too much. She didn’t struggle, which he was sure was because she just didn’t feel well enough to do so.
He placed her on the sofa, arranging some of the pillows at the end, so she’d be propped up a bit, then helped her ease back against them. He left her to go grab the throw he’d used with her last night from the bedroom.
When he returned, he noticed a tinge of color had come back to her face, and her eyes were locked on the blanket in his hands.
“You put me to bed last night.” It wasn’t a question, just a sudden realization.
He nodded, wondering what else she’d forgotten. “You were pretty—tired.”
She gave him a wan smile at his description of her behavior. He tucked the blanket around her for the second time in less than twelve hours.
“Just rest.”
Killian disappeared back into the kitchen, and Poppy closed her eyes, listening to him work.
Was it possible to feel miserable, embarrassed, and oddly happy all at the same time? Because somehow she seemed to be managing it.
What was wrong with her? Last night had been a disaster. A crazy, pathetic mess. He’d kissed her. Not once, but twice. And neither time should make her feel good. Once to dupe that woman and the second time, because in her drunken mind it had been reasonable to throw herself at him. More forward and shameless than either of those women at the bar could ever hope to be.
She groaned. This was awful.
She remained still, her head throbbing. Her whole being was mortified by her behavior. Yet, she did like that he was here.
In the background she heard him puttering around her kitchen, trying to keep his movements as quiet as possible.
Why would he even be here after the way she’d acted?
She didn’t understand. She would have expected him to flee from her as fast as his long, muscular legs could carry him.
Then his legs—his whole body—flashed in her mind.
The memory of the elevator returned to her. His body against hers. His mouth. His hands on her. The passion she felt. She could swear she’d felt passion coming from him too.
But then she’d thrown herself at him. And he’d responded. What guy wouldn’t? Like she’d been in any state to know what he was feeling. He’d probably felt obligated to return her kiss.
But that didn’t explain why he was here now.
As if on cue, Killian came in to the living room, carrying two plates.
He set one on the coffee table for her, then took a seat in the old rocker that had been her great- grandmother’s. Something about seeing his large, powerful frame on such a delicate piece of furniture seemed almost amusing. If she could bring herself to laugh.
“Try to eat some,” he told her, digging into his own.
She sat up a little, reaching for the plate. As soon as she got a good whiff of the eggs, her mouth started watering and her stomach clenched.
Do not vomit in front of this man, she told herself. She’d already filled her quota of embarrassing deeds for the week. Heck, the year.
She breathed in slowly through her nose and out through her mouth several times until the nausea passed.
