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Copyright © 2018 by Kristen Callihan All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations Cover photo by WANDER AGUIAR :: PHOTOGRAPHY Digital Edition 1.0 All rights reserved. Where such permission is su cient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.

Those who upload this work up on any site without the author’s express permission are pirates and have stolen from the author. As such, those persons will likely end up in the level of hell where little devils shove stolen books into said persons’ unmentionable places for all eternity. Ye’ve been warned.

ALSO BY KRISTEN CALLIHAN THE GAME ON SERIES The Hook Up —Book 1 The Friend Zone – Book 2 The Game Plan —Book 3 The Hot Shot — Book 4 VIP SERIES Idol —Book 1 Managed —Book 2

FALL

The first time I met Jax Blackwood things went a little sideways.

In my defense, I didn’t know he was Jax Blackwood—who expects a legendary rock star to be shopping for groceries?

More importantly, a blizzard was coming and he was about to grab the last carton of mint-chocolate chip.

Still, I might have walked away, but then he smugly dared me to try and take the coveted ice cream. So I kissed him.

And distracted that mint-chip right out of his hands.

Okay, it was a dirty move, but desperate times and all that. Besides, I never expected he’d be my new neighbor.

An annoying neighbor who takes great pleasure in reminding me that I owe him ice cream but would happily accept more kisses as payment. An irresistible neighbor who keeps me up while playing guitar naked–spectacularly naked–in his living room.

Clearly, avoidance is key. Except nothing about Jax is easy to ignore—not the way he makes me laugh, or that his particular brand of darkness matches mine, or how one look from him melts me faster than butter under a hot sun.

Neither of us believes in love or forever. Yet we’re quickly becoming each other’s addiction. But we could be more. We could be everything.

All we have to do is trust enough to fall.

CONTENTS

Author note Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26

Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Epilogue Thank you!

Acknowledgments About the Author

AUTHOR NOTE

John (aka Jax) is a survivor. He su ers from depression and anxiety. Years ago, he attempted suicide (this is not depicted in the book). It is something that has reshaped the course of his life and a ects how he approaches his relationship with Stella.

In writing Jon’s story, I also wanted to show that those who su er from mental health issues aren’t all gloom and doom. They’re often extremely intelligent, talented, funny, and charismatic people. John is no exception. Hopefully you’ll love him as much as I do.

This book is special to me because, like John, I have struggled with depression and anxiety. It is a di cult subject to discuss, and yet the more I open up to others, the more I find that I am not alone. So many su er in silence. We don’t have to. There are people who want to help.

I have tried my best to treat this subject as respectfully and realistically as possible. And while I have consulted with sensitivity readers, and those who have had similar experiences, I am aware that certain points might not resonate the same with everyone. Any mistakes are my own.

Lastly, if you are hurting, please reach out to someone—a friend, a family member, a doctor, or therapist. Reaching out might feel hard but it can make all the di erence.

—Love Kristen

FALL

KRISTEN CALLIHAN

PLAIN JANE BOOKS

“If my eyes could show my soul, everyone would cry when they saw me smile.”

—Kurt Cobain

CHAPTER ONE

STELLA

T HERE IS A MAN FOLLOWING ME . I’m 99.5 percent sure of it.

Though it should be freaking me out, I’m more intrigued at this point. I slide a glance over the organic apple bin at the stalker in question. Tall, lean, fit—at least judging by the way his coat hugs his broad shoulders—even features, good jawline. Chocolate-brown hair and tan skin. Chocolate and peanut butter. Yum. I bite back a snort. It’s never a good idea to shop for food when hungry; everything starts to look tasty. And, okay, maybe I’m about 80 percent sure he’s following. Examine, if you will, the facts: Mega Hot Dude has appeared in every aisle that I’ve been in, but he doesn’t seem the type to follow anyone around. There’s something too self-possessed about him, as if he’s actively trying not to be noticed. Good luck with that. The guy has a luster that has nothing to do with looks but is closer to sheer magnetism. It’s so strong that he seems vaguely familiar, which is just ridiculous. If I’d met him before, I’d remember his brand of hotness.

Is he following me? The jury is still out. More study is needed.

Possible stalker guy glances up, his big hand wrapped around a rosy Honeycrisp, the same type of apple I’d put in my basket a moment earlier. I’m snagged by jade-green eyes beneath expressive dark brows before I look away, my heart thudding from being caught in the act.

Nope, he definitely can’t be stalking me. Guys like him never look at girls like me. They favor tall, thin goddesses with perfect bone structure, or diminutive elfin pixies with big eyes and perky smiles. They do not look at girls of average height, average weight, and average looks. I ought to know; I’ve been overlooked by guys like him my whole life.

All the way back to first grade when little Peter Bondi chased all the girls for a kiss—except me.

It’s a terrible thing to realize that you’re the only girl whose cooties are so repellent, even the class booger-eater won’t touch you. The memory of watching all the other girls run around screeching while Kissing Peter chased after them during recess still stings a bit.

Not that I have a right to complain. I have my share of good features: clear skin—always a bonus—and decent lips.

Mom used to call me Bardot, not because I looked like the ’60s movie star, but because she thought I had a mouth like hers. Bee-stung lips, my mom called them, which sounds really painful and hideous. I have also been blessed with silky, red-gold, softly curling hair.

Now, I love my hair—and it’s taken me to the age of twenty-nine to be able to say that without worrying I sound vain. But some men see the hair and expect more from my

face. They expect stunning beauty, not average attractiveness. How do I know? I’ve been told that very thing a few times. Ouch. And of course, the hair comes with the freckles. Men either love them or hate them.

Honestly, I am more likely to attract comic-book geeks.

Soft-bodied guys with sharp minds. It works for me. Give me personality over muscles any day. All of which to say, Mr. Smolder is probably wondering why I’m everywhere he is, and is not at all interested.

Shaking my head at my paranoia, I head for the cookie aisle. The shelves are sadly bereft. Snowzilla, as the media is calling it, is headed this way. Since it’s March and New Yorkers were just starting to enjoy spring, no one is particularly happy about the surprise storm. In the true spirit of city dwellers faced with the possibility that stores might actually close, panic has ensued. People have been stockpiling necessities such as toilet paper, bread, water, and junk food.

I never understood the whole bread thing, because no one ever seems to purchase anything to go with the bread.

Peanut butter is still stocked, as is jelly. What do these people do with their bread in the event of an emergency?

Huddle down beside their piles of toilet paper and eat plain slices of bread until help arrives?

Whatever the case, all that’s left are a few chocolate chip bags and one lonely package of Double Stuf Oreos. Not to worry, my little Double Stuf delights, I’ll find you a good home. I grab the pack and am about to put it in my basket when Mr. Peanut Butter and Chocolate turns the corner. Again?

His long stride stutters as he catches sight of me, and his brow lifts a touch as though he too is thinking, you again? He glances at the Oreos in my hand, and his fine lips flatten.

Because they are fine, those lips. Well shaped, wide, not too full, not too thin but just …

Jesus, I’m gawking at his mouth. And he’s staring.

Facing o like gunslingers at the O.K. Corral, the moment holds a beat, one in which heat flares low in my belly and between my legs. Mortified, I turn and flee. Like a wimp.

Because a blush is coming on. Bad enough to be caught staring twice. Worse to be caught with my hand in the cookie jar, as it were.

I’m all too aware of my ass and its generous proportions as I hurry away past smirking Keebler Elves. Pissed at my self-consciousness, I decide to slow down and work it, putting a little extra sway into the motion.

Unsettled by the mini showdown, I hustle while getting tampons and some new body wash, then head for the ice cream aisle. I have plans, and they include cookies, fudge sauce, and my favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Rounding the corner, I come to a screeching halt. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Accusatory is opening the ice cream freezer and reaching for the last …

“You are not going for the mint!” It isn’t a question.

He pauses, and again his dark brow lifts, this time a little higher, a little more outraged as well. God, those eyes, green sin surrounded by thick, thick lashes. Girl lashes. Nothing else about him is girly. “And if I am?”

A little shiver runs over my skin that has nothing to do with the icy air billowing out of the freezer. He has a hint of a

British accent, faded in spots like a pair of well-worn jeans.

And his voice? Gah. It is sex and sweaty sheets, hot fudge over crushed cookies.

I really need to eat before shopping next time. I should head for the checkout and go home.

But mint chip is on the line here. I stomp down the aisle, far too aware of the way my body pushes through space to get closer to him. Shit, this guy is potent, all irresistible pheromones and irate smolder. I brace myself against the onslaught.

“I’ve been looking forward to that ice cream all day.” And it is the only one left. Geesh. What is with this store? Did everyone in the city raid it earlier?

Mr. Smolder shifts his weight, bringing his lean body closer. “I’ve been looking forward to it too.” His hand wraps around on the top of the carton.

No freaking way. Oh, it is on, dude.

I grab the bottom of the carton. “You do not want to get between a woman and her ice cream, bud.”

His eyes narrow. God, he really looks familiar. Not in an, oh, where have you been all my life way. It’s more of a, have you been on the news lately—and please don’t let it be as a possible murder suspect type situation. Sexy beast murderer?

Sure. He’s definitely got a bad boy thing going on.

His dark hair is short on the sides but shaggy on top, falling into his eyes to tangle with those crazy long lashes of his. I have the insane urge to brush the locks back. But I don’t.

I’m frozen by his glare. Great gravy, he’s imperious and utterly assured, awash in the kind of arrogance that says

he’s used to getting his way in all things. My perception of him shifts again, and I wonder if he’s a rich boy slumming.

His gray sweater is cashmere, and though his peacoat and jeans are worn, their cut is too good to be o -the-rack retail.

In my line of work, I’ve been around enough wealthy men to know fine clothing when I see it.

He’s either rich or really good at picking up great secondhand bargains. And he’s still oddly familiar. I can’t pin why, and it’s weird not knowing. I’m usually an expert at reading people. But this guy defies basic categories.

His voice takes on a hard tone. “You got the Oreos, sweetheart. I’m taking the ice cream.”

I hold my precious stash closer to my side. “And they need The Mint to be complete.” “‘The Mint’?” He laughs shortly. “Are you seriously referring to ice cream as though it were some kind of superpower?”

“It certainly has the power to bliss me out.”

That imperious brow of his lifts high again. “And that’s supposed to persuade me to let it go?” Something darkens in his gaze, something that sends an unwanted flash of heat over my skin. “What if I want some bliss too?” he murmurs, all dark sex and hot chocolate.

Oh, he’s good. He probably cons lots of women out of their ice cream with that melting voice.

“Too bad. This ice cream has my name on it, mister.” I tug, but his grip tightens, and the carton won’t budge.

He leans closer, bringing with him the scent of soap and a whi lemon-honey. “You’ve stepped on the train to La-La Land if you think you’re getting this ice cream, Button.”

“Button?”

“You heard me.” He grins then—all teeth—and gestures toward the other flavors with a nod of his head. “Give up the ghost and grab the Neapolitan over there. Because this ice cream is mine.”

This is ridiculous. I never bicker with strangers. And certainly not with hot guys. Under my normal MO, I would have made a joke about snowstorm-related ice cream shortages, wished the stranger a nice night, and then been on my way. Conflict solves nothing. Yet here I am, acting like an insane woman. The knowledge doesn’t stop me from growling, “I. Want. The. Mint.”

He’s close enough that I see the small scar just under his left eye, half hidden by his girly lashes. Unfair, those lashes.

“Not a chance in hell, Button.”

Again with Button. I have no idea what it means, but I’m not backing down now. My honor is at stake.

Neither of us moves. I glare. He glares. In this way, I read him perfectly. As easy as breathing.

Go on, Button. I dare you to try.

You think I can’t take it from you?

I know you can’t.

The arrogance of his little silent rejoinder sets my teeth on edge. Stella Grey might be an average girl, sporting wild hair and possessing a butt that’s seen too many cookies, but she is no wuss. Ignoring the fact that I’ve begun to think of myself in third person, ignoring my sensible side that is screaming, “No! Don’t do it!” I pick up the proverbial gauntlet.

Rising on my toes, I move in for the kill.

And kiss him.

J OHN

I’ VE BEEN POLEAXED . By a kiss. And it wasn’t even a hot-andheavy one. Just a peck. Quick and stealthy. I’d barely had time to react before it was over and she was gone. But during that one point of contact, I’d been totally engaged. In that one, strange moment, every muscle in my body tightened, and my heart flipped over within its cage. I felt the soft pillow of her lips—the give and resiliency in them—and the warm burst of her breath as she gasped. Just as I had.

I’d gasped. What. The. Shit?

The strangeness of it settles over me, prickling my skin. It is the end of a shit day, preceded by a shit week, shit month, shit year. Mired in shit, I have become comfortably numb. I exist in a world of neither highs nor lows. It works for me. As does engaging in simple activities that normal people do. For small slices of time, I act like a regular bloke. Tonight, I’m buying groceries before the storm hits. I like the normality of it.

All that is shattered now as I stand, gaping in the direction my kissing bandit has fled, vaguely aware that the ice-cold freezer air is starting to numb my ear and cheek and that I should move. But there’s another sensation holding my attention. One I had thought I’d lost. Of my blood pumping hard and hot through my veins, my breath

unsteady and fast, as though I’ve shifted from an intense sprint to a sudden full stop.

My dick is hard. From nothing more than a little peck on the lips by a plain girl. Again … What. The. Shit?

Well, she isn’t entirely plain. In my mind, I can still see the dip and sway of her ass, that plump, rounded ass, nicely molded in a tight black skirt as she walked away from me.

Black skirt, black leggings, black combat boots, red hair.

God, that hair. No matter how much of a crazy pill the woman clearly is, her hair is gorgeous. I’d noticed her hair when she first entered the store. A redhead. Crazy Girl’s hair is brilliant red-gold, like a brand-new penny. A lush tumble of shiny, loose curls, spiraling like a starburst around her plain little face.

It had been almost a shock when she’d first turned my way and I caught full sight of her. Hair like that makes a man expect sex and sin. Not wide eyes and freckles. Cute as a button. A sexy Goth girl with a Mary Ann face. Girl next door meets Wednesday Adams.

I shake my head slightly, trying to get it together. Doesn’t matter what she looks like, the girl is an angry bunny out for the kill. Why did she kiss me? What were we arguing about again?

I glance at my freezing, empty hand. Right. “The Mint.”

A grin pulls at my cold cheeks. Point to Button.

Letting the freezer door slam, I take o after my ice cream.

She’s already at the checkout line, trying to tuck a wayward strand of brilliant hair behind one ear. The curve of her cheek sports a nice pink flush, one that grows deeper as I

approach. White teeth nibble on a plush bottom lip that I remember all too well.

Seeing her now, I also remember that flash of shock in her eyes when she’d kissed me, like she couldn’t believe what she’d done. I have never met a more easily readable person. I can almost see those crazy little wheels and cogs spinning in her mind when I saunter up behind her and set my basket down on the end of the belt with a thud.

She’s totally expecting a fight. And it clearly freaks her out. Interesting, considering she did not back down before.

Earlier, I’d started to wonder if she’d been following me, which is a definite turno . I don’t need a stalker on my hands. Except she’d sent me a warning glare in the produce section that had made me reevaluate that theory. No, this girl clearly wants nothing to do with me.

Her nose lifts as if smelling something o . Yet she doesn’t acknowledge me. Oh no, Button gives me her shoulder, her pale hand resting on my mint chocolate chip ice cream like she thinks I might snatch it away. Ha. My grin returns, and I crowd her space, staring down the back of her neck, at the creamy swath of skin just visible above her battered dark-blue leather bomber jacket. Her eyes are dark blue too. I have the sudden desire to see them again, glaring up at me in challenge.

Come on, Button, give me those defiant eyes. I’ve been so fucking bored. So numb.

I move in closer. Close enough that if she breathes wrong, her pert ass will brush against my crotch. The idea sends all sorts of less pure but much better ideas into my head. Odd that this strange girl even a ects me. That hair certainly

does. I took one look at that hair and imagined it sliding over my hard dick. But she’s way too baby-cute for me. Not to mention the fact that she’d be more likely to bite my dick than suck it.

With that horrific thought in mind, I shift my weight back a little and glance at the items she’s unloading with sharp, snappish movements. Aside from the feminine products, almost everything she’s picked is identical to mine. Down to the eight Honeycrisp apples, two containers of vanilla Icelandic yogurt, organic granola—with the cranberries— bu alo mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, Italian bread, and smoked center-cut bacon. Exactly the same shit. She’d gone for Oreos. I wanted Oreos. And let’s not forget “The Mint.”

What the hell is that all about? If she’s not stalking me, and I can admit, I’d usually been one step behind her, how did we both happen to get the same stu ?

Bloody weird.

I study her again, annoyed, and admittedly ba ed by this hyperawareness of her. Is it attraction? I’m not sure. I’m drawn to confident women. The ones who command a room.

Okay, I usually go for sex kittens who eye me like candy. I’m shallow when it comes to sex. Sue me.

This woman creeps through a space like she’s trying to blend into it. Until the moment she squared o against me.

And then she changed. All her attention had zeroed in on me like a one-two punch. It had been stunning. Electrifying. I haven’t felt that in so long, I almost didn’t recognize the sensation at first.

Strange. And she clearly has no idea who I am. Which I like. A lot. While not everyone recognizes me, most people

around my age do. Not Ms. Mint Thief.

I let my gaze slide over her, knowing she feels it, a bonus because it makes her bristle.

Her features are quirky, a nose a bit too big, square chin pared with round cheeks. And then there are the freckles.

Freckles sprinkled like cinnamon sugar over her nose and cheeks. They are just dark enough to catch the eye and make you want to count them, maybe trace their patterns. I’ve never liked freckles. Too distracting.

She even has two on her lips. A definite distraction.

It’s her eyes I want to see again. The guilt in them.

Because she is guilty. She stands there fidgeting and maintaining her vigilant watch over her food. Completely ignoring me. Cute.

I loom, hovering like a conscience. Her round cheeks flush hot pink, clashing with those cinnamon freckles. I like ru ing her, even though I shouldn’t. Why that is, I can’t really say, but since I’ve always gone on instinct, I follow it now.

The cashier gives me a dirty look. Rightly so. I am a big man breathing down a single girl’s collar.

I smile at the cashier. “We know each other.”

“No, we don’t,” says the little ice cream thief, not bothering to turn around.

I lean in, the scent of girly shampoo and flustered woman filling my lungs. “Ah, now how can you say that, Button? It’s not every day I kiss a woman and give her my cream.”

Button’s whole body seems to vibrate, vacillating between fight-or-flight mode. I’m betting on flight since she’s bolted

before. But then that dark-blue glare turns on me. “I kissed you. And it was my ice cream.”

Hers? I lift a brow as she pinks. Try again, you little sneaky thief.

Her brow lifts in retaliation. Who is holding The Mint, chump?

It’s kind of impressive the way she communicates “chump” so clearly with one look. The cashier hands Button her change, and she turns to go. The knowledge that she is about to walk out of my life leaves me unnervingly bereft.

“What’s your name?” I ask, needing to know. It’s probably something cute and perky.

She pauses. “I’m sorry, I don’t talk to strangers.”

I bark out a laugh. “Right, you only kiss them.”

Kiss me again, I’ll get us nice and acquainted.

No. I don’t want to kiss this chick. She’s a cagey Muppet, the type who probably closes her eyes during sex and composes her shopping list—dreaming of another mint chip run. Little thief. An evil goodie thief who has left me with nothing to snack on during the blizzard. Shit, I should go back and get the damn Neapolitan ice cream. But I hate the strawberry part. Why do they even bother with that shit?

I shake my head and focus on Ms. Mint. She’s smirking at me now, knowing full well that I am without any sugary goodness, and I have the sudden childish urge to pull her hair or pinch her ass. It’s a toss-up.

Kinky and weird, Jax. “You’re really not going to tell me your name, thief?”

“What’s your name?” she lobs back, as if I don’t have one.

“John.” It’s both the truth and a lie. I smile with teeth.

“And yours? I’ll need something to put down on the police report.”

Head held high, she grabs her bags but then stops, whips out the Oreos—the last package that she’d managed to snap up before I could get to them—and slaps them on the conveyor belt.

“Feed the cops some cookies. They’ll probably be hungry after hearing you whine on and on.” With that, she stalks o .

No sway now, just a militant march that has me wanting to laugh again. “‘Leave the gun—take the cannoli.’ Is that it?” I call out to her.

The cashier looks at me as though I’m crazy. I have to agree. Because for one thoughtless moment, I consider running after Button and seeing if I can ru e her some more —despite my suspicions about her being uptight in bed, or maybe it’s because of them. I do like a challenge.

But I can never forget who I am. It’s as unchangeable as the color of my eyes. For better or worse, I’m Jax Blackwood: famous for being the lead singer, and sometimes guitarist, for Kill John, infamous for trying to kill myself two years ago. Any woman I interact with will always know those things about me, and the knowledge will a ect everything between us from then on. Fame and infamy are brilliant at keeping relationships on a surface level. I prefer it that way.

Sex is sex, fun, easy, mutual pleasure.

Ms. Mint Thief clearly isn’t the quick-hookup type. That much I know. Though bickering with her has been more fun than I’ve had in months, I’d rather this moment stay fresh

and pure than sully it by fucking her and rolling out of bed as soon as I’m done.

I watch her go and rub the familiar hollow spot in my chest. Some things aren’t meant to be.

CHAPTER TWO

STELLA

F OR SOME IRRITATING REASON , my grocery bags feel incredibly heavy. The cold, hard lump of that damn mint chip slams into my thigh with every step. I smother thoughts of irate green eyes and taunting smirks as I walk into my building.

The lobby is dank and always smells of moldy pipes, but the cracked black-and-white checkerboard floors and dusty brass fixtures are a familiar comfort.

I’m damn lucky to have an a ordable place to live in the city. I remind myself of this as I haul my food up five flights, my feet echoing on the iron stair treads. There’s an elevator if you want to live dangerously. Having once been trapped in that tiny box for three hours, I’m in no hurry to try my luck anytime soon.

By the time I get to my floor, I don’t want to eat—I just want to curl up in bed and go to sleep. My apartment is at the end of the hall. Up here doesn’t smell of mold but of dust and old plaster. I was eleven when my dad brought me here. I was terrified and missing my mother so much I could barely

breathe through the pain of it. But she was dead, and my father—a virtual stranger to me—was the only family I had left. I stuck by his side as he led me down the hall to the small e ciency that would be our home.

Back then, my bed had been a small twin behind a curtain and Dad took the pull-out couch, when he was around. He’d leave for days and then show up again as if it were no big deal. As if it were perfectly normal to leave a kid to her own devices. He called it lessons in “toughening up.”

Now he’s gone for good, and the small space feels positively palatial. I don’t miss my dad. There are days I downright hate him. But that doesn’t seem to stop me from wondering where he is, from wanting to see his face just once more, if only to damn him for abandoning me. So here I will wait, in the rent-controlled unit that’s under my late great aunt’s name, where the super looks the other way, just as he did for my dad—as long as I give him a couple hundred each month.

Which is why the envelope tapped to my door, crisp and o cial-looking, has me halting in my tracks. My heart gives a protracted thud at the sight of it hanging there against the bumpy black paint. I don’t open the envelope once inside.

Instead I concentrate on putting away my groceries, changing out of my clothes and into my PJs, brushing my hair, any-fucking-thing but looking at the envelope.

It isn’t until I can’t take the tension squeezing at my neck that I finally tear it open. My fingers go cold and my world gets both a little bit smaller and a whole lot emptier. My building is turning condo. If I were actually my late great aunt Agnes, I would have the option of buying in. However, I

am not Agnes, and I do not have the $650,000 required to purchase my little bit of Manhattan.

“Location, location, location,” I mutter, crumbling the letter.

All the innocent joy of flirting with a hot guy is gone. I am soon to be homeless. The last link to my dad will be severed.

I don’t know why I care; he was a shitty dad. Yet all I can do is sit on the ratty futon he once called his bed, stare at the floor, and feel so damn lonely that my body shakes.

The instinctual urge to get up and run to the familiar safety of Hank’s airport is strong. I need space. I want to see the ground far below me and the blue, blue sky soaring above my head. But the sky is leaden and gray with the impending blizzard, and you never fly while emotionally distracted.

Grounded and alone, there is no escaping this new reality.

I can give up, let life roll me over. Part of me wants to.

Instead, I reach for my phone and make some calls.

J OHN

W HEN YOU LIVE the life of dreams, nothing feels real. That has always been my problem. I never had anything solid to hold onto. Yes, I have my music, the band, the fame, but they don’t ground me. They make me high on life. I live for those highs, the moments on stage when I feel invincible, that I can do anything. Nothing on earth beats that feeling. Music is my soul, and when I play, I am immortal.

But you can’t live your entire life for one moment. And the crash from that impossible height hurts.

How to go on when you’ve fallen as low as you can get?

One tiny step at a time. At least that’s what my therapist says. Take one step every day. Some days will be mundane.

And some will be a downright pain in the ass.

Going to the doctor for a checkup falls somewhere between pain in the ass and mundane. But something about nearly dying makes you respect your health a bit more. Here I am, sitting in an uncomfortable chair in my private doctor’s living room—because I might be doing something as mundane as having a checkup, but I’m still me, and fame calls for complete anonymity when seeing a physician.

Dr. Stern doesn’t keep me waiting. She enters the room with a blandly pleasant smile that they must teach doctors in medical school. “Hello, Jax. How have you been?”

“All right. Bit of a sore throat, but my throat always hurts after a tour.” Singing night after night takes a toll. I’ve been drinking so much damn tea with honey and lemon, I swear the stu is coming out of my pores.

She purses her lips, which makes me weary. “Why don’t you sit on the couch and I’ll take a look?”

I take a seat and let her peer and prod at my throat. “Any other issues? Pain or discomfort in any other areas?”

“Other areas?” I frown, my heart rate kicking up a bit, though I don’t know why. Something about her careful expression bugs me. “No. Why?” She steps back and picks up a folder resting on a side table. “I have your lab work back.”

Since I’ve taken up a new lease on being responsible, I also get regular STD checkups. I’m ashamed to admit it wasn’t something I did as much in my younger years, but I’d be damned if I am going to play fast and loose with my health now. Even so, I don’t like the look in Stern’s eyes.

“Okay,” I say with caution.

Dr. Stern stares at me for a long beat. “It appears you have chlamydia, Jax.” Blood rushes in my ears. “What? No. What?”

She glances at my chart, then back at me.

“But I use condoms,” I insist, a little frantic now, my skin starting to crawl. “Every. Time.” I am careful as hell about that. Never even trusted anyone’s condom but my own. Aside from the threat of disease, one sneaky pinhole and I have a baby mama. And that is not happening.

“Unfortunately,” Dr. Stern says, “you can contract chlamydia through oral sex as well.”

I stare at her.

Dr. Stern’s tone is sympathetic. “It’s in your throat, Jax. Which would make sense, if you picked this up via oral sex.

The soreness you’re feeling is a symptom. Luckily, we’ve discovered it early on.”

Oral? I went down on a bird, and she gave me an STD? My stomach rolls. “Throat? I can get an STD in my fucking throat?”

“It’s less common, but yes.”

Where the fuck was I during that lesson? Probably ditching class. Talk about misspent youth. I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to calm down.

Dr. Stern is still talking. “Do you experience any burning sensation during urination? Pain or tenderness in your testicles?”

“What? No.” I sit straighter. “No, nothing. My dick is fine.”

She gives me a patient smile that annoys the hell out of me. “Even so, it would be best if I did a full examination.”

“Full examination?” Alarm spikes up my back.

She doesn’t even blink. “Of your penis and anus to—” “Oh, hell.” I run a cold hand through my hair. This cannot be happening.

Dr. Stern puts a hand on my shoulder. “The good thing is that this is easily treated. Antibiotics should clear it up quickly.”

Which is great, but she’s about to fondle my dick and put a light on my asshole. I cringe again and rub my face with a shaking hand. “Bloody hell.” Another thought goes through me, and I nearly hurl. “Oh, fuck, I’m going to have to contact my partners, aren’t I?” A black hole of humiliation opens before me as she nods.

“It would be the responsible thing to do, Jax.” And a PR nightmare from hell. I’ve been under the public microscope for two years—the guy who tried. Will he again?

What is he thinking now? Always with the questions. Always watching my every move. Now I’ll be the butt of sex jokes as well. Yes, I’m feeling sorry for myself. I really don’t care.

Because I know I’ll have to tell Scottie and Brenna.

“Bugger, bugger, bugger.”

“It’s going to be all right, Jax.”

Oh, the irony. Every time someone tells me that, something else comes along to slap me back down.

She has that look on her face, you know, the one doctors give you to make you feel like shit about your life choices.

“When is the last time you had sexual contact with someone?”

“About a month ago.” Honestly, it hadn’t been that good for either me or my partner, and I’d finally woken up to the fact that maybe I should put the brakes on what had become mindless hookups.

“Mmm … Well, the incubation period ranges anywhere from a few days to a few months. However, symptoms usually show in about one to three weeks. I’d say you start with your last partner and work from there.”

I’m not going to bother telling her the number of partners I had that last week. I run a hand over my face, then pause. A bolt of horror goes through me.

“Doc, the other day some girl kissed me in a grocery store.” Ah, good times. The cute little mint thief’s saucy walk flashes through my mind before I blink it away.

She visibly fights a smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

Oddly, I still am. I get hit on all the time. But those propositions are a little more straightforward. Would I like to fuck? Yes, please, sure, great. The mint thief kissed me as a diversionary tactic. I still admire her for that.

“Thing is, I don’t know who she was. What if …” Oh hell, I cannot face Mint Thief and tell her to get an STD check.

“Could I have given her …”

“No, Jax,” Dr. Stern cuts in. “You cannot spread chlamydia through kissing or even sharing drinks. Only

sexual activities such as penetration or oral.”

My shoulders slump in relief. “Well, that’s good.”

Dr. Stern gives me another gentle pat. “I’ll give you a moment to change into a gown, and we’ll get started.”

Right, the exam. Awesome. Just fucking awesome.

S TELLA

N ORMALLY , when my phone rings and I’m sleeping, I don’t answer it. However, since my phone happens to be pressed under my cheek, and its shrill ring just scared the everloving stu n’ out of me, I’m a bit more willing.

Scrambling to make the damn thing shut up, I end up hitting myself in the face before finding the answer button.

“Fuc—Hello?”

There’s a protracted silence, the kind that makes it clear someone is on the line but is deliberating whether they should speak.

Sighing, I roll over onto my back. “You heard me say fuck, didn’t you?”

Not good since this is my client line and some potentials are nervous enough as it is.

A throat clears and then a man with a voice like crisp sheets finally speaks. “Am I speaking with Ms. Grey?”

Well, hello, James Bond. I rub my cheek and sit up. “Yes, this is Ms. Grey. Most people call me Stella. What can I do

you for?” Shit, that was classy. Way to talk like Dad and sound like a doof, Stells.

Bond guy clearly agrees. He makes a dubious noise. “My name is Mr. Scott. I received your contact information from Aaron Mullins.” The dubious tone is back and stronger now.

“He said you were a reliable sort and might be interested in pet sitting.”

Oh, crap. The plum job. Last night, Aaron, an old client, had talked it up as an easy solution to my current problem of being homeless when my sublet expires in three weeks.

“Yes,” I blurt out. “Cat sitting, right? Aaron told me you were looking for someone to do a long-term thing? Two months, was it?”

“Four, actually. My client will be on an extended trip and he doesn’t want to board the animal.”

Dude is frosty, I’ll say that much. “Well, it would be much better for—I’m sorry, what is the cat’s name?”

Another pause, and then he clears his throat. “Stevens.”

“The cat’s name is Stevens?” Sounds like a butler’s name.

Not surprising. Dude on the phone sounds like the type who would have a butler.

He also sounds disgruntled. “Yes.” Something dances around the edges of my brain. And then I smile. “You mean like Cat Stevens? The singersongwriter?” I bite back a snicker.

“I’m surprised you’ve heard of the man,” Mr. Scott says dryly. “I’d assume he was far past your age group.”

“I make it my business to know a lot of factoids, most of which are useless in today’s contemporary society.” Argh.

Seriously, stop talking, Stells. You’re going to lose this guy.

“And what precisely is your business, Ms. Grey?”

“I’m a Jack—or Jill, rather—of all trades.” Some might say that made me an aimless layabout, but I’ve tried the nine-to-five life. It doesn’t work for me.

“That should be useful. A housekeeper comes by once a week, so you won’t be expected to clean. However, there is the matter of the goldfish.”

“Intriguing.” I slip out of bed and head to my bathroom to peer in the mirror. Good God, bedhead has reached epic proportions. “What’s its name?”

“Hawn,” he says.

“Like Han Solo?”

“Not Han. Hawn. As in H-A-W-N.” I pause, hand in the middle of pushing my hair back from my face. “Goldie Hawn?”

Mr. Scott sighs, as I laugh.

“Holy hell,” I say though my laughter. “Who is your client?”

Mr. Scott’s voice is like ice now, and I actually feel a chill.

“The essential requirement of this position is that my client’s privacy is to be guarded at all costs.”

“Er … okay. Then I’ll probably have to decline, Mr. Scott.”

Which is depressing. Aaron had told me it included free room and board in a penthouse in Chelsea. Since I’m about to be without a home, it would have worked out nicely.

There is another pause, and I get the feeling he was expecting total compliance. “Let me understand this. You have a problem with respecting my client’s privacy?”

“No. I wouldn’t dream of invading it. But, as I said, I have a few side jobs. Sometimes, clients visit me.”

Silence rings between us.

“Clients?” The dubious tone is back.

“Nothing illegal or seedy.” I tell Mr. Scott about my work while the silence on the other end of the phone grows weightier, and I feel more and more like a fool for explaining myself to this virtual stranger. “So, you see,” I finish up, “while I love pets and am happy to watch them for your client, I can’t let my other jobs go.”

Mr. Scott hums, and then his voice is all starch and power once more. “Mr. Mullins is an old friend of my wife’s. He highly recommended you …”

As well he should. He was one of my first clients, and I did him a true solid. But I keep my mouth shut. After all, I guard my clients’ privacy just as much.

“My wife trusts his judgment, and I trust my wife’s. As long as you agree to keep your clients in the common rooms, I am willing to overlook visitors. In addition to room and board, financial compensation is included in the o er.” He states an amount that has me sinking to the cold bathroom floor.

With that amount, and not having to worry about rent for months, I could save up a huge nest egg. I could finally buy the car I need and not have to rely on the train to get out to Long Island, always having to ask Hank to pick me up at the station. I wouldn’t have to hustle for every job that comes my way. I could breathe a little easier.

Mr. Scott is still talking. “We’ll need you to take immediate occupancy as there is a storm coming and my client is already out of town.”

Ah, yes, the blizzard. It will be here tonight.

“I can do that. It won’t take me long to pack.” I can clean out my apartment next weekend.

“Very good. An instruction packet will be couriered to your residence within the next hour.”

Wow. E cient has been taken to another level. “I’ll be waiting for it.”

“One last thing. The penthouse shares a wall with another unit. My company owns both. Should you have an … issue with your neighbor, I would appreciate it if you contact me directly before engaging with the occupant.”

Okay … that’s a whole lot of formal oddness.

“You make it sound like there will be issues, Mr. Scott. Is there something I should know about this new neighbor of mine?” Like is he or she a knife-wielding psycho? And, what the hell? Issues? What kind of issues? Starts fires when irritated? Watches porn on full volume? Who are these people?

“He tends to travel frequently. In all likelihood, you’ll never even know he’s there, Ms. Grey,” Scott says smoothly.

“It is merely a precaution. You have your clients, I have mine. Mine require a great deal of privacy, that is all.”

I’m beginning to wonder if his clients aren’t international criminals. But someone who names his pets after celebrities and does it with puns can’t be all bad. As for the neighbor— He Who Must Not Be Disturbed—I’ll have to take Mr. Scott’s word.

Besides, I have better things to dwell on, such as penthouse living and a cat named Stevens.

CHAPTER THREE

JOHN

I MADE a mistake staying in the city. At the first word of a blizzard coming, I should have hopped on a plane and left town. Gone to my place in London. Or, hell, gone south where it’s warm and sunny. A week or two on some beach, drinking beers and fucking a willing woman would have hit the spot.

But no, I had to trap myself alone with nothing but silence as company. It is not a good thing for me to be alone for an extended period. Some might call it a weakness. For me, it’s simply a facet of my personality; if I’m alone for too long, my thoughts can easily take a dark turn.

“Damn it.” I rub my eyes and pace over to the wall of windows. I can’t see anything other than a white blur and the snow mounding against the bottom pane. A sudden sensation of being completely lost has me resting a hand on the cold glass. Intellectually, I know where I am—New York City, in a thirty million dollar penthouse that I bought with pocket money. King of the world, right?

A king who cannot stand rattling around in silence.

With a grunt, I turn away from the window. I’m hungry and should eat something. Staring in my fridge doesn’t help.

All I can think about it the mint chocolate chip that got away.

A smile tugs at my mouth.

That sweet, chaste kiss my mint thief planted on me lingers. Libby, Sophie, and Brenna are the only women in my life who don’t treat me like a revered god or some sad case who might blow up at any second. But they’re basically an unruly bunch of sisters who poke and prod and butt into my business. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to interact with a woman who doesn’t know who I am.

That oddball button of an ice cream thief fought for her ice cream like a warrior. Cute as hell, really. And this is where I am in my life—having more fun arguing with a crazy redhead in a grocery store than going to a club or party filled with famous people.

I laugh a little, trying to picture how it would have gone if I’d asked her to come hang out. Not to fuck, but to have dinner, watch a movie, share that ice cream. Grammar school stu .

The concept is so far removed from my life, I can’t even fully imagine it. I’d never actually do something like that anyway. Not when the possible result would be tabloid fodder. I am who I am, and my life doesn’t include random friendships with strange women.

Stick with those you know. It’s a lesson learned early on, and painfully.

Slamming the fridge closed, I pull out my phone. There are at least fifty text messages waiting for me.

Hey, babe, you in town. Love 2 c U again!

I keep thinking about our nite. Need you bad.

Jax, you rock my world.

I stop scrolling and hit delete instead, my insides suddenly cold, my skin clammy. I don’t remember a single one of these women, and that seems tragic. I love women, I do. I love their softness, the way they smell, the sound of their laughter, how they feel when I’m sinking into them. I love sex. Fucking is an essential part of my life, a stress relief —a way to forget. And though I’ve slowed down lately, the opportunity for quick sex was always there if I needed it.

Right now, it’s totally gone, stripped away with a few test results. I have never judged others based on their past sexual history. One of my mentors contracted HIV in the late ’80s.

He survived, and I find that brave as hell. Then why can’t I stop from feeling as though I’m coated in sticky dirt? I’m ashamed. It’s there, on my skin, this dirty, wrong sensation of failure.

The sense of loss is there as well. But it isn’t as strong.

It‘s been getting harder to lose myself with sex lately. My brain keeps pushing its way into the equation.

The last time I was with a girl, I’d barely started when I’d su ered a crisis of conscience. Did she have any hopes? Any dreams? Did she think I’d call her the next day? And when I didn’t, would it hurt? My dick had deflated with the speed of a dart to a balloon. I ended up going down on her just so she wouldn’t ask questions, and I left feeling dirty and cheap and pissed at myself.

God, that had to have been the girl in question. I’d avoided sex and gotten chlamydia instead.

A laugh hu s out of me, but there is no humor in it. I have to tell this woman, and I can’t remember her name. I can’t remember anything about her other than she had hot-pink hair and waxed downtown.

“Shit.”

So, no, I’m not going to go searching for a quick hookup anytime soon. Which leaves me here, alone. And that is never a good thing for me.

Picking up the phone again, I call Killian. It rings and rings, and I have no idea what time it is on Killian’s end.

Doesn’t make me hang up, though.

He answers and sounds awake. “’Sup, J?” “Explain to me again why you and Libby had to move to Sydney for four months, because I’m not buying this whole we want to see the toilet flushing backward excuse.”

Killian laughs. “Libby fell in love with the place when we visited Scottie.”

“Visited being the key word. Hell, Scottie’s back in New York, and now you’re there.”

I’m not trying to feel let down by this. But I am.

“What can I say? Libby and I want to explore the Southern Hemisphere, and I’m trying to not have to take twenty-fourhour flights back and forth to do it. Makes more sense to just hang out here for a while.”

Such is our life—the ability to run away for months and have fun without worries. Kill John just came o a long world tour, and we’re not writing anything new at the moment but “recharging,” as Whip would say. What this means is that the guys are all fucking around and having fun

so we don’t kill each other when we finally settle down to do it all over again.

It seems petty to brood. Yet here I am, brooding. “I’m just saying, you finally convince me to move out of my perfectly good apartment—” “Granny apartment,” he cuts in.

“I inherited it from my Gran.”

Killian snorts. “And you didn’t change a damn thing in that place. I swear, every time I walked in there, I got flashbacks of the watery tea and bland biscuits your gran forced on us when we paid her a visit.”

“You loved those biscuits.”

“Yeah. Good times.” He sighs happily. “Do you like the place?”

I glance around as I walk to the couch. Killian will be horrified when he sees that a lot of my grandmother’s old furniture made its way here. He’s always giving me shit over my decorating style. What can I say? Gran’s stu was comforting and familiar. “It’s really … light.”

“Light?” He sounds confused.

“Lot of windows. High ceilings.” I miss my old place with its dark walls and smaller windows. It was a nice, soothing cave instead of all this … openness.

“John,” Killian drawls with a long sigh, “light and airy is a good thing.”

Sure, if you like being exposed. Nothing here grounds me.

“The acoustics are good,” I mutter, because I know he’s waiting for some praise.

“They’re great,” he adds. “Try playing the Gretch. You won’t be disappointed.”

I snort, half smiling. I can play my guitars all hours of the day. It won’t matter if I can’t come up with new material.

Like the Beatles, Kill John has two front men, Killian and me.

We both sing, we both play guitar. Some songs, Killian takes the lead. Some songs, I do. But we write them together.

Whip and Rye usually come up with beats and the overall rhythm, but Kills and I are the cornerstones of the process.

Since the Incident, as everyone calls it, Killian has been taking the brunt of the job, writing songs with his wife, Libby. And that’s fine, but it isn’t our sound.

I need to man up. Two years is more than a dry spell; it’s an empty well.

“Maybe I’ll play tonight,” I tell Killian, and open the fridge again. “Go back to whatever you were doing.”

“Who I was doing,” he corrects. “And I was doing my wife—ow, Libs. What’s with the pinching?”

I hear Libby squawking in the background, and I laugh.

“Maybe not put her business out there, brother.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Got that loud and clear.”

Smiling, I pull out a pot of stew I made yesterday. “I’m really fucking disappointed in you if that’s what you were doing when you answered the phone.”

“Hey,” he protests, “I was being a good friend.”

My smile disappears. He’s babysitting me again. What’s worse? That I felt the need to call him in the first place? I suppress a sigh. “Be a good husband and entertain your wife.

I’m going now.”

Hanging up, I stare at my stew. I can’t stay here. Outside, the blizzard blows harder. I’m alone, but I have food. A lot of it. And it’s good. Some others aren’t likely to be as lucky.

Jogging into the laundry room, I grab a small hamper and then put the stew and other supplies into it. I carry it down two flights and knock on the door.

Maddy answers and breaks into a wide smile. “Well, hello, handsome.”

“Maddy, looking gorgeous as ever.”

She laughs, and it comes out a bit wheezy. “Sweet talker.

What are you doing here?”

“Wanted to know if you’d like to have dinner with me.

Might I interest you in some beef stew?”

She beams as though I’ve made her week. Putting that look on her face makes me happy, but there’s also a sense of discomfort. All I’m doing is sharing my food—hardly heroic stu here.

“I would love to have dinner with you, Jax. Come on in.”

She turns and heads back into her apartment.

I slow my pace to match hers. Maddy’s place is smaller, the ceilings lower. It’s tastefully done, filled with antiques and fine furniture. In many ways, it’s like an English home plunked down in the middle of Manhattan. I don’t need a therapist to tell me it reminds me of my childhood, even if Maddy is pure New Yorker sass.

I met her when I moved in a few months ago. At the time, she was trying to haul a cart of books up the front stoop. The woman is five feet and probably weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, but still she wouldn’t give up her struggle until I took the cart from her.

I’d soon learned that Maddy had been a stockbroker, one of the only women making it in the field during the 1960s

and ’70s. I’m fairly certain she could buy the building but she seems content to live in her small one-bedroom.

I follow her into her kitchen, and she pulls out a big pot to heat up the stew. “What else do you have in that basket, Little Red?” “Cute,” I say, setting down my hamper. “I have some salad and a nice baguette.”

Maddy leans against the counter and pulls an electronic cigarette from a drawer. “Young man, you make it entirely too easy to tease.”

Shaking my head, I prepare the stew. “And you have a dirty mind, Mrs. Goldman.”

“It’s Mrs. Goldman now, eh?” She draws on the electronic cigarette and peers at me through ridiculously long false eyelashes.

“I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

Maddy takes the bread and starts to cut it. “Honey, I’m seventy-four. I don’t have time for gentlemen.”

I laugh. “Noted.”

We eat dinner at the kitchen table that’s tucked in the corner by the window. It’s one of those old ’40s-style Formica-and-chrome sets better suited in a diner. The snow falls in thick, blowing waves.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the company, kid, but I would have expected you to be far out of town by now,” Maddy says between bites of stew.

She knows who I am. She recognized me as soon as I’d o ered to help her with her bags that long-ago day.

Apparently, she’s a Kill John fan.

“I guess I should be.” I grab a chunk of bread. “Couldn’t really think of anywhere I wanted to go.”

And that’s the plain truth. Killian and Scottie are both married now. Third-wheeling, it does not appeal. Rye and Whip are o at a health retreat. Not to get healthy, but to score women, which sounds kind of desperate, if you ask me.

I could have hung out with Brenna, but we’d just start bickering eventually, given that she thinks I should settle down; I think she should mind her own business. And hanging with people who aren’t close friends is no di erent for me than being alone.

Maddy’s stare penetrates my thoughts. “You need to find yourself a woman. Someone to keep you company on cold nights.”

Not her too. I swear to God, you hit thirty and everyone tries to see you married o . It’s a fucking epidemic.

“I have a woman to keep me company on cold nights. I’m here with you.” I wink at her.

She chuckles, shaking her head. “Shameless flirt. And if I were forty years younger, you wouldn’t know what hit you.”

I believe that. There are photos of Maddy and her late husband Jerry all over the apartment. She was a total Lauren Bacall. She’s beautiful now, frankly.

“You ever think about finding someone yourself?” I ask her.

Maddy sets her hands in her lap and looks out the window. In profile, the lines of her life’s experience are stronger, deeper. My world is dominated by youth. Even gray-haired rock legends with artificial hips try to look as though they’re still in their thirties. But old age is something

I aspire to. Eventually, I’ll buy a house with a porch and wave my cane at foul-mouthed youths who dare walk too close to my lawn.

Maddy sighs and it rattles in her chest. When she looks back at me, her expression is composed but her eyes are sad.

“When you find your person, and live forty-seven years with them, moving on feels more like biding your time. I have my children, grandchildren, and friends. I suppose I could find a man. Maybe one day I will. But I had the one I wanted for a long time. Whoever comes along would have to be something special.”

Slowly, I nod in understanding. But it’s a lie. The idea of giving that much power to another person is unfathomable.

Life is hard enough as it is without worrying about someone else in the process. Sure, I see Killian and Scottie happy now.

But I’ve also seen them sink lower than dirt, sick with heartache. And all because they’d been on the outs with their women. What’s to say that won’t happen again? What happens if someone dies?

Suppressing a shudder, I shove a heaping spoonful of stew into my mouth.

Across from me, Maddy laughs. “Dear boy, the face you’re making. Is old age so distasteful to you?”

It takes me a moment to respond because I’m still chewing. “I wasn’t thinking about age. You know me better than that.”

Her dark eyes gleam. And I realize I’ve fallen into her trap. Like a sucker.

“Don’t knock love till you try it, kid. Rejecting something out of fear only paints you a fool.”

My smile is tilted and pained. “Ah, Maddy darlin’, no one ever accused me of making smart choices in life.”

Her look is without pity, and I love her better for it. “So start.”

S TELLA

B Y THE TIME I get in a cab, it’s snowing. My new place is close enough to my old one that I could have walked, but I’m hauling two big du els, one with clothes, the other with my pillow and personal supplies, as well as my groceries. I’d wanted to leave the ice cream behind—I still haven’t been able to bring myself to open the carton—but we’re talking mint chip, and I couldn’t in good conscience leave something so tasty behind.

If only the ice cream wasn’t indelibly linked with him. I’ve been thinking too much about Mr. Mint Outrage and the soft press of my lips to his, wanting to go back to that small moment when life was simple and unexpected.

But he’s gone, lost to the flow that is Manhattan. I’ll never see him again. I allow myself a moment to mourn, and then tuck away thoughts of irate green eyes and evil smiles as the cab pulls up in front of my new building. For a long moment, I just stare up, not sure I’m at the right place. But the address is correct.

“You getting out?” the cabby asks over his shoulder.

“I’m going.” I pay him and grab my bags.

Snow falls in heavy, wet flakes that land with icy kisses on my cheeks. I blink rapidly when they cling to my lashes, and keep looking up. Because this building isn’t a regular building at all. It’s a massive old church.

Made of smooth limestone and rising five stories, it’s been converted to condos. It doesn’t look much like a church midway up. Big grid windows have been cut into the walls.

Except for the top, where a huge, round stained-glass window remains with two bell towers on each side.

I trudge up the wide front steps. The old carved wood church doors are flanked by iron lanterns. Now there is a key pad and a series of door buzzers. Cameras peer down at me as I take out my instruction pack.

True to his word, Mr. Scott had a package couriered to me within an hour of accepting his o er. And the contents are extensive. I have a set of keys, an alarm code for the front door, an open code for the condo, and a detailed list of instructions for basically everything I can think of, down to Stevens’s and Hawn’s likes and dislikes.

Inside is a small lobby with marble floors and limestone carvings on the walls. There’s an elevator but no main stairs, which seems odd for a building with only five floors, but I’m not going to dwell on it. I’m already freezing from gaping outside. Punching in the button for the penthouse floor, I soon find myself in another smaller lobby.

It’s a cute, almost homey hall with a large, brass mirror and slim mahogany console holding a few magazines, although the selection is kind of odd—Rolling Stone and Guitar World. There’s also a stand filled with well-used umbrellas.

The penthouse floor has two doors: 5A and 5B. I’m in B. There’s no reason for my heart to be pounding hard and fast, but I’m shaky and twitchy as I open the front door to what will be my new home for the next few months.

I have died and gone to apartment heaven. If you live in New York long enough, you come to appreciate the little things: a place bigger than a closet, a good dose of natural light through a window, an actual closet.

This place? It is air and light and space and all the things you dream about when crammed in your tiny, dark, e ciency walkup.

Perhaps it’s fitting that this was once a church. I’m tempted to drop to my knees and give thanks.

The penthouse design is intricate, a short set of stairs from the front door up to the main living area. Beamed cathedral ceilings with an open floor plan centered around an industrial kitchen. The back wall is all glass, showing a large terrace beyond where snow is already piling up. The décor looks like something pulled straight out of the furniture catalogues I drool over: big, oversized furnishings with a casual industrial flare.

I walk through the space with slow steps, taking it all in.

A few lamps are on, as are the kitchen lights. From my helpful info packet, I know that it’s a lighting system designed to turn on once it gets dark outside. Apparently, there’s an iPad in my bedroom with a program to control the entire apartment’s electronics. Cool.

I set my grocery bags on the wide kitchen island. Most of it can wait, but my mint chip needs to get in the freezer. A twinge of something … uncomfortable goes through me as I

pull my rapidly softening ice cream out of the little insulated bag I packed it in.

Icy-cold freezer air pu s around me and my mind flashes back to the surprising warmth of firm male lips. The sound of his shocked gasp as I kissed him echoes in my ears. I’m not cold anymore but flushed too hot. Kissing random men is not like me at all. But it had been fun. Hilarious, really.

I want to do it again. To John.

Hmm … John. It’s not the name I pictured for him. It is subdued for someone with as much charisma and life radiating from him. And yet John is a solid name. I have the feeling no one gets one over on him very often. Smiling a little at the memory of his outraged expression, I leave the rest of my food to sit for a minute and continue with looking around.

Toward the front of the building, there are hints of color coming from some far wall. Through a wide doorway that reaches the ceiling, I find a media room with a wall of shelves, a mammoth TV, and various art pieces. On an emerald-green rug sits a black leather sectional facing the bookshelf. The big round stained-glass window of the old church makes up the other wall.

I almost walk out of the room but stop when I spy a fish tank in the bookcase. Hawn is a plump little goldfish, happily swimming around what looks like Ariel’s grotto.

“Hey, little Hawn,” I whisper, coming close to the tank.

“Look at you all by your lonesome. You need a friend, I think.

A Kurt Russell rainbow fish or something.” Something to mention to Mr. Scott.

Hawn flutters near and blows a few fishy kisses my way. I take a moment to feed her and then move on.

A glass-and-steel staircase goes up to another floor that rims the open living room. There is a home gym, a locked door, a dark bedroom, and a few more locked doors. My info pack tells me that I can access these rooms if needed but I should leave them alone unless there is an emergency. Fine by me. I have more than enough space. At the end of the open hallway, I find the last bedroom that overlooks the terrace.

The lights are on, which is kind of creepy but also welcoming. The room is bigger than my last apartment with smooth walnut floors and another jewel-tone carpet, this one ruby red. The bed is ridiculous. It has to be a king with a headboard six feet tall and made of reclaimed, battered oak.

It would look monastic, except for the abundance of lush pillows and the plush duvet cover, all in smoke-colored linens. I run a hand over the cover and find it soft as butter.

“Wow,” I whisper, setting my bags down.

My whisper turns to a little cry of delight when I spot the gift basket sitting on the iron-and-wood bedside table. It’s filled with shampoo, body lotions, bath gels, and bath bombs. A cashmere robe and slippers complete the set.

It’s all a little freaky, given that there is a welcome note made out to me from Scott Inc. Since Mr. Scott appears to be the über e cient type, I shouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t spied Stevens yet, but he’s supposed to be shy. Best way to deal with shy pets is to wait them out.

I tour the bathroom—whirlpool tub for two!—and then toe o my shoes and plop myself on the bed with a sigh. The

house is still, and the storm outside the big window blows madly. The massive bed is a cocoon of comfort.

Inexplicably, my vision blurs, and I take a shuddery breath and let it out slowly.

They say home is where the heart is. I think whoever came up with that little idiom was trying to make themselves feel better. When you don’t have a permanent home, you feel it. I’ve just lost mine, and while I make good money, more than I’d make at any o ce job I could find, I can’t a ord to buy or even rent a new place in Manhattan. I could move somewhere else but New York has been my home for my entire life. I have friends and connections here.

And, sadly, this is the city where my dad left me. As pathetic as it is, if I leave, it will feel like a death, like that last small connection between us has been permanently severed.

A light pat on the bed has me turning my head. “There you are, Stevens.”

Stevens is a brown tabby with bright yellow eyes and a sweet expression. He gives a little inquisitive meow and then bumps my hip with his head. I hold out my hand, and after a few sni s, he’s purring and letting me stroke his silky fur.

“Such a pretty boy.”

The ache in my chest both intensifies and releases as Stevens purrs and o ers me his warmth. I snuggle him closer. He’s the main reason I took this job. I might not be able to keep a pet, but I can love others for a short time.

“Come on, Stevens, let’s raid the kitchen.”

Changing into my warmest jammies and thick socks, I head downstairs. The snow is falling so thickly now that the

view from the wall of windows is a blur of white. I turn on the gas fireplace, feed Stevens his dinner, and settle down at the kitchen island with my ice cream.

The silence is profound, the snowfall blotting out the sounds of the city, which has been forced to rest for once.

But the peaceful quiet doesn’t last for long.

From somewhere in the building comes the sound of an acoustic guitar. It’s hard to tell exactly where because the music echoes and amplifies in the snow-induced silence until the sound seems to surround me. Whoever is playing is good.

Make that really damn good.

The guitarist is playing one of Kill John’s older songs, a slow ballad that speaks of bittersweet love and times passed.

It adds to my morose mood, and I’m tempted to shout out a request for the unknown guitarist to play Kill John’s “Apathy” so I can dance around the penthouse and feel empowered instead.

But the mournful song is too lovely to stop. Humming along, I take a heaping spoonful of my beloved mint chip right out of the carton and slowly slide it into my mouth. The act doesn’t give me as much pleasure as it usually does. The mint chip tastes weak, and my mind fills with the image of John instead.

Such a strange thing is life. All these moments of interaction with others, followed by a return to normalcy.

Usually, we don’t give it a second thought. And yet there will be those singular moments that somehow embed themselves in our psyche when we’re least prepared.

Try as I might, I can’t shake the mint showdown I had with John. I might say that it’s because he was hot. But that isn’t it. Okay, sure, that’s part of it. Sparring with a cute guy certainly gives me a high. But no, it’s something more.

“It’s like I know the man,” I tell Stevens as I take another spoonful of ice cream. “I know his face. Which is just weird, because I don’t know him at all.”

Stevens meows and bunts my foot with his head.

“I know. Right? Maybe it was some sort bizarre déjà vu.”

The haunting notes of Kill John’s song plays on, distracting me further.

John’s eyes flash in my mind, that look he gave me from under those dark locks of hair … I’d seen that expression from him before. Realization hits me like a freight train.

I halt, spoon crammed in my mouth, and promptly start coughing.

“Holy shit,” I sputter around icy mint chip. “Oh, my god.”

It can’t be. I’m making things up in my head.

“No way,” I exclaim to a perplexed Stevens. “It couldn’t have been.”

My mind races, going over every second of my bizarre encounter with the man I’m beginning to suspect was Jax Blackwood, singer and guitarist for Kill John. Isn’t his real name John? Isn’t Kill John a weird inside joke among the band? A play on John and bandmate, Killian’s, names?

I shudder. The irony hurts now. Jax Blackwood tried to commit suicide a little over two years ago. It had been very public. Ugly pictures of it splashed all over the media, of Jax

on the floor, nearly dead of an overdose. Kill John disbanded for a year in the wake of the near-tragedy.

Everyone had been talking about it, a juicy scandal they couldn’t get enough of. Jax’s very private life served as fodder for water coolers everywhere. I personally found it sad. The level of pain Jax felt must have been enormous. The public should have left him alone. But the world loved him.

They wanted him well. They wanted their fallen star to rise again. And he had. Jax Blackwood had been on tour with Kill John last summer. They sold out the New York City show within five minutes.

“Jax Blackwood,” I say around another spoonful of ice cream.

But why would Jax Blackwood, legendary singer and guitarist for the biggest band in the world, be shopping for groceries before a blizzard?

Because this is Manhattan and anything can happen, even a world-famous rock star shopping for mint chocolate chip ice cream. Right, that’s where he’d be, getting ice cream. Not sunning it up on a beach somewhere with gorgeous women hanging on his arms.

I don’t know much about Jax Blackwood, but I do know he’s an infamous womanizer. Most of the pictures I’ve seen of him are with unearthly beautiful women at his side.

Famous women. Actresses, models, singers. That much has never changed about him.

But God, now that I really think about it, my guy looked exactly like Jax. Same smarmy, I’m going to rock your world and leave your panties wet before walking out on you smile.

Same gorgeous, green bedroom eyes. I had a neighbor who

used to declare that Jax was the star of her personal diddle dreams. Then again, she’d claimed every member of Kill John for that honor.

The last picture I’d seen of Jax, his hair had been past his shoulders and he’d been sporting a beard. The guy in the store—John—had been clean-shaven with shorter hair, a shaggy mess.

“He could have gotten a haircut,” I ponder aloud.

Stevens mewls in agreement.

Rattled, I stare at my ice cream, the memory of his lips against mine making my cheeks flush. Had I really kissed Jax Blackwood?

“Maybe he just looks a lot like Jax,” I tell Stevens. But what about his voice? That hot fudge and cookies voice had been pure sex and sin. Just like Jax’s.

He’d wanted to know my name. And I’d walked out on him.

Pressing my hands to my hot cheeks, I laugh a little.

“Holy hell. Leave it to me to kiss a rock legend and not even fully appreciate the fact until afterward.”

Steven just meows.

“Maybe,” I amend. “I think... No … He couldn’t have been Jax.”

CHAPTER FOUR

STELLA

T HE SOLE BONUS of a blizzard in spring is that the weather turns warm sooner than later. I hole up in my Penthouse of Awesome with Stevens purring away on my lap for a week. If you’re going to be trapped inside for a week, being in a kickass penthouse is definitely the way to go. I’ve had enough long soaks in the tub that my skin has a pink tinge to it now. And whoever lives in this condo is a music junkie. The sound system is killer, and I’m pretty sure they have every song ever recorded stored on a computer that appears to be just for that use. The movie collection is fantastic as well.

Between that, my e-reader, and my mint chip, I could have happily stayed in for longer. Okay, sure, eating the ice cream hadn’t lived up to its usual bliss. Certain … feelings had gotten in the way. But I ate those feelings right up, numbing everything with my ill-gotten gains.

By the time the world thaws enough to go out, I’m in desperate need of some exercise. Bidding sweet Stevens and bubbly Hawn adieu, I grab my yoga mat and head for the

great outdoors. I’m pretty sure I’m the worst yoga practitioner on the planet, my ability to hold a pose being somewhere between ten to thirty seconds before I either fall or something pops. But it beats running. I loathe running.

Burning lungs and aching shins is a hell I’m not willing to endure.

That said, I’ve always envied runners. They look so free.

Plus, they’ll have the definite advantage during a zombie apocalypse. Unfortunately, I’ll have to resign my fate to being one of the bitten.

One hour later, I’m sweating a river, have a face that would make a tomato proud, and am trudging back home.

Why I decided to try hot yoga is a mystery for the ages. Heat and my pale ass do not mix. At all. I think I’d rather run, or be attacked by zombies.

God, I stink. Like sweat and dank yoga mats. I pass a woman who gives me a wide berth, probably to save her nose. My smile is grim as I plod on.

Rounding the corner, I finally reach my building. Back to my beloved bath I will go. I’m dreaming of it as I walk up the front stairs, and right into …

“You have got to be kidding me,” I cry as John halts in his tracks, one foot on the first stair of my building. “I mean, come on, it was just ice cream!”

That seals it; this guy can’t be Jax Blackwood. A rock star would not hunt down a woman just because she took his ice cream.

No, don’t look guilty. Play it cool. Even if you are sweaty and stinky. Shit on a toothpick. Why now?

He’s sweaty too, wearing athletic shorts and a longsleeve T-shirt that clings to his broad chest and flat torso like a hug. It works for him. His body is tight and fit, that perfect ratio of wide, strong shoulders and lean, washboard abs. His skin isn’t blotchy red but smooth honey. Of course, his sweat smells like sunshine and sex. Typical. They should make it into a cologne: Hot Sweaty Guy. A zing of something purely anticipatory goes through me.

Apparently, I’m cheap like that, happy to see a guy even though it appears he’s some sort of creepy stalker. My priorities are embarrassingly out of whack.

Doesn’t help that daylight only improves his good looks, making his eyes dark jade. Lucky fucker. He has two deep lines that bracket his mouth when he grins. I hadn’t noticed that before. But I remember his dry laugh perfectly.

“Oh, that guilt must be eating you up, Button. I bet there was a veritable telltale ice cream heart beating in your freezer all week.”

“Hardly.” There totally had been. His damned, outraged face haunted me with every spoonful. “I ate the whole carton right up. And it was de-fucking-licious.”

He moves up a step, bringing himself eye level with me, at my perch two steps higher. I sti en, as he leans in close, his voice at my ear, mocking. “Thud, thud. Thud, thud.”

“Shut up.” I won’t crack. Nuh-uh.

But I do. I can feel the guilt twisting my features. Damn it.

He laughs. “I knew it. Revenge is a dish best served cold, isn’t that what they say?”

“You’re thinking way too much about me and my mint, guy.” I plunk a hand on my hip. “Do you have any idea how

creepy and desperate it is to track down someone over ice cream?”

He laughs again—a husky sound, as though he hasn’t done it for a while. “As much as I hate to burst your paranoid bubble, Button, I live here.”

“Bull.”

“I shit you not, sweets.”

“It’s Stella, not ‘sweets’ or ‘Button’ or whatever inane name you insist on using.”

“Stella, huh?” He seems closer now. Enough to spot that little scar under his eye again. My knees go a twee bit weak.

They nearly buckle when his husky voice rolls over me. “And it’s John. Remember? Not ‘guy’ or ‘mister’ or whatever evil name you’re using in your head.” He peers at me, his grin cheeky. “Don’t bother denying it. I can practically see them popping up when you look at me.”

He’s right. I have many names for him bubbling around in my head. John? Or Jax? God, I don’t know. And yet it’s killing me.

I don’t want it to be Jax. Bad enough I have to face this guy right now, looking my worst. I won’t be able to bear it if this is the rock star I’ve sung along with while in the shower.

“Look, whoever you are …” Don’t be Jax. “Hunting down a woman for ice cream is just sad. I’m pretty sure the stores have restocked by now.”

He snorts. “Trust me, babe, I’m not that hard up for dessert.”

“All evidence to the contrary.”

“You’re right,” he says with a sarcastic smile that I’m beginning to associate with him. “I thought, hey, why don’t I

go for a jog and hunt down the little kissing bandit who stole my mint chocolate chip. Why, in a city of ten million, I’m bound to run into her.”

“Har. Really. Har.” I look around the street where sad lumps of blackened snow are melting away. “You’re telling me this is a coincidence?”

That smile grows, curling at the corners like a snake’s.

“Apparently so.” A set of keys jangled as he lifts them before my nose. “And I so do live here.”

“Well, fuck me sideways,” I mutter without thinking.

John grins wide, the look in his eyes positively evil.

“Sideways, huh? Is that something you’re into?”

“Trust me, that wasn’t a request.” Not really. Well, maybe.

Gah, tap it down, Stells.

He scans my body with a sort of lazy perusal that is clearly designed to fluster. “You sure? You look a little flushed and overheated.”

“I just came from hot yoga!”

“Hot yoga? Is that like a class full of hot chicks doing yoga?” He strokes his chin like a creepy professor. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

Wait, did he call me hot? I pause, peering at him, but he simply blinks back with false innocence.

“I’m going inside,” I tell him with a pleasant smile.

“Doing downward dog has worn me out.”

Humor flares in his eyes but then his expression turns downright dirty.

I hold up a hand. “Whatever you’re thinking, just stop.”

“But it’s so good,” he protests, that gleam brightening.

“Oh, the wonderful possibilities.”

“Pig.” “Oink. Oink.” He dips his head toward mine, and it is not fair how good he smells when sweaty. Not at all fair. Fuckme pheromones at their finest. “How do I know you’re not stalking me? That is the more likely scenario.”

Everything in me stills—my breath, my heart, my yogainduced muscle twitches. I feel the pause between us. He clearly thinks he’s said too much. And now there is no more mystery. This guy is Jax Blackwood.

His eyes widen slightly, as if silently asking me to ignore what he just let slip, go back to thinking he’s just a regular guy. But then they narrow, and I get the feeling he’s bracing for impact.

Honestly, I wish I could let it go, but someone has to address the awkward elephant on the stairs. I clear my throat. “While I was eating my ice cream—” He snorts, but remains tense.

“I thought about how you looked familiar to me.”

“It was the guilt haunting you.”

“Or … And I’m just throwing this out there. You’re Jax Blackwood.”

He actually flinches. “Fuck. You recognized me.”

“It was bound to happen. John? Really?”

His chin tips in a pugnacious angle. “It’s my name. John is … me. Jax is who I am onstage.”

I picture him performing, all electric energy and raw passion and sheer talent. It’s a sight to behold. Hell, a couple of really hot fantasies have been induced by that sight.

While I’m lost in a teen fantasy, his eyes dart around like he’s expecting someone to pop out from behind a snow

mound and take his picture. Then his gaze snags on me. My expression must be slightly punch drunk, because his entire body leans away from mine. Not exactly flattering to realize he’s afraid I’ll try to lick his face or something.

I snap my gaping mouth closed. “Oh, calm down. It’s not like I’m going to start squealing and try to grab your junk.”

His expression lightens a little. “I think if you grabbed my junk, I’d be the one squealing.”

“True. I have surprisingly strong hands.” When he stares at me in horror, I hold them up and wiggle my fingers.

“Yoga. It’s highly e ective.”

“My balls just flinched in terror.”

“Consider yourself warned.”

He snorts but then glances at our building. “You really live here?”

“Do you really think I hunted you down?”

John—because I can’t seem to think of him as Jax—runs his hand through his damp hair, which makes his biceps bunch and twitch. “Yeah … that does sound crazy.”

Crazy. This whole situation is. One day, I’m o ered a four-month home in a dream condo, the next I’m standing on my stoop talking to a rock star. The biggest legend of my generation. I honestly don’t know how I’m not stammering right now.

“I can’t believe we’re neighbors,” I say without thinking.

His green eyes glint in the afternoon light, but he pauses and looks at me more closely. “You know, not to sound conceited here, but you’re kind of leering at me right now.”

My chin snaps up like I’ve been hit, even as my body flushes with embarrassment. Shit. I totally had been leering.

No, not leering. But I had been staring at him in awe. Ugh. “Well, you do sound conceited. I was simply making polite eye contact.”

Liar McLiar-Face.

Even though his lips twist, he is kind enough not to point out my perfidy. “You must be new. I haven’t seen you around before. And this building isn’t that big.”

“I moved in the night of the blizzard.”

“You mean the night after the ice cream theft?”

“You aren’t going to let that go, are you?”

He gives me a long, level look, and I feel myself squirming. I don’t want to remember kissing him, but I do.

And he knows it. His butter-soft lips stretch into a smug smile. When my cheeks reach maximum heat capacity, he finally talks. “Consider the ice cream a housewarming gift.”

“Hey, I gave you my cookies. Where’s my thanks?”

John runs the back of his finger along his bottom lip. “I know you’re being literal here, but I’m just hearing innuendo.”

“Might want to get that hearing checked, detective.”

He hums as if in agreement, but the look in his eyes is calculating. “If you really do live here, what’s your apartment number?”

I almost don’t want to give it to him. It’s clear by the amusement in his expression that he’s having fun pestering me. But I don’t think for a second he’s flirting to get somewhere with me. This guy is a revolving sex-kitten door.

Freckled redheads of average looks aren’t going to hold his attention for long.

I don’t even mind. The idea of hooking up with him is unthinkable. Oh, I know he’d make it worth my time. The way he moves is pure sensual sex and utter confidence. But he lives in my building. There is no way I could look him in the eye day after day, knowing he’d had me and moved along. Because Jax Blackwood is infamous for that too.

I shake my head and force my thoughts away from sex.

“I’m in 5B.” John blinks, his expression going totally blank. “Fuck me, you’re my next-door neighbor.”

“Five A?” I say faintly. God, that music I’d heard the other night—it had been him playing the guitar.

He flashes a smile. “That’s me.”

And then it hits me with a jolt. “You’re He Who Must Not Be Disturbed! I should have known.”

“I’m sorry? Who?” It’s kind of endearing the way his forehead wrinkles with confusion.

“My wall-neighbor on the penthouse floor. I’m supposed to stay clear of He Who Must Not Be Disturbed.”

He blinks down at me, and then the corners of his mouth pinch. “I see Scottie’s been managing things again.”

“Mr. Scott, you mean.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you want to call him.”

“That’s his name. At least that’s the name of the man who hired me to pet sit.”

Turning as one, we both climb the stairs to the front doors. John punches in his key code and opens the door for me.

“The band calls him Scottie. He’s our manager.”

“All the secrecy makes sense now.”

“He’s like an overprotective and annoying dad.” John tosses his empty drink bottle in the recycle bin by the door.

One quick lob and the bastard didn’t even look. “But he’s definitely our highest wall of protection.”

I touch my forehead. “Wow, I get it now, you being famous and all. You probably don’t like coming in contact with the little people, unless they’re sorting your M&Ms or something.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I don’t even like M&Ms.” “Skittles then. You don’t want to taste the whole rainbow, do you? Though, I can’t really talk. The purple ones are disgusting. I don’t know what the hell that flavor is, but it sure as shit isn’t grape.”

Silence rings out as John gapes down at me like I have two heads. I guess he’s a purple lover, which explains a lot. He shakes himself out of it. “You know, they make medication to deal with people like you.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yeah. Antacid.”

I can’t help it; I laugh.

His pugnacious expression melts away, and then he’s laughing too. The sound is rich and warm, and we stand there laughing like two lunatics. Until it occurs to us that we’re standing there laughing like two goofs, and our hilarity fades like a sad trombone.

John clears his throat and straightens. “Scottie warned you o , didn’t he?”

“Actually, he said that if any issues should arise in regard to you, I am to contact him immediately.”

He scowls at this, but then hu s out a laugh. “Yep, sounds like the bastard.”

“What did he mean, exactly, by issues?”

John’s expression expands into a wide, slightly evil smile.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure them out, you know …” He slips into a proper British accent, perfectly mimicking Mr. Scott.

“When said issues arise.”

“Cute.” I look him over slowly. “I’m not going to have to go buy a bunch of fire extinguishers, am I?” Wide, innocent eyes of grass green stare back at me. “Of course not. The apartment already has plenty.” He winks.

With that, he strolls past, heading toward the elevators.

Unfortunately, I’m going upstairs too.

John glances over his shoulder, and his brows lift. “You following me, Button?”

“Only because you’re going to the elevator. And stop calling me that.”

The elevator doors open, and we step into the space. I should have taken the next car. The space is too small, and John Blackwood takes up too much space with his enormous ego.

He leans against the wall opposite me, casually crossing one long leg over the other. The stance has the unfortunate side e ect of plumping up the thick bulge between his legs. I keep my eyes on his face as he gives me a lazy look. “Can’t help it. You’re cute as a button, with those round cheeks and all those little freckles. I swear, my first year crush used to have a doll that looked like you. I think she called it Chucky.”

Must not kick rock star. His body is probably insured.

“Wow, I’ve never heard the Chucky joke before.”

He laughs. “I’ve been told I’m an original.”

“Original what?” I mutter before giving him a benign smile. “You know how Chucky dealt with people he didn’t like, right?”

John tilts his head, considering me. “Maybe I’m the one who should be worried about possible issues arising.”

“Sleeping with one eye open might be the safest option.”

I mimic his stance, which, sadly isn’t as sexy when you’re vertically challenged. “You clearly know the mysterious owner of the penthouse I’m staying in.”

“Clearly,” he agrees, cheeky smile still in place.

“Which means you know Stevens and Hawn.”

John’s mouth twitches. “Yes.” “Then why aren’t you pet sitting?”

His smile drops a bit. “Stevens doesn’t like me,” he mumbles, examining his fingernail.

“Stevens? But he’s sweet and cuddly. He’s a total lover, not a fighter.”

John’s broad shoulders lift with a shrug.

I eye him carefully. “It must be something you did.”

He throws a baleful look my way. “I accidentally stepped on his tail one time. One time!”

I can’t help grinning. “And poor Hawn? Does the little goldfish have a beef with you too?”

“Not yet. Though, to be fair, Hawn is new. Before her, there was Locks. But she died. Very sudden, you know.”

The elevator reaches our floor, and we step out into the small landing between our doors.

“Locks?” Goldilocks. I grimace. “Oh, God, that’s bad.”

John chuckles. “Just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Killian’s crazy.”

I stop short. “Killian? I’m watching Killian James’s pets?”

John grimaces. “Shit. I don’t think I was supposed to say anything.”

“Wow.” I glance at the key in my hand and then at the door to my temporary apartment. “That makes so much sense now.”

Wearily, John eyes me. “You’re not going to get all weird about this, are you?”

“Me? P ft.” I wave him o . “Why would I freak about Killian James’s pets, if I’m not even awed by the infamous Jax Blackwood?”

The second I say it, I’m sorry. John instantly deflates, his jaw bunching.

Regret makes my voice thick. “Hey, I didn’t mean—” He holds up a hand. “No, it’s fine.” But his expression is cold, those green eyes that were once snapping with life, dead. He turns for his door and quickly opens it. “Welcome to the building.”

“John—” “If you need anything, remember to call Scottie.”

With that, he’s gone, and I’m left alone in the hallway, fearing I’ve just made a terrible mistake.

CHAPTER FIVE

STELLA

S TEVENS MAKES a place for himself on my lap and purrs. The warm, vibrating weight of him is a comfort as I pick up the phone and dial.

Absently, I stroke Stevens’s silky fur and wait, each ring increasing my agitation. Stevens presses into me, as if trying to bolster my spirits.

“Mitchell speaking,” a man answers shortly.

I’m fairly certain he knows who’s calling but I tell him anyway. “Hi, Mitchell, it’s Stella Grey.”

A chair squeaks, and Mitchell clears his throat. “Ms. Grey, always a pleasure to hear your voice.”

“Yes, thank you, Mitchell. I was wondering …” I lick my dry lips. “Have you any new info—” “Ms. Grey,” he cuts in with an expansive sigh, “you know I’d call if I had anything for you.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “Yes, I know. I just … wanted to see …”

“I know,” he says, gentler now. “I’m sorry, kid. Your dad isn’t an easy man to find. He uses aliases, doesn’t file taxes, lives totally o the grid. Hell, I’m not sure his name really is Garret Grey.”

I snort but it sounds like a stifled sob. “Probably not. But it’s the only name I have to go by.”

“Look, I don’t feel right about continuing to take your money when I’m only running into dead ends.”

Dully, I nod, even though I know he can’t see me. Mitchell isn’t the first person I’ve hired to track down my dad. But he’s going to be the last.

I lick my lips again and find my voice. “Perhaps it would be best to take a break. Thank you, Mitchell, for trying.”

He grunts. “I’ve failed you, and we both know it.”

My smile is wobbly. “Not your fault you can’t find him.

The man has devoted his life to slipping away from people.”

“At the risk of sounding patronizing, maybe it’s for the best. A dad who walks out on his kid isn’t worth finding.”

Despite Mitchell’s gru , well-meaning sentiment, my vision blurs with hot tears that I rapidly blink away. “How right you are.”

I hang up and hug Stevens close. My nose and eyelids prickle and burn with unshed tears. I feel like a fool searching for my father when I know damn well he doesn’t want to be found. If he did, he’d know just where to find me.

Or he would have before I’d moved. Now? Well, he’d still be able to find me if he tried. Dad was always good at flushing out a mark. But he’s never bothered coming back.

A little laughing sob breaks free, and I burrow my face in Stevens’s ru , heedless of the hairs tickling my nose. I should’ve let this go a long time ago. Dad left me. Fuck him.

He doesn’t deserve another thought. But it didn’t stop me from spending far too much money looking for him.

I’m not even sure what I wanted with him. A chance to say fuck you for leaving me. A chance to ask why I was disposable. Maybe even to ask if we had other family. My mom didn’t have any.

Mom. There are days I struggle to remember her face. I have nothing left of her, no pictures, no mementos. By the time my dad had thought to pack up her things, an irate landlord had already thrown everything out and our apartment in DC had been rented. I’d never forgiven my dad for that.

It horrifies me that her features are nebulous in my mind.

I know she had blond hair that was silky and cool to the touch, and deep blue eyes—the same color as mine. She smelled of fresh apples, and when I was sad, I used to rest my head on the slope of her breast and listen to her heartbeat.

I miss her so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. But she is gone. I have no one to rely on but myself. It’s been this way long enough that I should accept it and move on. I’ve been stuck in a holding pattern, trying to find a dad who failed me in too many ways.

Wiping my face, I set Stevens aside and stand, stretching my tired muscles. “No more self-pity, Stevens.”

Walking into the bathroom, I grab some tissue and blow my nose before washing my face. Stevens follows, watching

with curious interest.

“I’m young and intelligent. My whole life is ahead of me.

I’m staying in a penthouse with the cutest cat ever.” At this Stevens meows, and I grin. “Cutest, smartest cat ever. I don’t need to find the asshole who made me miserable when he was around. No more. Onward and upward.”

Stevens meows again, and I nod. “It is decided.”

With that, I take a long, hot shower. And if I happen to cry the whole time, there’s only Stevens to hear my sobs, and he’s not going to tell anyone.

J OHN

I KNOW THE SIGNS . They’re pretty damn clear. The weight in my chest, the way it becomes harder to get up in the morning, because the bed is comfortable and dreams are better than reality. Everything becomes heavy. Even my mind.

That’s the worst thing about it, not being able to escape your mind.

The mind is everything, right? How do you get away from your own thoughts? You can’t. There is only distraction.

It used to be that when my world started to go dark, I’d distract myself with music, drinking, partying, sex. Great distractions when you’re a rock star and everyone wants to please you. At least for a while. But the dark will always find a way in.

Besides, drinking, doing drugs? Worst fucking distraction ever. I might as well have pushed a self-destruct button and saved myself some time.

I slouch down on my couch and run a hand over my face to feel something other than the heaviness pressing into me.

Doesn’t stop the whispers, though. The insidious little thoughts creeping through my brain, telling me that I deserved this, that I am a waste of space.

“Goddamnit.” I lunge up and prowl the living room.

Coping mechanism number one: remind yourself that your thoughts are not always your friend. They can lie like a motherfucker.

I’m Jax fucking Blackwood, a goddamn legend. I’m the voice of my generation.

Not anymore. You’re the cautionary tale of your generation.

“Shit.”

It’s not true, man. That’s just anxiety trying to make a nice, comfortable home in your brain. Fuck o , anxiety.

I settle a little, but not enough. I’m on medication, but that isn’t as black and white as it sounds. It’s a matter of finding what medication works for me. Trial and error. And no matter what I take, I have to stay mentally vigilant.

I make an appointment with my therapist. I won’t lie— the childish side of me chafes at the fact that I need to reach out for help. It’s stupid as hell, but there it is; I feel dependent on others and don’t like it. But that’s part of what pulled me under before—the refusal to believe that I needed help.

I know better now. And right now, I need reinforcements.

Even if this is going to suck ass.

I pick up my phone and dial.

Thirty minutes later, my doorbell rings.

Fucking, fuck, fuck, this is really going to blow chunks.

Rye and Whip grin at me from the other side of the door.

“Hello there, Sting,” Rye says as he shoulders past me.

“Sting?”

Whip walks in and gives me a patient look. “You sent out an SOS.” Right. “Message in the Bottle,” one of The Police’s best songs.

“Cute,” I say as Scottie follows, his expression stern and a little pissed o . Since he always looks that way, I don’t take it personally.

“Jax,” he says by way of greeting. But I see the worry in his eyes too. He knows I wouldn’t call all of them here if it weren’t serious.

I glance at my now empty landing.

“What are you looking for?” Scottie asks.

“Making sure Brenna isn’t lurking in the shadows.”

Where Scottie goes, she usually follows like an evil henchman in five-inch designer heels. “Where is she?”

“In L.A.,” Scottie says as he leans against an arm of the couch. “What’s going on, Jax?” “Just jump right into it, eh?” I walk to my kitchen, pretending like I’m not about to hurl. “No ‘Hello there, Jax, good to see you. How have you been?’”

Scottie lifts a brow. “How have you been, Jax?” “Fine, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”

Rye and Whip plop down on armchairs and watch us. I pull out a couple of beers and toss them each a bottle. They catch their drinks with ease.

“You want one, Scottie? I haven’t any tea brewed.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he gives me a level look.

“Am I going to need it?”

“Probably.”

Scottie pulls the cu s of his shirt, adjusting them just so.

His suit is dove gray and impeccable. I’ve only seen him truly ru ed once and that was over his now wife, Sophie. I know he’ll remain calm when I tell him my news. I rely on that.

He’s the glue that holds this band together—an excellent quality to have in a manager.

“Dude,” Rye says from his slump in the chair, “just spit it out already.”

Rye, our bassist, is big bruiser of a guy with an encyclopedic knowledge of music. He’s also a pain in the ass.

“Jesus,” Whip says with a shake of his head. “Let the guy have a minute.”

“Thanks, Whip.”

“Sure thing, Jax.” He winks. “Shit either floats or sinks.

Either way, it’s still shit.”

“I don’t … even know what the fuck that means.”

He grins. Like a moron.

Girls love Whip. He’s got the whole dark hair, blue eyes, and model face thing going for him. Hell, I have that look too. But Whip somehow makes himself appear innocent and a little lost, like all he needs is the love of a good woman to save him. And they all fall for it. He’s our drummer. Even

now, he’s tapping his hands on his thighs because he can’t be still.

With a sigh, I throw myself onto the couch and scrub my hands over my face. “I have an STD.” If a mouse farted right now, you’d be able to hear it.

“I’m sorry, what?” Rye says with a cough.

“You heard me.”

A throat clears.

Scottie’s accent gets crisper. “What STD do you have, John?”

He’s pulling out John. I’m in deep shit.

I flop back and meet his grim face. “Chlamydia.”

“Bloody hell.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and then pushes o from the couch to pace.

“Wow.” Rye rocks forward and clenches his hands. “Wow. That’s just … fuck.”

Whip gives me a sympathetic look. “Sorry, man.”

“Yeah.” I feel about the size of a bug.

“How in the bloody hell …” Scottie throws up a hand.

“Don’t answer. I know how. Damn it, John, you know better.”

“Seriously,” Rye adds. “Safety first, man. Cover it before you smother it.”

Despite feeling like shit, I sit upright. “Hey, I suited up.”

“Then why—” “Oral.” When Rye frowns, I give him a pitying look. “You suiting up then too? Using a dental dam? Otherwise, I’d be getting my shit checked out if I were you.”

Rye looks horrified. “You fucking serious, man?”

Scottie makes an annoyed noise. “That’s it, I’m enrolling all of you in Sex Ed.” From his slouch in the chair, Whip grins wide. “Just give me the Cli sNotes.”

“You had those. They’ve clearly left you all woefully undereducated.”

Whip shakes his head and gives me a sympathetic look.

“Tough break, J.” “Yeah.”

“This is why I’m o casual sex,” he says darkly. “From now on, I’m waiting for a girlfriend or employing a professional.”

“You’re going to pay a hooker?” Rye asks, shocked. “Have we sunk so low, William?”

“A carefully vetted, highly trained professional,” Whip corrects, then shrugs. “She knows what she’s doing, and no one gets hurt or contracts a fucking STD.” I don’t miss the emphasis on that last bit.

“And if she talks,” Rye presses, “what then?”

Whip shakes his head. “The type of woman I’d hire would have as much at stake in keeping her client’s identity secret.”

“You seem to know a lot about this,” I point out, peering at my friend. “You wouldn’t happen to be using said service now, would you?”

“We’re talking about your sex life right now, Deep Throat, not mine.”

Whip easily evades the throw pillow I chuck at him, but not the can of Pringles I follow with. They make a satisfying

ring when they connect with his head, and I laugh as he rubs his head and flips me o .

“Man,” Rye leans in, his gray eyes wide with concern, “does your dick hurt? Or is it your balls? I’ve always wondered what happens but was afraid to look it up. Google is not your friend in those cases.” He shudders.

“I said I got it from oral, didn’t I? It’s in my throat.”

“Your fucking throat?” Again with the expression of horror.

“You’d rather my dick was jacked?” I can’t help but laugh, even though it isn’t funny. Not to me, anyway.

“No. I just … God. I don’t think I’ll be able to go down on a chick for at least a week after this.”

Whip snorts. “A whole week? That’s like fasting for you.”

“Right?” He waggles his brows.

“You lot are giving me heartburn,” Scottie murmurs, then pauses and frowns. “How does this a ect your vocals?” He holds up a hand when I cut him a glare. “I had to ask.”

My shoulders slump. “The infection didn’t get out of hand because we caught it early. I’ll tell you how I feel when I try to sing.”

Nodding, he pulls out his phone, his thumb tapping at the screen.

“What are you doing?” I ask with some trepidation.

“Calling Brenna.”

“What? No!” I leap up, ready to tackle him for that phone.

“Don’t tell her. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He lifts a brow. “You think you’d keep it from her? She’s head of PR and this is going to be a bloody public relations nightmare. Your partners have to be informed.”

I halt. “Fuck. I know, all right. I just … Fuck.”

Whips smiles. “Fucking is what got you into this, son.”

“William?” Scottie looks at him. “Shut it.”

“Yes, boss. Shutting it right now, boss. Completely shutting it.”

Scottie doesn’t bother to acknowledge him. “Have you an idea of who the lady in question might be?”

“Yeah.” My stomach clenches. “I think I know who.

Thing is, we didn’t exactly exchange names.”

“You mean there’s only one candidate?” Rye asks, as though the possibility of not having gone down on countless women is unheard of. If he’d asked me a few years ago, I’d have agreed.

Truth is, I used to love getting a woman o that way.

Maybe it was my proper British childhood, but the idea of getting my mouth between a woman’s thighs has always felt slightly illicit and completely addictive. To bring a woman to the point where she’s quivering, fucking teetering at the precipice and all it takes is the simple touch of my tongue to make her lose her mind is a serious high.

Then it became too easy, too commonplace. When sex is easy to come by, o ered multiple times on a daily basis, the thrill turns to something more pedestrian. Now, sex is more about me getting o as e ciently as possible. And isn’t that a sad thought.

I rub my jaw, wanting to touch my aching throat but refusing to do it. “One candidate who might have given me the STD. We were on tour. You know how it is. Maybe … shit … ten or fifteen women around the same time.” Everything inside me clenches and twists. I might have passed this on. I

had protected sex every time, but I hadn’t worn a condom when a chick went down on me.

I can feel Scottie at my side and the weight of his stare. It adds to the weight already on my shoulders, and I close my eyes. “I don’t even know their names, Scottie.”

He doesn’t say anything. I don’t want him to. There’s nothing to be said. At some point, you can’t outrun your mistakes.

Unexpectedly, his hand grips my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “We’ll sort it out, mate.”

I nod but it’s perfunctory. “I should be the one to tell them.”

His grip goes hard. “Absolutely not.”

I glance his way and find him glaring. “It’s my mistake. I need to own it.”

Scottie’s nostrils flare in that bullish way of his. “And you will leave yourself wide open to those who will take advantage of this situation.”

“If I infected a woman, she deserves to be pissed.”

“Pissed, yes. Sue you or exploit the situation? No. You weren’t the only one making the decisions during sex.”

“When did you become so cynical?”

His smile is brief and humorless. “When you lot became famous.”

I snort and look away. He isn’t wrong. The shit we’ve seen over the years has a ected all of us in di erent ways. Scottie has become more protective, whereas I have become more isolated. Sex was my last significant contact with people outside of the band.

“Brenna and I will handle it,” he says in a low voice. “Let us do our jobs.”

What a job. I don’t answer, and Scottie wanders o to call Brenna.

Wincing, I pace over to the back window. The snow is basically gone now, only little clumps left in the corners. I have a terrace garden I could sit in if I wanted to. But I don’t think I ever have.

Rye comes to stand next to me and then Whip appears on my other side. We’re silent, staring out at the city as Scottie’s voices rises and falls with annoyance.

“I can’t have sex anymore,” I mutter.

Whip shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. “Well, not until your treatment is done.”

“What’s that, like, a week?” Rye adds.

I rub the back of my neck. “That’s not the point. I’m not risking this again.”

Rye glances over at me. “You’re just done? With sex?”

“I don’t know. Whip has it right; I can’t do casual. But I’m not looking for serious either.” The last thing I want is a girlfriend. I’m a fucking mess, and there is no way I’m giving someone that much power over me.

Whip nods. “Like I said, you either become really well acquainted with your hand or you hire someone.”

“Make a mental note not to touch Whip’s hand,” Rye says to me.

Whip gives him the finger as I sigh.

“None of those options appeal.” Double fuck.

Rye’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “I guess you’re screwed, J.” He snorts. “Or not screwed, if you want to get

technical.”

Don’t I know it.

CHAPTER SIX

STELLA

D ESPITE HAVING a new neighbor who refuses to get out of my damn head no matter what I do, living in Killian James’s house is a dream. I have a bad feeling it is going to be hard to give it up. How do I go back to those tiny, lightless closets that people in this city call apartments? I’m already getting attached to sweet Stevens, who follows me around the house like a fuzzy bodyguard.

He watches as I set up my yoga mat on the terrace. An actual terrace. In New York City. I’m almost giddy. The sun shines bright on the flagstones. The wide space is modern with low-slung loungers and couches set up in groupings around a square-shaped, stone-and-steel fire pit/water fountain. Right now, the water is on and dances merrily of the din of the city below.

As I start my sun salutation, I can’t help looking at the wall that divides my terrace from John’s. It’s lower than I expected it to be, about chest high. Lush potted trees and flowering vines are visible, and I have the overwhelming

urge to peek at John’s terrace, because it looks like a verdant garden in comparison to Killian’s austere space. Not what I expected of my neighbor.

But I don’t really know him at all. I haven’t seen him for a week. Not like I’m trying to see him. But it is odd that we never run into each other. I wonder if he’s avoiding me.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter, moving into a plank pose.

I hate plank poses. My body quivers, fire racing along my chest. I’m pretty sure my boobs are warning me that they’re about to jump ship and run away. I hold the pose for a scant five seconds before falling down with a loud “oof.” But I’m getting better. At least now I can do a plank. Before, my hips never left the ground, no matter how hard I tried to lift myself. Progress is good.

Except now I’m supposed to straighten my arms and gracefully move up into a downward dog. I hu out a laugh, and get myself in alignment for a second before my upper body says, “Nope. Nope. NOPE.” I bobble the move and probably look like a drunken turtle doing it.

Upward facing dog pose is a sweet relief, stretching out my poor arms. But my thighs and calves burn in protest. I breathe in and out, holding the position, soaking in the warm sunshine.

The gentle tinkling of water soothes and a soft breeze rustles the treetops on John’s terrace. In the distance is the ever-present melody of New York: horns and sirens and random rattles. It comforts me as much as anything else, and I find myself sinking into that nice, chill headspace, only to be yanked out of it by the harsh ri of a guitar. The pavers beneath me vibrate.

Damn rock star. Has he no respect for anyone else? He’s not even trying to keep it down. It just gets louder, angrier.

It’s like I’ve landed in the middle of a concert, for fuck’s sake.

Grumbling, I get to my feet and march over to the wall that separates our spaces. There’s a low stone bench on Killian’s side, and I stand on it to peer over the wall. The sliding glass doors on John’s side are wide open, but I don’t see him anywhere.

The song plays on, aggressive and hard. It isn’t one of Kill John’s songs, which surprises me. I would have thought that he’d only play his stu . But he’s playing and singing Pearl Jam’s “Alive.” His version doesn’t sound exactly like Eddie Vedder’s. There are subtle di erences. The tone of his voice is slightly cleaner, the guitar playing tinged with melancholy beneath all the anger. I have no idea how this happens, but it makes it clear that, while musical notes may stay the same, each artist paints a di erent canvas.

And there is no doubt about it; Jax Blackwood is an artist.

Ordinarily, I might be dancing, but my chill has been decimated and has little chance of returning with this going on. I want my Zen back.

“Oy!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “John! Blackwood!”

Nothing. Not even a pause.

He plays with e ortless flow, his guitar singing.

I cup my hands around my mouth and shout again.

“Hellooo!”

It’s useless. There is no way he’ll hear me. I take one of the pillows o a nearby lounger and chuck it in the direction of his sliding doors. It lands pitifully short of target. With a

growl, I consider tossing my water bottle but he’s clearly not looking in the direction of his doors or he would have seen the pillow.

Either that or he’s ignoring it. I could call Mr. Scott. After all, he told me to let him know if John was being a pain in the ass. But it feels like tattling. Besides, I’ve already met John. Why bother with a middleman when I can go to the source?

This is what I tell myself. What I actually do, however, is dither and stare at John’s side of the terrace.

As suspected, John’s garden is a lush paradise in the middle of the city. It’s very English, with colorful flowerbeds and orderly paths. He has a fountain too, but it features a sculpture of Pan playing his flute. I have no idea if John bought the condo with the terrace this way or if he had it created, but its beauty surprises me.

John hits the reverb on his guitar and the defiant screech takes me right out of my fantasy of having tea and cakes under the pretty loggia. Okay, enough is enough. I can do this. I can confront him. It’s just a small matter of breaking and entering. Well, I’m not technically “breaking” anything if I jump over his wall. Just a little illegal entering, then.

John won’t mind. I’m sure he’d let me in if he could hear me. A cold sweat breaks out over my lip as I contemplate my crime.

“Oh, buck up, buttercup,” I mutter to myself.

Wiping my sweaty palms on my yoga pants, I then press them to the warm top of the wall and haul myself over. I’d pictured doing it with more grace, but after a few fumbles, I manage to get over and hop down on the mirroring bench

running along John’s wall. Not giving myself time to chicken out, I stride straight inside.

For a moment, I’m distracted by the fact that, unlike Killian’s urban-retro loft style, John’s place is decorated like something straight o the set of Pride and Prejudice. Massive Oriental rugs overlap each other. There are expensive antique furnishings, overstu ed chairs, and dozens of oil paintings in gilded frames. It’s so opposite to the rocker front John puts up that I gape, wondering if I’ve entered an alternate dimension.

But no, the music is as loud as ever. And I’m trespassing in this Buckingham Palace of an apartment.

To prove I’m not a total creepster, I call out as I slowly walk farther into his place. “John? Jax? Can you hear me?”

No. No, he cannot.

I know this because he’s standing on a faded red Persian rug, completely absorbed in the music, his fingers moving with crisp precision over the strings of his guitar.

And he is completely naked.

Jesus wept, I cannot look away. I. Cannot. Look. Away.

He is stunning. Breathtaking.

His is more of a long, lean body than big and bulky bruiser. Lovely square shoulders, trim hips, well-defined and surprisingly strong-looking thighs, and tight calves.

Running clearly does a body good. And maybe guitar playing does as well, because the man’s forearms are pure poetry, ropy with definition.

This all goes through my head in a flash, because really I’m just gaping like a dying fish.

Holy hell, he moves his hips like he’s fucking, the guitar barely hiding his goodies. But then he lifts the neck and suddenly everything is on display. And all that … girth … swings. It fucking sways like a hypnotist’s pendulum. I swear I sway with it, utterly mesmerized.

That is until he whips around and his green eyes lock onto mine. It snaps me out of my daze faster than a bullet, and I fully realize that I am standing in a room with naked Jax Blackwood.

Naturally, I lose it.

J OHN

I T ’ S her eyes I see first. Wide, deep blue mirrors, reflecting something like horror but not really—closer to shock and mortification, like I’ve slapped her with my dick or something. And “dick” is definitely the theme of the day because, even though eager Little John is well hidden behind the guitar now, she’s staring at my crotch as if the memory of him is burned into her retinas.

“Oh my cock—god. My cock—godcockgod …” She flails her hands. “God. I meant God. God-cock. Argh!”

Her flustered blather ends in a gurgle and a new tide of rapid hand flapping.

Even though her sudden appearance scared the shit out of me—until I realized it was Stella and not some stalker who’d

gotten in—a laugh escapes me. “My cock is godlike, so I can see the confusion.”

Her face flames bright red. “Dick.”

“It goes by that name too.” I wink at her because it’s fucking hilarious the way she’s practically hopping around but her eyes are glued to my guitar. “Although, you probably should get a proper look if you really want to be impressed.”

I move to lift my guitar, and her hands thrust out.

“Don’t you dare! You leave that guitar right where it is, mister.”

“You sure?” I hesitate, hand gripping the neck. “You’re staring awfully hard for someone who doesn’t want to see the goodies.”

Her eyes narrow on my face, her glare a death ray. “What the hell, Jax? Who goes around playing guitar naked?”

“It’s John.” For some reason, it bugs the hell out of me when she calls me Jax. “And I do. When I’m in the privacy of my own home.” I grin. “Though there was that one time on stage.”

“Well … put some clothes on,” she hisses.

“No.” “No?” “It’s my house. I’m playing naked. Deal with it.”

Stella hu s, which does fantastic things to her breasts.

I’m momentarily distracted by the way they jiggle in that little top she’s wearing. Maybe I’ll keep the guitar in front of my junk after all. Because, now that I’ve got a good look at her, it’s hard to turn away.

With that red hair and those pouty lips, she’s a total Wilma. Tiny waist, swelling hips, curvy legs. And her

breasts? Great Gibson’s ghost, why the hell does she usually hide those sweet tits behind baggy tops? She has the Goldilocks of breasts—not too big, not too small, but just fucking right. They’re perfect, perky handfuls. And I have pretty big hands.

“Are you staring at my boobs?” Stella snaps, grabbing my attention and making me flinch.

I don’t look away, though. Holy hell, they’re gorgeous.

“You stared at my junk,” I say to her tits. “Just returning the favor.”

I have the pleasure of watching her nipples perk up and say hello. A grin spreads over my mouth. Damn, but they look perfect too, like little sugar candies. I want to see them.

Now. “Oy.” She snaps her fingers. “You had your look. Now eyes up.”

She’s right; there’s looking and then there is leering.

“Speaking of having a look …” I clear my throat. “Why are you trespassing?”

The flush reaches down to her chest. Lovely chest. Behave, John.

The voice in my head sounds disturbingly like my mother’s. Disconcerting, since I haven’t heard her voice for years. It kills any arousal I have going on faster than a gunshot.

“I tried to knock,” Stella says. “You didn’t hear me.”

“Therefore, you simply barge right in? Good to know we’re at that level in our relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship. And yes, I barged in.

You’re disrupting my yoga time with all the noise.”

Seriously, this girl. She’s part excellent entertainment, part wet blanket. A complete dichotomy. “That wasn’t noise.

That was music, Stella Button.”

“Whatever it … Argh. I cannot talk to you this way. Put some damn pants on, at least.”

Her agitation amuses me, and I’m tempted to refuse her request. But I’m starting to feel a bit ridiculous standing here bare arsed with only my Strat for protection. Plus, now that I’ve stopped playing, I’m getting cold.

“Fine.” I whip the strap from around my neck and set my guitar down. Much squawking ensues, which makes me grin wide as I grab my jeans and haul them on.

For all her protests, Stella watches with avid interest as I tuck myself into my jeans and pull up the zipper. I don’t bother buttoning. First of all, I know it will piss her o .

Secondly, it will piss her o .

Her eyes stay locked on that open button, and I place my hands low on my hips, flexing my abs for added fun.

“You sure you want me to keep these on?” I ask, fighting a laugh.

Her sexpot mouth purses. “You have no shame, do you?”

I have tons of shame. Endless fucking shame. But about my body? “Nope.”

She shakes her head and sighs. But she can’t hide her smile from me.

“Then we’re agreed,” I tell her. “You won’t sneak up on me, and I’ll keep playing naked.”

“What’s with playing naked anyway?” she asks.

I shrug. “I got hot. Took my clothes o . No big deal.”

I don’t mention that I’m horny but have no outlet to relieve my needs other than my hand. And my hand isn’t cutting it. Playing naked takes the edge o . Call it weird, but there’s a certain eroticism in the act, the cool press of the guitar against my dick, the taut resistance of the strings on my fingertips, and the music. Music and sex go hand in hand for a reason; they are both forms of expression, release, creation.

She looks at me like I’m a nutter. But when she talks, her tone is placid. “You’re right. Whatever you do in your own house is your own business.”

“Thank you—” “However,” she butts in, “your music isn’t remaining in your home. It’s invading mine.”

“Music cannot be contained by mere walls, Stella Button.”

“Well, try.”

I raise my hands wide. “How am I supposed to do that?”

Stella’s mouth falls open. “You can’t be this clueless.”

I glare at her in annoyance. “I’m not turning down the volume. That’s bollocks.”

“Plug headphones in your little amp.”

“Headphones? Am I in my parents’ house? Not a chance.”

“Oh, grow up. It’s not that bad.”

“I am grown. That’s why I have my own place. To play my music however I want.”

She blows a raspberry, the sound loud and obnoxious. I want to laugh. But I don’t because I’m still annoyed.

“Stop acting like an entitled pest, John. You’re disturbing the peace, and you know it.”

“No one else has complained.”

“Well, I am. Don’t make me call Mr. Scott.”

I feel my brows lift. “You’d tattle on me? Low, Stella.

Fucking low.”

She sni s, crossing her arms under her tits. “He did say I should contact him if I had any issues with you.”

“You know, Scottie has been after me to play for a while now. Never mind that, while he has ‘pompous asshole’ down to a science, technically he works for me.”

Her mouth falls open then snaps shut. “I forgot that.”

“Understandable. We let him play bossman when it suits us. But facts are facts, and I’m thinking I’ll win this round.

Try again, Button.”

A flush grows over her cheeks. “You’re seriously not going to keep it down?”

I probably would if I she weren’t throwing threats of Scottie at me. Or suggesting headphones. I give her a lazy shrug.

She snarls, making all her round places jiggle—again. “If you don’t, I’ll …” She looks around wildly, then zeroes in on my beloved Strat. “I’ll knock you on the head with that ratty old guitar.”

A horrified gasp leaves me. “That, sweet Stella, is a 1964 Fender Stratocaster Sunburst, once owned and played by Jimi Hendrix. I’d rather you give me a swift kick in the balls and call it a day.”

Her brows lift high. “You own a Hendrix guitar? And you’re playing it?”

“Of course, I am. The old girl needs to be played or she dies.” I rest a proprietary hand on her rough, battered body.

“Don’t listen to mean ol’ Stella. I’ll protect you, baby.”

Stella rolls her eyes. “Jesus. How much did that thing cost, anyway?”

“She’s not a thing. And she can hear you.”

Another eye roll.

I pat my baby again. “About a million, I guess. But she’s priceless to me.”

Stella goes pale and sways a little.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her, knowing but … still.

“I’m overwhelmed.”

“You should see Rye’s instrument collection. Now that’s impressive.” Suddenly, I want her to see it, to meet Rye, who I know she’d like. He’d charm her in a second. A frown hits me out of left field. Maybe I don’t really want her cozying up to Rye. She shakes her head as though trying to pull herself out of a fog. “I’m having inappropriate thoughts of running o with it.”

“I felt the same way,” I tell her solemnly.

“And selling it.”

“There’s the little thief I know.”

“I’d give most of the money to charity.” She doesn’t look convincing.

“Now, now, don’t try to Robin Hood it,” I tease. “It messes with my mental image of your mercenary ways.”

Stella sets her hands on her hips. “Look, will you please just use a headset like a normal person?”

“You want me to mute my sound? No way.”

“I can’t do yoga in peace, and you’re scaring Stevens.”

“Stevens is a rock ’n’ roll cat. He loves it.” When she cringes, I take a step closer to her, my eyes on her face.

“Why, Stella Grey, you used an innocent cat to make me feel guilty!” I kind of love that.

Her nose wrinkles, and she gives a little haughty sni . “I did not.”

“You totally did.”

Stella throws her hands up in the air. “Okay. Fine. It’s all me. Now, will you please keep it down?”

She moves to go, and I find myself stopping her.

“What if I play some melodies while you do your yoga?”

What the hell? I did not just say that.

Her blue eyes peer at me from beneath her lashes, all covert in her study of me. I don’t miss the way her attention lingers on my chest. That’s fine by me. I’m looking at her chest too. Fair’s fair and all that.

“How would you even know when I was doing yoga? It’s not like you can hear me knocking. And I’m not about to walk into this nightmare again.”

“Words hurt, Button.”

She stares, one red brow lifted.

“Text me,” I o er. “Then I’ll know when to keep it down.”

“I don’t have your number.”

“You’re just trying to be slow now, aren’t you?” I chuckle when she makes a face at me. “Give me your number. Or I’ll give you mine.”

Unbelievably, she wavers. A ripple of shock goes through me. I never give my real number out. Never. Only the band and Scottie have it. The rest get an assistant’s number or the

secondary phone I use for hookups. And she doesn’t want it.

Or maybe she doesn’t want me to have hers. Either way, it’s a blow I didn’t see coming.

I lick my dry lips. “I’m not trying to twist your arm here, sugar tits. If you’d rather I play—” “Oh, calm your britches, sugar nuts,” she counters. “I’m just trying to remember my number. It’s not like I dial it often.”

She shocks a laugh from me. “Sugar nuts, eh?” Suddenly, I don’t want her to go. I want her to listen to me play my guitar. I want to cook her dinner and show o the fact that I actually know what I’m doing in the kitchen. And I want to hear what new outrageous thing will come out of her mouth.

The need for her companionship is so foreign to me that I’m a little dizzy. My stomach rolls uncomfortably. I swallow hard and my throat hurts, reminding me that I have absolutely no business flirting with any woman. I’m a few beats away from a panic attack, which means she needs to go, despite what I want.

I run a hand through my hair. “I should shower. I’ll get it from you later.”

Stella frowns but then lifts her hands up in exasperation.

“Whatever. Just … keep it down.”

Disappointment in myself tastes bitter on my tongue. I swallow it, and again feel pain in my throat. “Yeah, sure.”

I’m better o avoiding her entirely. My life is too twisted for someone normal like her anyway.

CHAPTER SEVEN

STELLA

“T HE SECRET to eating xiao long bao,” I tell my new friend Bradley, “is to place the dumpling on your spoon, pierce it with your chopstick, then slurp up all the soupy goodness that flows out before eating the rest.”

Bradley, a forty-six-year-old forensic accountant formerly from Cleveland, glances at me hesitantly, then down at the dumplings nestled in the bamboo steamer between us. A determined look crosses his face, and he reaches for a little swirl-topped pillow of dumpling heaven, carefully lifting it and setting it on his spoon.

“Remember to let the broth cool for a moment or you’ll burn your tongue.”

Bradley follows my instructions with exacting patience that serves him well in his profession. A cloud of fragrant steam escapes as he pierces his dumpling.

“Allow yourself the experience of inhaling all those lovely aromas.”

“It smells fantastic,” he says happily, and then slurps up his soup.

No matter how many times I witness the phenomena, it never fails to satisfy seeing someone eat a delicious new meal for the first time. The look of wonder and pleasure on their faces, followed by an almost childlike glee, makes me feel like a kid again too.

“Delicious,” he says with a sigh. “This is the best place to eat them?”

I eat a dumpling before I speak again. “There are other good places. I’ll send you a list. But I like it here because you can have a variety of excellent dishes.”

We’re in the East Village, a few subway stops from Bradley’s new place.

Bradley nods and takes out his phone to tap in some notes. It’s cute, if overly e cient. Some people treat their time with me as a sort of class in which I’m their teacher and they are the eager-beaver students. Others just soak up the experience. Bradley is clearly the former.

Which is fine by me. Whatever floats his boat. He’s paying for this, after all.

“Let’s try the scallion pancakes next,” he says with mounting excitement.

When I met Bradley, he barely spoke but blushed shyly and asked if we could try some soup dumplings. He’d read about them when he was preparing to move to New York, only when he’d arrived, he was too shy to go on his own or invite one of his new coworkers.

“You’ll love these,” I tell him, as he serves us each a section. “How’s the new job going?”

“Very well, thank you.” Bradley flushes. “My coworkers are … pleasant.”

A smile pulls at my lips. “One in particular maybe?”

The blush grows, and he adjusts his tie. “Perhaps. But not as lovely as you, my dear.”

I’m ready for this. It happens from time to time. I give him an easy smile. “You are sweet. But I’m thinking this coworker of yours is pretty great.”

Bradley studies his food but can’t hide his expression.

Yep, he’s a goner on whoever this woman is.

“Tell me about her,” I say.

Bradley begins to talk. And I really mean to listen, but my attention idly glides over the restaurant and suddenly collides with a pair of jade-green eyes.

Jax Blackwood stares back at me with an evil grin.

At least I’m fairly certain it’s Jax—John. Or yet another version of him. This guy has on a white Oxford button-down shirt. The kind young o ce workers wear. A pair of silver wire-rimmed glasses rests on the bridge of his nose, and his once messy hair is parted on the side and swept back into a neat and tidy style. Geek chic. Total Clark Kent.

The only thing that remains the same is that sly, lopsided smirk and the way his eyes crinkle with deep laugh lines.

And, of course, it is John. No one else looks at me as if he knows my deepest secrets and finds them amusing.

He doesn’t know me at all, though. He only thinks he does. Annoyance skitters over my shoulders when he raises a pork bun in salute before taking a voracious bite out of it.

My thighs clench, and I instantly curse myself for even looking his way. I focus on Bradley, who is happily chatting

away about a woman named Grace.

I engage in conversation but, for the first time in ages, I’m on autopilot. My concentration is shattered by a certain devious rock star who keeps staring at me, eating his dim sum with a level of sensuality that is outright perverse. No one could possibly enjoy food that much. And how the hell am I supposed to focus when his eyes won’t leave me?

Every other bite, he winks or licks his lips in a lewd way, all clearly designed to unnerve me. And I’m so damn tempted to flip him the finger that my hand twitches on the table. I break a soup dumpling before I can get it into my spoon, and I swear John laughs.

Gritting my teeth, I finish my meal with Bradley. We stand to leave, and I can’t help but glance John’s way. He’s gone. I should feel relief but am horrified to realize I’m disappointed instead.

Fucking rock stars.

“Well, this was lovely, Stella,” Bradley tells me on the sidewalk. “At first I didn’t know what to think about your service. But I can’t thank you enough. It was worth every penny.”

A lot of new clients are nervous about our first meeting.

I’m happy that I won Bradley over.

“Don’t thank me. It was my pleasure.” Mostly. Stupid John Blackwood, shoving himself in the middle of my work.

“I’m glad you had fun.”

Bradley adjusts his tie. “I would like to schedule another meeting, if that’s all right with you?”

Despite what my clients might think, our first date is a testing ground for me as well. If I don’t feel comfortable with

a person, I walk. But Bradley is sweet and genuine. If I can help him come out of his shell a bit, I’ll be satisfied.

“Of course it is. Just text me a couple of dates and times, and we’ll make something work.”

“Okay. Good. Thank you.” Bradley leans in as though he might hug me but halts, clearly flustered.

I help him out and give him a friendly hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. “Take care, Bradley. And talk to Grace, okay? I’m sure she’d love to try soup dumplings too.”

His smile is wobbly. “Okay, Stella. You’re the professional.”

“Yes, I am. Go forth and prosper, Bradley Tillman.”

He blushes red but walks away with a bit of a spring in his step. It’s so cute, I watch him with a big grin on my face.

“Actually,” says a smooth male voice behind me, “it’s ‘live long and prosper.’”

My heart nearly bursts out of my chest, but I don’t react as I turn on my heel to face John. He stands far too close, a smirk on his face, his hands stu ed into the pockets of his loose, flat-front chinos. His shirt isn’t tucked in as a typical o ce worker would do, but other than that, he’s got the preppy intern look down.

I haven’t seen him since the unfortunate naked guitar incident. The memory is still strong enough to make it di cult to meet his eyes. I’ve seen him naked. I’ve seen his dick. His long, meaty, beautiful dick. Damn it all, I want to see it again.

No, no, no, Stella. Calm yourself. I can’t let him know I’m a ected; he’ll never let me live it down.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a false smile. “Do I know you?”

His expression clearly says he thinks I’m a smartass. But he extends his big hand with those long, talented fingers.

“Hi, I’m John Blackwood. You glared at me all over a grocery store, kissed me, then stole my dessert.”

I don’t take his hand. “You seem fairly stuck on that whole kissing and stealing bit.”

The corner of his mouth pulls higher. He might be dressed like a geek, but he looks like sin incarnate. I have no idea how he does it. His voice remains mellow, a slow tease.

“I admit, I am. I’ve never had anyone steal a kiss and not stick around for me to return the favor.”

I swear my lips soften and swell. Which is just plain nonsense, I tell myself grimly. “Why am I not surprised they all run away?”

His brow lifts. Deliberately misunderstanding me? Very cute, Button.

Oh, was that deliberate?

He grins wide. And I try not to stare. Usually, there’s something a bit cynical about John Blackwood. A strange stillness that overtakes him when he isn’t talking, and it’s as if he’s in his own world, and it’s a dark place. But when he smiles like this, unguarded and full out, he’s almost another person—boyish and happy.

I can’t get past his transformation.

“Are those glasses even prescription?” On closer inspection, the glass is flat and thin.

John pushes the glasses further up the prominent bridge of his nose. “They’re a prop. I’ve found most people look right past me when I’m neat and tidy.”

“Imagine that.”

He chuckles and steps a bit closer. “But you noticed right o .”

“Because you were staring at me.”

“You were staring right back.” He’s near enough now that the heat of his body bu ets mine. I am around men all the time. Some smell good, some reek of cologne, and some just reek. John’s scent is more of a tease: a bit warm and spicy, a little citrusy and musky. The combination tickles the edges of my senses, beckoning me to get closer, burrow in and investigate. It’s diabolical.

I take a step away from him and glance at the restaurant we just left. “What are you doing here?”

“Eating lunch at my favorite dim sum restaurant.

Obviously.”

“It’s my favorite dim sum restaurant.”

“Pretty sure it’s half the city’s favorite,” he says.

“And yet you just happen to be here. Today.”

His eyes crinkle with a grin. “Now, now, my little Sherlock Gnome. As it happens, my therapist’s o ce is across the street, and I like to have lunch here after a session.”

“Oh.” Now I feel like an ass.

Something John obviously realizes. His answering grin rivals the Cheshire Cat’s. “Look at you all adorably awkward, thinking you’ve put your foot in it.”

“Well, I kind of did.”

His brow quirks. “Because you got me to say I go to therapy? I’m not embarrassed to talk about it. Dr. Allen helped pull me out of a bad spot.” He shrugs. “Truth is, I

kind of like therapy now. It helps me get things o my chest and keep things in perspective.”

“I went for a while when I was a teen,” I tell him lightly.

Inside, however, I’m twitchy. Because, while John seems to be fairly at ease in opening up about himself, I’m not. I never have been. “I could probably do with a few sessions again.”

If he’s curious about why I had needed counseling before, he mercifully doesn’t prod. Instead, his attitude remains light and teasing. “It might help with that raging case of paranoia you have going on.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink.

When I wipe the corner of my eye with my middle finger, John chuckles low and clearly pleased with himself. He settles down and peers at me with renewed interest. “Are you really surprised we have the same taste in restaurants?”

“What do you mean?”

A furrow runs between his dark brows. “What was all that the other night when we were shopping? We had almost the exact same items.”

“I’d noticed,” I murmur, unsettled. “It was odd.”

“It was fucking weird.”

We start walking down the street. I’m not sure where we’re going or why we started walking, but I don’t stop. John remains close enough to touch but he keeps his eyes focused straight ahead. “Thought you were stalking me at first.”

I laugh. “I thought the same of you.”

“I know. You kept glaring with those crazy ‘if you even flinch in my direction I will nut you’ eyes.”

“That look is the first line of defense for most women.”

He shrugs. “Never had one of those directed at me before.”

“Because you’re the great Jax Blackwood?” I’m only half teasing.

“Well … yeah.” From behind his glasses, his green eyes gleam. “Why are you looking at me like I should apologize for that?”

“At least be a little humble.”

“I don’t know how.” He gives me another cheeky smile, his step light and confident. “Who’s that Bradley guy?”

He clearly heard too much. I keep my chin held high.

“He’s none of your business.”

John shrugs a big shoulder. “I couldn’t help but overhearing—” “When you were lurking behind us?”

“When I was sending a text and you two stopped right in front of me,” he appears almost aggrieved, “without even noticing I was there.”

“Sorry I didn’t take a moment to look around for you.”

Ignoring my sarcasm, he nudges me with his arm.

“Forgiven.”

“Argh!”

John’s laugh is low and rolling and way too pleased. “God, you’re easy to stir up.”

“I’m beginning to think you like doing it.”

He leans down, and his breath tickles my skin. “I love it.”

Shivers break out over my shoulders and run down my chest. Horribly, my nipples draw tight, and it’s an e ort to maintain my casual stride. Seriously, how does the man do

it? How can a few words and the smooth tenor of his voice a ect me so strongly?

Our steps slow as we reach the intersection. There’s a huge puddle, one of many that have appeared since the snow melt. This one is dark and deep, nasty bits of ice and city detritus floating on top. I halt and am glancing around for a way across when John catches hold of my wrist.

His long fingers make my wrist feel small and fragile.

When I halt and gape up at him, he grins at me, eyes bright with mischief.

“What—” My words cut o with a squeak when he bends down and scoops me up in his arms.

“Don’t wiggle,” he says as he steps straight into the icy puddle and walks us across the road. “You won’t like it if I drop you.”

He’s warm and clearly strong as an ox, despite his lean frame. I wrap an arm around his neck, not because I think I’ll fall, but because I can’t help myself. “You’re insane.”

Up close, his eyes have flecks of deep blue spiking through the green. “I’m being chivalrous,” he says in protest. “Seriously, mark the date because this is a first.”

His breath smells faintly of the little melon candies they hand out at the end of the meal, and I have to brace myself against his chest to keep from leaning closer and stealing another kiss to discover if he tastes good too. Doesn’t stop me from feeling the imprint of his hand clasping my bare thigh or the way his other hand presses against my ribs just below the curve of my breast. It’s too much and far too close.

He’s not looking where he’s going but studies my face as I study his. John Blackwood has an Old Hollywood look about

him—features that are of strong character instead of pleasant perfection. His high-bridged nose is a bit too long, the thick line of his dark brows a bit too severe, and his chin is completely stubborn, a blunt punctuation at the end of his sharp jawline. But his mouth is softly sculpted and full.

Those lips move slightly closer, and I realize I’m staring at them, that he’s watching me stare at them.

My face goes hot, and I look away, pretend I’m inspecting the road. “We could have walked around the puddle.”

I don’t think I fool him for a second.

“It would have taken too long. And this way, I get to carry you.” He winks in that cheeky way of his.

I have no idea why he’d want to, but I’m afraid to ask.

Being held by him is strange enough as it is. But it feels good. Really freaking good. I have visions of him carrying me around from now on. John Blackwood: my new mode of transportation.

“The last time someone carried me, I was ten,” I murmur.

He steps seem to slow as he looks me over, his gaze like a hot stroke on my skin. The smile that pulls at the edges of his lips is gentle. “Ah, honey, with those big baby-doll eyes and little freckles, sometimes you do look like a kid.”

A hu of irritation blows from my lips, and I start to wiggle. He grips me tighter as his glances down to at breasts.

His smile grows wider. “But you’re all woman, aren’t you, Stella Button?”

“Oh, let me down,” I snap, flushed and annoyed. “I don’t care if my feet get wet. I’m not listening to this hackneyed flirting—”

He puts me down abruptly, and I utter an inelegant “Oof!” “There you are,” he says happily. “All safe and dry.”

I straighten my shirt. “Ass.” He snickers, pleased with himself. “You really are easy to annoy.”

“You’re the only person who annoys me.”

Although it’s not completely true. He only annoys me some of the time. Mostly, he’s surprisingly charming.

John runs the tip of his tongue along the edge of his teeth.

“Aren’t I the lucky one?”

He actually sounds like he believes that. A smile tugs at my lips. He’s soaked all the way up to his ankles, his once white Vans now a murky gray. That can’t be comfortable.

And he did it for me. Not just charming, but kind too.

We’re at the closest subway exit now. And I glance toward it. “I’m headed home.” I want to ask if he’s going there too but don’t.

John glances in the other direction. “I’m going to that guitar shop over there.”

If he hadn’t pointed it out, I would have missed it. The place doesn’t have a sign, and the plate glass window is grimy and almost completely covered by old concert posters.

“Ah. Well … happy shopping.” That’s my cue to go. I don’t move.

Neither does he.

We stare at each other.

He bites the corner of his bottom lip. “Want to come along?”

A happy jolt goes through me. Down, girl. Resist. Don’t follow him like a puppy.

My mouth doesn’t get the memo, because it’s open and speaking before I can shut it. “Okay, sure.”

J OHN

W HAT AM I doing here with Stella?

I’m not sure. I mean, yeah, I know I invited her to come with me to my favorite guitar store in New York. I just don’t know why.

Liar. You know why. You like her.

Fuck. I do. She makes me laugh, and she’s just so strange.

In a good way. Like an Escher drawing, surreal and a little disorienting but you want to keep looking because you know you’ll discover something new. Who the fuck is Bradley to her? Why do I have a bad feeling I won’t like the answer?

I shake my head at myself as we walk toward the shop.

Not my business. We’re not even friends, just neighbors who bicker and flirt. Even so, instinct has me placing my hand on Stella’s lower back. I feel the heat of her through her clothes.

She’s wearing a long white blouse under a tight black sweater, paired with a flippy black skirt that makes her look like some sort of sexpot version of a schoolgirl. Totally works for me. Maybe too much. Stella might be short, but her legs are strong and curvy. God, she’s wearing pale gray knee-

highs. Fucking knee-highs? Has she any clue what that does to a guy?

It takes me right back to public school days in England where my number one objective was to find my way into a girl’s knickers. Without thought, I trace my fingers down the narrow curve of her back, and she shivers. My dick stirs, waking from a long sleep.

Not good. Needy dick is under house arrest.

I drop my hand.

Sam is, as always, in his battered red leather recliner by window. Surrounded by guitars hanging on the walls, propped in stands, and tucked away in cases, he appears almost a shepherd tending his flock of instruments. He doesn’t look up from the latest edition of Guitarist, but calmly sips a mug of what I know is herbal tea.

“Jax,” he says, flipping a page. “Was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Looking well rested, Sam.” In truth, Sam looks a hell of a lot like the late, great BB King. His talent is pretty close to the master’s as well. But Sam plays for himself, not a crowd.

“Got something for you.”

He sets down his magazine. “Introduce me to your lovely friend first.”

Something I’d been about to do, damn it. I hold a hand out toward Stella, who is hovering by the door, her big eyes taking in the organized chaos. “Stella Grey, this is Sam Absolom.”

For this, Sam stands. “How do you do, Ms. Grey?”

She shakes his hand. “Very well, Mr. Absolom.”

“P t. I’m Sam. Don’t know why Jax felt the need to be so formal.”

Stella smiles, and it hits me that she’s always smiling.

Not because she’s forcing it but it’s simply her natural inclination to be sunny. For someone who slips into the dark far too often, her glowing warmth is a beacon. I ease closer.

“I was being polite.”

Sam p ts again. “Now show me what you got.”

Demanding bugger. I love the guy. “Here.” I pull a small pack of guitar picks from my pocket. My thumbprint has been inked on the back of each. “As promised.”

Sam gladly takes them and sets the pack behind the counter. “Have a lot of young ones asking for these.”

Which is why I did it. I remember the first time I entered this store. Sam let me touch one of Kurt Cobain’s smashed guitars, nicely framed and waiting for a wealthy customer to pick it up. I’d felt like I was connected to a piece of immortality. I still feel that way sometimes; one day I’ll be bones and ashes, but my music will live on.

Sam takes Stella’s elbow and guides her around the room, pointing out various guitars and telling her the pros and cons of each.

Stella takes it in with wide eyes and pink lips softly parted. “They’re all beautiful.”

“That they are.” Sam’s knobby fingers trail over the sweet curve of a Gibson Acoustic Hummingbird. “Which one is your favorite?”

“Oh …” She spins in a circle, her arms spread wide. “All of them.”

Sam laughs. And like that, he’s charmed. The sucker.

“Have you ever played?”

I want to know too.

Stella flushes prettily. “I tried once. I’m ashamed to say the strings hurt my fingers too much to continue.”

Now, if it were anyone else, I’m fairly certain she’d be getting a lecture on fortitude and working through the pain, but Sam—the old dog—merely nods in understanding.

“Have to be bit by the bug or it doesn’t work.”

Oddly, Stella appears to exactly what he’s talking about.

“Some things are like that.”

“What made you want to try, though?” I ask, unable to keep quiet. My voice seems to startle them both, as if they’d forgotten I was there.

Stella straightens, her blunt nose wrinkling. She hesitates.

“Was it a song?” I ask. “A certain player you admired?”

Me? One can hope.

“You’re going to laugh,” she says, eyeing me like I’m waiting to pounce.

“I’m not going to laugh.” I scratch the stubble on my chin. “Well, maybe.”

Stella glares, but Sam cuts in. “Nobody judges musical tastes here.”

“Jax does,” she says somewhat petulantly. It’s weird hearing her say my stage name. I can’t really call it a stage name at this point either. Everyone calls me Jax. I only hear the name John if one of the guys or Brenna is pissed at me.

I’ve been Jax so long, the name John is barely me anymore.

But for reasons I don’t fully understand, I prefer to hear it from her lips.

“Jax has to be a snob,” Sam says, cutting into my thoughts. “He’s English.”

“It’s a badge of distinction,” I tease. “Now tell us your dark secrets, Stella Button.” I want them all. What the hell?

Why? Why should I even care?

Not seeing my frown of confusion, Stella sighs. “Okay. I was sixteen and went with some friends to see a re-showing of Pulp Fiction at one of those big theaters.” Already, I’m perking up, a grin pulling at my lips, because I know what she’s going to say. Her blush is freaking adorable. “And there was that guitar piece by—” “Dick Dale,” Sam and I say in unison. “‘Misirlou.’” I press a hand to my heart. “A brilliant classic.”

Stella appears relieved that we approve. Though, honestly, if she’d thrown out some garbage song, I wouldn’t have said a word. Despite my teasing, Sam is right; there is no judging here. “It was just so fast and free,” she says. “I wanted to feel that free.”

Why did she? Why are there shadows in her eyes when she says it? Absently, I scratch my chest where the skin has gone hot and tight. My interest in this girl is getting out of hand. I am cool and collected, an iceberg, remote and alone.

Ah, hell, even I can’t swallow that tripe.

“Are you okay?” Stella asks, peering at me as though she sees far too much.

“I’m fine.” I glare back, hoping to throw her o . “Why?”

She shrugs. “You kind of look like you had indigestion.”

Sam snickers while Stella smiles, all Ms. Innocent Helper. “I was going to o er you an antacid.”

“Cute,” I mutter. “My stomach is right as rain, Button.

But the minute I feel a rumble, I’ll let you know.”

Her lips press tight, and I can’t tell if she’s fighting a laugh or if she’s annoyed. Probably both.

I break our silence by turning toward Sam. “You have the strings?” I’d almost forgotten why I was here in the first place.

“Sure do.” He heads to the back of the store, leaving Stella and me alone.

“Sam is awesome,” Stella says. “I’m going to ask him if he wants to be on my sandwich rotation.”

“Sandwich rotation?”

She studies a Whammy pedal sitting on the counter.

“Some people don’t like leaving their shops for lunch. So I bring them a sandwich.”

I know I’m staring. I can’t help it. I haven’t met anyone like this woman. Never met anyone so dedicated to making others feel better just by o ering simple things. “Who are you?”

She frowns as if I’m o my nut. I’m beginning to think I am with her.

“I’m Stella Grey,” she says simply.

Shaking my head, I give her a wry look. “You are a remarkable woman, you know that?”

Her cheeks pink. “Aren’t all women?”

“Not the way you are.” Not to me, at any rate. I love women and live in awe over their strength and cleverness,

but none of them fascinate me the way Stella does. I could spend all day happily waiting to hear what she says next. A warning voice in the back of my mind says I should probably be concerned about this, but I ignore it in favor of watching her blush. Such a lovely clash of pinks and reds.

Sam comes out from the back holding a black-and-white 1976 Fender Strat with a maple neck. “Got something for you. David said you’d asked about it.”

“Holy shit,” I breathe. “Tell me we’re talking about the same David.”

“You know it.” Sam hands me the guitar. “Signed the back.”

Sure enough, there’s a signature on the back, made out to me.

Stella watches us with wide eyes, clearly out of her element. “Who is David?”

I heft the wide-body guitar in my hand before settling it on my lap. “You might know him as U2’s lead guitarist. We hung out a few times, talked about exchanging guitars.” I test the strings and make a small tuning adjustment.

“Thought it was one of those things you say o the cu , you know?” Looks like I’m going to have to pick out something nice to send to him. Totally fucking worth it.

“Are you in love?” she asks with a soft smile.

I return it. “Right now, it’s more like lust. I’ll have to get to know her to see if it turns into love.”

Stella makes a noise of amusement, and I plug the Strat into an amp. The low-level hum kicks straight into my chest.

Mostly, I’m known as the lead singer for Kill John. When the guys and I formed the band, someone had to take point on

songs. I had the strongest voice—though Killian is no slouch and does his fair share of singing. More importantly though, I had the biggest ego. I’d lived for the limelight, while Killian preferred to hang back. But my love of music started with the guitar, and I will always consider myself a guitarist first.

“You ready for me, honey?” I murmur to the guitar. She hums in my hand, waiting to come alive. I glance up at Stella.

“What do you want me to play?”

Her denim eyes go wide, her pink lips parting in surprise.

I have the insane urge to bend close and kiss them. I imagine the taste of chocolate mint on her tongue. Stella nibbles on her lower lip, and I hold in a grunt. Get a guitar in my hand and my mind immediately goes to sex. The two are forever linked. Which sucks for me since I’m on bread and water when it comes to fucking.

Iceberg, man. Be the iceberg.

“One of yours,” she says, thankfully cutting into my straying thoughts.

I shake my head. “Feels too pretentious.”

Stella snorts. “You’re a gifted musician. It is not pretentious to play your music.”

How can I explain that playing something of mine right now hurts too much? My music is my soul. Playing it to nameless thousands isn’t real to me. Playing for this woman who sees far too much already? I might as well open a vein.

I shrug. “Even so, pick something else.”

Her little nose wrinkles as she considers her options.

“You’re saying that used to be The Edge’s guitar?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Even though I can’t fully expose my soul, I want to play for Stella, show her what

I can do. She’s heard me play before but that wasn’t for her.

And she’d been annoyed. This will be pure. A gift, even though she won’t realize it.

“I think you should play a U2 song, then,” she says.

“Excellent decision. What song?”

Her smile is the sun breaking through the clouds. “I leave that to you.”

Even though I asked her to pick, the fact that she put the choice back in my hands and trusts me to give her something good, makes my chest go uncomfortably tight. I run my hand over the gentle curve along the edge of the Strat, the wood like silk against my palm.

I’ve performed for movie stars. I’ve played for royalty, and artists, and for other musicians. There’s never been any hesitation or need to impress. To make music is like breathing. Yet I’m suddenly anxious. I want to do Stella right.

She’s waiting, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, that gorgeous tumble of red-gold hair surrounding her round face. Did I once think she was plain? I’d been fucking blind.

Shaken, I start to play the first song that comes to mind. I have no idea if she knows the song I’ve chosen, until I glance up and see her face. God, that awe. It’s too much.

I look away, trying to concentrate on playing, when I really I’m hiding. But I don’t stop. I start to sing the lyrics to “All I Want Is You.” It’s one of the first songs I learned. It’s beautiful, haunting, and I’ve always loved it. But it’s never meant anything to me. I won’t let it mean anything now.

I sing and I play, and I let everything else fade. Or I try.

But in the back of my mind there is Stella. Stella watching

me. Stella hearing my voice, the song of my guitar.

And though I’d only wanted to show her how gorgeous this guitar is, I’d picked a song that’s all about the voice. I can’t hide in this song. Singing it well means letting emotion into the equation.

The constant heaviness within me turns into something thicker, viscous and warm, then tight and thin. Yearning.

That’s what this uncomfortable feeling is. Fucking yearning.

I push it into the music, desperate to let it free, get it away from me.

Sweat trickles down my back. My throat burns as I sing about promises made, love that lasts to the grave, and the simple need to love and be loved.

I’m thinking too much, which is never a good thing.

Emotion chokes me, clutching my throat and locking down tight. I’m going to be sick. My hand shakes. The next chord is weak, my voice slipping o -key.

I end the song with a garbled sound and face the silence, aware of Stella and Sam staring at me, expecting an explanation. Humiliation prickles along my back.

But then Stella claps. I’m so shocked by the happy sound that my chin jerks up.

She beams at me. “That was brilliant.”

She means it. I don’t know how she missed the utter shittery that was the end. Or maybe she’s ignoring it. Either way, the walls are pressing in on me. My iceberg is crumbling. I need out and away. I need to be alone. There’s a strange safety in solitude.

And maybe that’s why, once I’ve finished my business with Sam and arrange for the Strat to be delivered, I do my

very damnedest to drive Stella as far away from me as I can by acting like the biggest douche bomb possible.

CHAPTER EIGHT

STELLA

I THINK I have stars in my eyes. I don’t have a mirror, so I can’t confirm. But I feel them. I know I’m gaping at Jax. I can’t help it. I am starstruck. I have been from the moment he started to play.

“Play” is too weak a word for what he does. He touched his fingers to those guitar strings, opened his mouth, and the world changed. My world changed. Who I was, all my problems, fears, everything dropped away, and there was just sound, music, emotion. His emotion, bittersweet and beautiful and aching.

God, his voice. It isn’t showy or strained. It doesn’t rely on flash to get the message across. It is smooth, deep honey, the caress of tender fingers along the nape of my neck, a flutter of butterflies in my stomach. Jax Blackwood sings like he’s telling you a secret that only you’re worthy of hearing.

When I’d asked him to pick a U2 song, I hadn’t a clue what he would choose. I’d thought maybe something fast and upbeat. Instead, he plays me a love song. His version of

“All I Want Is You” is beautiful and painfully filled with desperate yearning. He sings and tears my world open. My heart is an exposed wound, and I have to blink rapidly not to cry.

But he doesn’t even see me. Eyes lowered, the thick fan of his lashes hiding his gaze from mine, he plays with fluid ease and sings about forever.

With each line, every chord, my fingers dig deeper into my thighs, my throat swells tighter.

I love him in that instant. Completely. Painfully. I know it’s an illusion, a testament to the power of his talent. And the moment he stops, I’ll be released from this spell. But it doesn’t make it any less intense.

He gets to the final refrain, his voice growing husky and crying for his love, his fingers flying over the strings, the music getting tighter, faster, more urgent. He’s coming undone. Sweat drips from his brow; the corner of his mouth quivers.

I move to reach for him, but then stop. He’d hate that.

The chords clamor, going o -key, his voice breaking. The final note dies awkwardly, both hanging in the air and somehow abruptly final.

He stands there, no longer Jax, but John, his chest heaving. His hand trembles as he runs his fingers through damp hair and glances wildly around as though seeking escape. I clap because I don’t know what else to do.

He accepts my praise with a tight nod, still not fully looking at me, and then hurries along his purchases with Sam. The guitar will be delivered later. I get the feeling he

doesn’t want to touch it just now. He’s still a little shaky when we leave the shop and step out into the crisp air.

John pauses to pull his fake glasses from his pocket and put them on. Another run of his fingers through his hair to tidy it and he’s back to being the hot geek. He shoves his hands in his chino pockets and gives me a benign smile like the whole impromptu concert never happened. “And that was Sam’s Guitar Shop.”

I have no idea why he wants to avoid that incredible display of talent. If I could do what he does, I’d be a musical hussy, performing on every damn street corner at all hours of the day and night. But I play along. “I liked it. Sam too.”

I’d forgotten to ask Sam about the sandwiches. I’ll go back on my own later.

“He’s a great guy. Worked with a lot musicians over the years.”

Though his tone remains causal, he’s gone pale around the edge of his mouth, but his stride is missing its usual fluid grace.

We walk a little way in silence. It isn’t comfortable, but I’m not certain what’s wrong. Is he embarrassed? How can he be? He’s a rock star. It’s literally his job to perform. I’m usually much better at reading people and making them comfortable. For shit’s sake, I’m supposed to be a professional. But here I am unable to come up with a single word of meaningless chatter.

John nudges me with his arm. “Back to this Barry business.”

“Barry?” I frown. “Barry White? Barry Manilow?”

He chokes out a laugh. “Those are your first choices for Barry?”

“You think of anyone else when mentioning Barry and music in the same conversation?”

He shrugs. “I’d have gone with Barry Gibb or Barry Bonds.”

“I don’t know who those last two are.”

“A musician and a baseball player—and it hurts that you don’t know their names. But, no, I was not talking about any famous Barry. I meant your date. Barry. The wally who looked like he could be an actuary.”

“It’s Bradley, and he’s a forensic accountant.”

“Ha. I was close.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that when I introduce you as a bassist-playing choir singer one day.”

He nudges me again. “Salty Stella. And to think I walked through dirty water for you.”

My smile sneaks out, but I don’t say anything. I’m not that easy.

He grunts in clear annoyance. “Stop avoiding the question, Button.”

“Was there a question? I must have missed it in all the Barry excitement.”

“There was.”

“Really? All I heard was ‘Back to this Barry business.’”

I can feel him rolling his eyes, even though I keep mine on the street in front of us.

“Smartass,” he mutters before clearing his throat and talking to me in a crisp English accent that rivals Mr. Scott’s.

“Ms. Grey, I have been meaning to inquire. What is the

nature of your relationship with Bradley, the forensic accountant?”

I can’t help laughing. “You sound like a professor.”

His grin is a quick flash of teeth. “I was channeling my father, actually. Something I try to avoid when I can help it.”

He tips his chin in my direction. “Well, then? Answer the question.”

“Yeah … No comment.”

John halts, his mouth dropping open in clear outrage.

“You can’t say that!”

“Of course I can,” I toss over my shoulder. “It’s none of your business.”

He starts moving again, taking two long steps to reach me. “Come on. What gives, Stella? Bradley said you were worth every penny. And he isn’t the only old guy I’ve seen you with.”

It’s my turn to halt. “What? When? Are you following me?”

“See, that was three questions,” he says smugly. “And I bet you want them answered, don’t you?”

I step into his space and poke his chest. “Talk, you.”

John grabs my poking finger and deftly links his hand with mine, holding them close to his stomach. My knuckles brush against the hard wall of his abs, and heat dances up my inner thighs. Flushed, I yank away, but it doesn’t kill his smug smile. “Two days ago, Madison Square Park. You were eating at Shake Shack with some older, nervous dude, and you were doing most of the talking, I’ll add.”

He’d seen me with Todd? And I hadn’t noticed?

Uncomfortable heat washes over my face. “Jesus. You were spying on me. What the hell, John?”

His eyes narrow. “Hey, I was sitting two tables over, minding my business and drinking a co ee shake. You’re kind of loud, you know.”

“And what the hell were you doing there at the same time I was? At the same time today too? Suspect.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” He waves a lazy hand. “I admit we have a freakish timing thing going on. And believe me, I’m disturbed too, but I’m not following you. I’ve better things to do.”

“Like eat alone?” As soon as I say it, I’m sorry.

John barely reacts, which is worse. He shuts down, going blank. “Yeah, eating alone,” he responds thickly but without heat. His meaning is perfectly clear; eating by himself ranks higher than doing anything with me.

Inwardly, I wince, but I’d been shitty to him too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” “Yeah, you did.” His tone is lighter, his mouth twitching as if fighting a smile. And I realize that John isn’t one to hold grudges. A lot of people claim that they let things go, but few do. Hell, I rarely do.

“Well, I didn’t mean it as an insult,” I clarify. “I eat alone too.”

“When?” he asks, peering at me with suspicion in his green eyes. “Because there seems to be a pattern here.”

“Two men do not make a pattern.”

John stares as if I’m full of it. Which I am.

“Maybe I like older men. So what?”

He snorts. “Older men who have money to pay.”

Shit nuggets. My thighs quiver with the urge to run away.

I hold steady. “What are you implying?”

John looks up and down the street before leaning close.

His voice is a warm rumble at my ear. “Are you an escort?”

He might as well have slapped me. I rear back with a gasp, feeling oddly exposed. Is this why he’s been talking to me?

Some morbid curiosity about what my profession might be?

Those stars in my eyes? Gone. Any semblance of happy thoughts I had in regard to my new neighbor? Up in flames of hellfire.

John’s brow knits as his gaze moves over my face. But he doesn’t appear repentant, just impatient.

“Did you just ask if I am a whore?” My voice echoes over the street, and a man walking his dog turns his head toward us.

John ignores everything but me. “Not a whore. An escort.

They don’t sleep with all their clients. Just ones of their picking.”

Rage vibrates through my bones. “I … You … I …”

“You and me …” He waves a hand. “Spit it out, Stells.”

“Fuck you!” I blurt with heat. “Fuck you with a swizzle stick.”

John glares, his cheeks turning red. “You don’t have to be rude.”

“I’m rude?” I practically choke on my shock. “I’m rude?

You’re accusing me of being a prostitute.” The worst of it? I feel ashamed. And I have no reason to be. None at all. I’m not an escort, and even if I were, that would be my business, not his. But that’s what his words have done to me just the same.

“You wouldn’t be the first one. It’s the world’s oldest profession,” he says, as though he’s telling me something I don’t know.

I pull myself up to my full height. “You know what? We’re done.”

I turn and march away.

Of course, the ass-nugget follows.

“Oh, come on. What else am I supposed to think?” He waves a hand wildly. “You’re hanging out with goofy old dudes who say you’re worth every penny and want another go.”

I pick up my pace. “I could be teaching them to knit!”

“I’ve yet to see a knitting needle make an appearance.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’ll only stick you someplace rude.”

“Kinky. But it still doesn’t explain the dudes.”

“I could be teaching them yoga, or how to dance.

Anything.” I glare up at John as I stride along. “Anything other than fucking them for money!”

His blush deepens. “Geesh. Okay. I get it. Fucking for money is a no-go.”

I snort and shove him away. Or try to; the oaf is too strong to budge. “Stop following me,” I hiss, headed for the subway.

“We live in the same building.”

I halt and he does too. He’s tall enough that he blocks out the hazy white sky as he looks down at me, perplexed.

“Listen, dickwad.” I punch his stomach for emphasis. It’s like hitting a warm wall, damn it. “When I say we’re done, I mean we. Are. Done.” I jab him with every word. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Just forget you know me.”

His expression could only be described as a man pout, his full bottom lip jutting. I have the urge to bite it. Sadly, I can’t decide if I want to bite it in a sexy way or an evil, you will feel my wrath way. Maybe both.

When he talks, his voice is solemn and thoughtful. “I think we should revisit this when you don’t want to tear my dick o or stick knitting needles in odd places.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time, then.” With that, I raise my hand and hail the cab coming down the street. I rush to it and jump in. John watches me with a blank expression as I reach for the door to shut it. I glare. “Oh, and ‘Open Shelter’ is saccharine and sophomoric at best.”

His look of outrage over me bashing one of Kill John’s iconic songs is almost enough to make me smile. I slam the cab door just as John shouts out, “Low blow, Mint Thief!”

J OHN

W ITH SEX OFF THE MENU , I have one last outlet left. Exercise.

Lots of it. I can’t say that I enjoy it as much as sex. It would be pretty sad if I did. But working out gives me focus and a type of pain that is clean. There is a high with physical exertion that mimics sex or being on the stage.

Unfortunately, it’s only a shadow of those things. But I chase it anyway.

Today, I’m running with Scottie. He got me into running a year ago, showing me the joys of this special type of

torture. No doubt about it, the high is worth it.

My lungs have a good burn in them, my body warm and loose as we jog along the Hudson River Park path. When we first started jogging together, Scottie kicked my ass every time. I’d limp along like death on legs while he barely broke a sweat. Now the tables have turned. Scottie is the one lagging behind, his cheeks flushed, his usually irritable expression even more so.

Since he’s become a father—and I am still in shock over Mr. Ice becoming Mr. Mom—Scottie hasn’t had much time to do anything but take care of his baby, something he does with the same unwavering intensity that he gives to his job, to the band. The joy in his expression when he talks about his o spring is incandescent. I’ve never seen anything like it, and it makes me envy Scottie just a little bit, though not much because the guy has circles under his eyes that rival Saturn’s rings.

“Come on, Dad,” I joke, slowing down to match his pace.

“You want to develop a gut?”

“Get stu ed,” he mutters.

I grin. Payback is a beautiful thing. “I can’t. That’s why we’re running.”

“That’s why you’re running,” he bites out between breaths. “I’m running because I’m a bloody masochist.”

“I thought you were a sadist.”

He glares, and I laugh, feeling lighter.

Scottie mutters a curse, before running his hand over his brow. “I’m curious—” “When are you not?”

“You say you’re running because you can’t have sex,” he goes on. “Yet it has been two weeks since you began antibiotics. Surely, they’ve run their course.”

My feet pound a steady rhythm. “They have. In fact, I saw Dr. Stern today and have been given the all-clear.”

“Then why—” “I was serious when I said I was done with casual sex. I can’t risk it. Frankly, I don’t want it like that anymore. The thought of getting down and dirty with a woman I don’t know …” I shudder. “Nope. Not happening. Which means Jax Jr. is on bread and water for the foreseeable future.”

Scottie grunts. “It isn’t all bad waiting. In truth, when you find someone you actually want, it’s so bloody fantastic, it makes up for all the torture.”

“Oh god, you aren’t giving me a ‘love will give you wings’ speech, are you?”

He cuts me a look. “Anyone who sneers at love hasn’t experienced true pleasure and is talking out of his arse.”

I make a face, but I’m not annoyed. Despite the fact that he acts like he’s my dad half the time, we’re the same age.

And he’s one of my best friends. Out of all my friends, Scottie’s brand of chill with a side of fuck you has become the easiest for me to relax around. I can speak my mind, and he won’t let me get away with shit.

In a world where almost everyone lets me get away with whatever I want, his fortitude is a gift. Not that I’d tell him.

Scottie would hate that.

We run in silence, his hu ng loud but leveling out. I know Scottie will be content to stay as we are, not talking about a thing. Ordinarily, I would too. But I’ve been restless

for days. An uncomfortable emotion that feels a lot like guilt is growing within me, and I can’t seem to get away from it.

Truth? I need to confess. Killian, Rye, or Whip will give me a free pass for my shit behavior. Mainly because they don’t want me “upset.” I fucking hate that. Even though I know I’d have an easier time talking to one of my bandmates, I go for gold and tell the one guy who won’t sugarcoat a damn thing.

“I asked Stella if she was an escort.”

Scottie stumbles a step. “You did what?”

His shout rings out over the path, and a few pigeons take flight.

“Keep your voice down,” I mutter, jogging along.

But Scottie has stopped. I turn my head and find him standing in the path, hands on his hips, his face like thunder.

If I were Scooby, it would be the time for me to say, “Ruhroh.”

On plodding feet, I jog back to him.

Scottie’s voice is all edges when he speaks again. “Am I imagining things or did you just tell me that you accused Stella Grey of being a prostitute?”

I rub the back of my sweaty neck. “In retrospect, it sounds a lot worse.”

Scottie’s brows wing up. “In retrospect? Mate, you couldn’t make it sound better if you tried. Women don’t respond well to being called whores.”

“Hey, I meant the type of escort who takes old dudes out, shows them a good time, and maybe agrees to have sex with them … Okay, fuck, that sounds sketchy too.”

God, I hate guilt. I have enough of it for too many things.

That shit piles up inside and makes little camps in your brain. It invades your thoughts at inconvenient times, then slinks away, never going too far but lurking and waiting to rise again.

Having guilt over Stella just plain sucks. I like her. And now she thinks I’m scum. “Fuck.”

Scottie points an accusing finger my way. “This is why I warned Ms. Grey to keep well out of your path. You say asinine things to nice girls, and it’s left to me to clean up.”

“I don’t say asinine things.”

“Remember all the shite you gave Liberty when Killian brought her around?”

I wince a little, because, okay, I wasn’t the most welcoming. But then I straighten. “How about Sophie? If it weren’t for me, Sophie wouldn’t be in your life at all.

Because you were the arse in that situation.”

As usual, mention of his wife makes Scottie’s scary expression turn less scary and way too sappy. “I’ll give you that one,” he mutters before getting scary again. “Is this about Stella’s job?”

I stalk closer. “You know about her job?”

“Are you suggesting I didn’t thoroughly vet every candidate before giving someone the codes to Killian and Liberty’s house?”

He makes it sound like the crime of the century. I wave a hand, swatting that ridiculousness away. “Which means you know.”

Scottie’s eyes narrow. “But you don’t.”

Damn. Fuck. Damn.

“Scottie …”

His smile is thin and evil. “Sorry, mate. None of my business.”

“You stick that big nose into everyone’s business. Spill, man.”

“No. If Ms. Grey doesn’t want you to know, I am not going to tell.”

“Gabriel Scott …”

He snorts. “The name thing doesn’t work with me, John.”

I swear I’ll strangle him. Then I’ll kill him. I can take him.

I’ve been working out, whereas he’s been up endless nights dealing with a fussy baby. “Fine, be a prick, then.”

“Sounds like you’re the prick in this particular scenario.”

With that, he starts to jog.

I easily keep up. “I didn’t mean to be. I have very good reasons for wanting to know.”

“Which are?”

Shit. I don’t want to tell him. I don’t even want to admit it to myself. “She … It’s dangerous meeting up with strange men. She could get hurt.”

He snorts even louder than before. “Try again.”

“I’m a nosy bastard?” It comes out like a question, and I wince.

Scottie slides me a sidelong look. “Yes, but I don’t think that’s why.”

“Fine. I’m a prat, okay?”

He doesn’t disagree.

“Fix it, Jax.” He scowls at the trail before us. “I’m utterly serious. Stella Grey is a sweet girl …”

I snort. Loudly.

“Who deserves respect.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t get anywhere near her at the moment.

She’s determined to tear my dick o and give it to Stevens as a toy.”

Scottie’s mouth curls. “I’d pay good money to see that.”

Some friend.

CHAPTER NINE

STELLA

S OMETIMES I WONDER if there are people who truly enjoy parties. I know there must be; people wouldn’t throw them otherwise. But at some point in every party I’ve been to, a sense of misery always seems to settle over it. As if everyone is trying desperately to convince everyone else that they’re having fun, while on the inside, they’re counting down the minutes until they can leave.

Maybe it’s the parties I go to in New York. Often, it’s for work, and they are an exercise in active voyeurism. I swear, people are more interested in watching than conversing.

Which is why I prefer dinner parties where I can eat good food and talk.

Unfortunately, I’m stuck in a penthouse forty floors up and surrounded by people who look as though the lights are on but nobody’s home. And I’m struck by the feeling that we’re all actors on a stage.

“No wonder you asked me to be your date,” I murmur to Richard as we stop by a bar set up before a picture window.

“I think you’d be half out of your mind if you had to circulate alone in this crowd.”

He chuckles and tucks me closer to his side. “You know me well, little rose.”

The Frenchman looks like an older, grayer version of Idris Elba and is one of the hottest chefs in Manhattan. He could get any woman he wants to accompany him, but soon after meeting him, I discovered that, outside of the kitchen, he is intensely shy and hates dating. But, like most people, that doesn’t mean he isn’t lonely. That’s where I come in. I can o er Richard companionship without the strings he finds stifling.

Sometimes Richard asks me to meet him at his place to watch TV or a movie. A simple thing that he doesn’t get to do very often but acutely needs in his life. Sometimes, I accompany him to functions he must attend to keep up appearances but doesn’t want to actually talk to many people. At this point, I consider him an actual friend, but Richard insists on paying me for my time regardless.

Even though he tells me it’s because it wouldn’t feel right to take advantage of my time, it chafes a little. I have numerous “friends” I’ve met through my job. But not a single one who is real.

Almost every damn day of my life I’m interacting with people, making them feel a little more loved, giving them a little happiness, and yet I suddenly feel like the loneliest person in New York.

Shaking myself out of it, I o er Richard a bright smile and accept the glass of champagne he o ers. I ask, “Whose party is this?”

Richard sips his champagne, makes a face at the glass for some unknowable reason, then glances my way. “A music producer named Pete.” His French accent makes the name sound like “beet.” Richard gives me a lazy shrug. “No last name that I know of.”

I take a closer look around the room. The more I study the guests, the clearer it becomes—most of these people are famous. Models, actors, musicians. I’m pretty sure the guy in the corner is a rapper. And the woman with pale blue hair is definitely a pop star.

Fame. There’s a look to it. It isn’t always beautiful, but we’re attracted to it regardless, little moths to the flame.

I don’t want to be impressed. Fawning over the famous feels diminishing, as if I’m somehow saying that I’m less than they are. Except I am impressed. I admire talent and tenacity. But the idea of being at a party filled with famous people makes my indigo-blue consignment store sheath dress seem a little too shabby. It irritates me.

Without my permission, my mind drifts to John. I should really call him Jax. He’s the only truly famous person I’ve had any prolonged interaction with. And yes, I’m often irritated around him. But it’s di erent. He’s like a burr under my skin, making me feel too much. I think about him too much—when I wake, at odd moments throughout the day, when I go to sleep, right now.

Is it because of his fame? Maybe. Except, I usually forget he is the famous Jax Blackwood. He’s just … John. Annoying, funny, way too hot for his own good John.

John, who asked me if I was a whore. Bastard asshole dickbag. I don’t want to think about him anymore.

I accept a tart from a passing waitress. Richard inspects his own with another frown.

“Why are you glaring at all the food and drinks?” I ask him before popping the pastry into my mouth. An explosion of flavors assails my tongue. Tart, sweet, peppery, creamy, buttery. I’m hard pressed not to moan.

A gleam enters his eyes. “Good, no?”

“Oh, yes,” I tell him.

“Now the champagne,” he orders.

I comply and the flavors intensify, the champagne crisp and bubbly and refreshing.

“My sta is catering as a favor to Pete,” Richard says, almost smug. “Strawberry tart with pink peppercorn crème anglaise. It is best with champagne.”

“And you knew they’d be circulating these tarts now, didn’t you?” I wave down another waitress without shame.

I’m never going to be model skinny and I’m not even going to try. “Freaking delicious.”

Richard chuckles at my enthusiasm. “Of course it is. This is my food.”

“When are you going to give me a cooking lesson?” I ask him, my mouth half full of strawberry goodness.

Ever the gentleman, Richard tucks my arm in his as we circulate. “Now, my dear Stella, I must warn you, I am an exceedingly di cult taskmaster.” He gives me a sly wink.

“Are you certain you are ready for my lessons?”

I laugh lightly. “You honestly think I’d turn down lessons from the great Richard Dubious?”

In exchange for putting up with his insane work hours— not that I mind since I’m paid handsomely—he o ered to

teach me to cook. Something I really want to learn. I can do the basics, but cooking well is beyond my skill set.

His eyes gleam. “You’d be a fool if you did.”

“Don’t worry, I expect you to comply within two weeks’ time or face my wrath.”

Richard laughs, but whatever he says is lost on me because I’ve spotted the one man who manages to haunt me wherever I go.

Jax Blackwood stands in the center of a large group of people, all of whom are laughing and hanging on his every word. He looks every inch the rocker now. His clothes aren’t fancy—a black button-down and black jeans, but they fit his hard body to perfection and are clearly high end. A thick black leather cu wraps around his left wrist and chunky silver rings adorn some of his long fingers.

Those rings glint in the light as he runs a hand through his hair, sending it spiking in wild angles. That gesture I’m familiar with. I almost smile when I see it.

Almost. Because there is a stunning redhead clutching his arm. Her hair is a dark honey auburn that contrasts sharply with her pale skin and is pulled back in a severe ponytail that highlights the symmetry of her features. She’s tall and thin and wearing impossibly high Jimmy Choo heels. Those heels, with rainbow sequins and flu y little feathers on the toes, should look ridiculous but instead make her look like some sort of Park Avenue fairy princess.

Unwelcome jealousy coats my insides like hot tar.

What’s worse is that even though he’s with a beautiful woman who could very well be a model, his eye is roving.

Several other equally stunning women swarm around him

and he doesn’t even bother to hide the way he checks out their assets. He holds court over these women, giving them his sly smile, the one that promises you’ll have a good time even if you’ll regret it later.

That smile, the easy way he fits in with these people, depresses me. For all his confidence, there’s a dullness in his eyes, as though he’s playing a part. Had he done it with me as well and I’d been too blinded by him to see it until now?

Does he truly care about anything?

The fairy heel–wearing redhead laughs with John and then swats his arm, and I have my answer. He cares about her. It’s in the way his expression softens and his body leans into hers. They are comfortable with each other in a way that none of the hangers-on around them are. These two are a couple.

The knowledge sits like a block of ice in my chest. All the times I’ve butted heads with John, I never considered he had someone. He’d flirted with me as if maybe he’d been attracted to me the way I am to him, unwillingly but completely. Which makes me a fool; he was just having fun pushing my buttons.

I want to look away. I intend to look away. But, as if he feels my gaze, John lifts his head. Those famous green eyes that make fans weak in the knees lock on to me. And I’m just as susceptible as I’d been before. I feel it in my toes, between my legs, everywhere.

I’m not certain what I expected of him. A frown. A smirk.

He breaks into a wide grin, and my heart flips, my breath catching. Jesus, he should not be allowed to do that. It scrambles my brain and makes me want things that are

impossible. I’m not supposed to like him anymore. I made a vow, damn it. But when he looks at me as though I’m the best thing he’s seen all day, it’s hard not to smile back.

Anticipation bubbles in my veins like the champagne I’ve been drinking, and it’s a struggle to stand still.

“Do you know Jax Blackwood?” Richard says at my ear.

I jolt, having forgotten he was there. With shocking di culty, I tear my gaze away from John.

Richard’s eyes fill with fond warmth. “Or has he just noticed you and realized you’re the most beautiful woman he’ll ever have the pleasure to meet?”

“Old flatterer,” I say, laughing.

“I’m French,” he says with a shrug.

“Which means you grossly exaggerate a woman’s assets to appease her?” I’m only half teasing. I am well aware of my best features, and I’m happy enough with my body. But I also know that I am in no way the most beautiful woman in the room.

He makes a noise as if to say I’m being ridiculous. “I might have to pay for the pleasure of your company, but that does not mean I am blind. In fact, it makes me something of a connoisseur of your charms. You are utterly lovely, my dear.”

It’s my turn to make a noise. I’m not interested in Richard romantically, and I know him enough to realize he’s being kind. Yet again, he’s just driven home that we will never be anything more than a business arrangement.

Oblivious, he laughs at my sour face. “Tell me, then? How do you know Jax?” “I’m her neighbor,” John says, just behind me.

My stomach plummets to my toes. Fuck. What had he heard? By the calculating look in his eyes, I’m guessing too much. There are only so many ways he can take what Richard said. My spine sti ens. Fuck it. I’m not explaining anything.

He holds my gaze. “Hey, Stella.”

The soft way he says my name catches me o guard. In contrast, my response is stilted and awkward. “Jax.” He frowns at the use of his stage name, but then his brow smooths. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” He laughs.

“Though I probably should have.”

He’s not far o . We keep colliding like we live in a small town instead of one of the biggest cities in the world.

I give him a thin smile, unable to think of a damn thing to say. He stares at me for a second, then turns his attention to Richard, giving him a sti smile. “Hey, man. How’s the new restaurant coming along?”

They know each other? Of course they do.

Richard shakes John’s hand. “I am pleased. You haven’t yet come in for dinner.”

“A mistake I must rectify. I miss your food.”

Richard nods. “Perhaps you’ll bring Stella with you.”

It’s a struggle not to stomp on Richard’s foot.

John glances at me. Whatever he sees—perhaps, my oh hell no, don’t even think about it expression—has him smiling with fake enthusiasm and slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Can’t think of anyone I’d rather take with me.”

I grunt and dislodge the warm weight of his arm. Damn thing feels like silk and steel along the back of my neck. The second it’s gone, I miss his touch, which really annoys me.

“How do you two know each other?” I ask Richard, because I don’t want to pay attention to the smug rocker at my side.

“I was going to ask the same of you two,” John cuts in.

His arm brushes against mine and the little hairs on my skin lift with a shiver. I want to press closer, ease that strange, unfulfilled awareness that he’s created by touching me. I remain steady, pretending I’m unmoved.

Richard’s lips quirk as he takes it all in, but when he speaks, his voice is as light and pleasant as always. “I am a great fan of Kill John.”

“And I am a great fan of anything Richard chooses to put on my plate,” John adds happily. “He also gave Rye and me cooking lessons a while back. And I can say with all honesty, I was the better student.”

“Humble too,” I mutter. Of course John had coveted lessons from Richard. I’m suddenly feeling a lot less unique.

Richard chuckles. “No, it is true. Rye was completely hopeless.”

John’s expression is bright with laughter. “He was afraid of the raw chicken. Had a total fit about it and kept trying to carve it without actually having to touch it.”

Both men dissolve into laughter.

“Richard Dubious,” exclaims a crisp feminine voice, cutting through their deep chuckles. “I thought that was you.”

John’s redhead has found us. She practically flings herself into Richard’s arms and gives him a hug. Richard kisses her cheeks. “Brenna, darling. You are a vision.”

I glance toward the front door with longing.

“Old flatterer,” she says with a swat to his shoulder.

Surprised that she used the same words as I had, I can only stare. She has the same innate confidence that Jax has and a sense of style I envy. She catches my eye and gives me a friendly smile. “I’m sorry. I completely interrupted.” Her catlike eyes narrow. “Have we met? You look familiar to me.”

John’s arm touches mine again. “Brenn, this is Stella Grey.”

As if she should know me.

Weirdly, she looks at me as though she does. “No shit?

What a small world.”

I glance at John, confused as hell, but Brenna sticks out her hand. “I’m Brenna James. I work with Scottie and the boys.”

John snorts at the term “boys.”

I ignore that and shake Brenna’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

It’s almost true. Petty me still remembers the way she and John hung on each other. Are they a couple? If that’s the case, I feel sorry for her because John is definitely an indiscriminate flirt.

“Scottie had me send you the info packet,” she tells me.

“Are you responsible for the gift basket?” I ask her, warming.

She grins. “A girl’s gotta feel welcome, doesn’t she?”

Okay, I can’t hate her. She’s awesome, and I’m a bitter pill for being jealous over a guy I have vowed not to even like. I grin back at her. “Thank you so much. It was the nicest gift I’ve ever received.”

Which is the truth. Unexpected gifts are always the best ones.

John frowns, and I can’t tell if he thinks I’m being fractious or is just annoyed by me chatting with Brenna.

Either way, I return his look. I’m not the ass-nugget in this relationship—or whatever this thing is between us.

It’s nothing. Nothing.

He catches my eyes again, and his expression clears into something oddly satisfied. I don’t get him at all. My confusion turns to alarm when he grabs my hand and clasps it with a firm grip.

“Excuse us for a second,” he tells Richard and Brenna, already pulling me away.

“What the hell?” I hiss, stumbling along behind him. I don’t tug free because, while my brain and mouth protest, my body has clearly not gotten the memo. Oh no, the foul betrayer is humming with a heady anticipation. My senses narrow down to the rough feel of his hand, how it’s also warm and strong and so large that it dwarfs my own. I catch a faint whi of cologne or maybe body wash. I can’t tell—all I know is that it’s smoky and delicious, and I want to bury my nose into the crook of his neck to pull in more of that scent.

Madness.

He leads me to a back hall where the lights have been left low, and I tense. “Where the hell are we going?”

He glances over his shoulder, his lips tilting in a half smile. “Where snoops can’t overhear us.”

At the end of the hall, he tucks us in a corner, hemming me in between him and a table displaying an art piece that

probably cost more than my annual salary but looks like a melting glass head.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be back here,” I say, eyeing the way we came.

He hu s out a laugh. “God, you’re adorable.” When I glare, he grins back. “Babe, I could make use of Pete’s bedroom all night and he wouldn’t bat an eye. He’s my producer.”

“You make him sound like a pimp,” I mutter, then tense.

Shit. I do not want to venture into the subject of pimps and prostitutes.

Oddly, John doesn’t say a word but simply shrugs.

“This is rude to Brenna,” I go on when he stays quiet.

“Brenna?” A wrinkle forms between his brows.

“Yes, Brenna. You just left her there and ran o with me.”

The wrinkle gets deeper. “Brenna can take care of herself.”

Unbelievable. “She’s your date. You don’t run o with another woman when you’re on a date!”

For a long, too silent moment, he stares at me. Then a smile spreads over his face. “Brenna is most definitely not my date. She’s like a sister to me. An annoying, bossy little sister.”

“Oh.” Shit.

“Yeah, ‘oh.’” His grin is downright smug now. “But let’s go back to why you thought she was my date.”

I shrug as though I’m not completely embarrassed. “You looked … familiar with each other.”

“Well, we are … familiar with each other.” He’s not even trying to hide his amusement. “She’s Killian’s cousin. She

knows all my shit and will hold it over my head without flinching. She’s evil like that.” He tilts his head, catching my gaze when I try to look away. “So that’s why you made that face, like you’d sucked a rotten lemon.”

“A rotten lemon?”

“Yeah, all green and puckered.”

“Wouldn’t that be a lime?”

“No. Limes do not carry the sour taste of jealousy.” He wags his brows in goofy triumph.

“I am not jealous.”

John shrugs, still way too pleased. “It’s okay if you are. I found myself hit with an unexpected wave of it when I saw you with Richard.”

Wait. What?

An inarticulate sound leaves me.

He looks down at our hands, still somehow linked, and rubs his thumb in a slow circle around my palm. The edge of his thumb is rough and hard with calluses, almost scratching my skin. My thighs clench.

He makes another slow exploration, his attention wholly on my hand. “You’re so soft.”

“Aren’t most women’s hands soft?” I quip, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest as he continues to stroke my palm, the backs of my fingers.

“I don’t really hold hands.” He glances up, and I’m hit with the full force of his green gaze. “Been thinking about you, Stells.”

My insides swoop. Stupid insides. I don’t say a word but stared back with a hard look.

His wide lips quirk. “I’m sorry I was a dick. I didn’t mean to o end you. I have a bad habit of speaking without thinking.”

He still has hold of my hand. As if it’s his. I can’t have him thinking that. But he’s warm and the little touches he gives send pulses of pleasure to di erent spots on my body.

Until this moment, I had no idea how sensitive my hands were. How is it that a gentle stroke along the side of my index finger feels like a stroke up the inside of my thigh? A press of his thumb to the meat of my palm makes my breasts swell as if cupped.

With a sigh, I lift my hand and deliberately extract it from his. He lets me go but watches me, all but waiting for an argument.

“Thank you,” I say, somewhat sti y because I miss his warmth. “I understand. I say stupid things all the time.” A flush hits my face when he grins. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know.” The smile fades. “Thing is, Button, I know I’m going to screw up again. I tend to do that.”

“Well, knowing is half the battle.”

He laughs, a soft, almost distracted sound. It fades to heavy silence as he worries the corner of his bottom lip with this teeth. Tension hums along his lean frame, and when he speaks, his words are tight and fast like he’s forcing them free. “I can’t get you o my mind. I’ve tried. But nothing works.”

My heartbeat kicks up. “You can’t?”

John leans a shoulder against the wall. “I can’t let my curiosity go. I’m trying. Then I see you here with Richard, who obviously wants to fuck you—”

A shocked laugh bursts from me. “Oh, please. He does not.”

John’s dark brows wing up. “You’re joking, right?”

“Richard is a friend.” Who won’t stop talking about paying me, but still. “That’s all he’s ever been.”

“Stells, you must be blind or in some serious denial. He looks at you like he’s mentally taste-testing his sauces o your tits.”

Instantly, my nipples go sti , but it isn’t from picturing Richard doing that. No, my mind sticks on a certain rocker who glances down at my chest like he wants to do the same thing to me.

A flush washes over his cheeks, and his jaw tightens when he meets my eyes. “You have to know this. You’re too sharp to miss something like that.”

I refrain from sco ng, but barely. “If he was so into me, why did he practically push you into taking me to his restaurant?”

“To see if I want to fuck you too.”

A strangled sound sticks in my throat. I swallow hard and glance toward the party. If I run for it, will he chase me?

Probably.

Silence stretches between us, and John clearly bites back a smile. “You’re not going to ask the obvious question?”

Heat spreads over my skin. “No.” I sound like the utter chicken I am. I can’t help it. In my head, I like to think I’m badass but reality has me thinking Abort! Abort! Hot rock star will set fire to your panties and you will burn.

My lips pinch at my own absurdity.

John ducks his head to meet my eyes. His are bright with amusement. “Hmmm,” he angles his body into mine, “here’s the thing. I hear Richard saying he pays for your company and—” “You’re unbelievable.” I snort and take a step back. “I knew that’s what this was about.”

“No. You don’t understand. I’m worried for you, okay?”

He grabs my hand again and gives my arm a little shake. “It isn’t safe. I don’t care what anyone says, or how well you vet your clients. I’ve seen escorts at parties. Places like this.” His free arm swings out toward the hall. “There are fucked-up, bad dudes who will do shit to women without flinching. And believe me, they don’t look like villains. You won’t always see them coming. It just takes one bad egg, Stells.”

He appears so genuinely upset that my irritation thaws.

But he’s on a roll and doesn’t notice.

“I’m not trying to shame you or police you or whatever it is you thinking I’m doing here. Yeah, okay, I fucking hate the idea of those guys paying for the ‘pleasure of your company,’ as Richard put it—which, can I just say this now? What the fuck was that sleazy shit? He should be better than that. You realize this, right? I mean, fuck.”

John pushes a hand through his hair and the thick strands stick up every which way. “Your body should be a privilege, not a product.”

I fight a smile because he is adorable up there on his soapbox, swinging his sword for me. I see the second it registers that I’m not fighting him. He blinks a few times, his pugnacious expression turning wry. “You were just going to let me go on and on, weren’t you?”

“It was a lovely speech.” I lose hold of my smile. “How could I halt it?”

His eyes narrow, and it’s clear he’s trying not to laugh.

My smile grows, but I keep my voice low. “I’m not an escort, John.”

The hard set of his shoulders eases and somehow he’s closer. “Okay. Good. I’m glad.”

His stilted delivery is awkward, totally unlike his natural ease, and I have to fight a laugh. He obviously sees my struggle and grins wide. The air between us shifts. I’m filled with a strange giddiness, wanting to laugh for the fun of it, but I’m also too warm, my limbs oddly heavy as if simple movements might be too much for me.

His tone turns soft and cajoling, teasing the truth out of me. “Are you going to tell me what you do?” When I say nothing, the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I see. You’re going to torture me a bit.”

The warm, fuzzy feeling grows as I shrug. “Torture feels apropos in this scenario.”

He hums again, taking another step toward me. “What makes you think I won’t like being tortured by you?”

The heat of his body and the scent of his skin makes my head light and my pulse pound. How did it get to this point where the highlight of my day is flirting with Jax Blackwood?

Despite the thrill, I know I’m in over my head. I haven’t gone out on a date in months because I form attachments, I get emotional, and then I hurt when they inevitably leave. And this man will leave. He is as bright and fleeting as a camera flash. I’ll be left with the image of him seared into my memory and nothing more.

I tell myself all of this, the voice in my head as stern as possible. But it doesn’t make me back away. It doesn’t stop my body from somehow straining toward his without even moving. Because it might be stupid of me, but I want to feel something that isn’t planned. Something, for however briefly, that’s real.

He’s too attuned to me not to notice. John’s lids lower as his attention slides down my body before easing back up to my face. Slowly, he rests his forearm on the wall beside my head. “Tell me, Stella,” he murmurs.

“No,” I whisper back, flirting, even though I shouldn’t.

His biceps bunch as he leans in, a smile dancing on his lips. “Tell.”

My breasts graze his chest, and I feel it in my toes.

“You’re crowding me.” I hate how breathy I sound.

“Can’t help it.” His voice is a rumble, the heat of his breath playing over my skin. He ducks his head, drawing close until our lips nearly brush, and when he speaks again, his tone is almost conversational, except for the husky quality that touches deep within my core. “You smell like strawberries. Fucking delicious.”

My lids flutter, and I swallow hard. “Ordinarily, I’d call you out on that cliché but since I’ve been eating strawberries, you aren’t exactly wrong.”

His chuckle is slow and easy, as he eases back and his gaze slowly travels over my face. “Were they sweet, Stella Button?”

He’s looking at my mouth like he might try to find out.

My lips tremble in response, and John tracks the movement, his breathing getting deeper, faster. “You have two freckles

on your lips. One on the top lip and one on the bottom corner.”

Those damn freckles. They were the bane of my adolescence. I hid them with lipstick and silently cursed whenever someone mentioned them.

Freckles don’t have any feelings, but I swear it’s as if he’s touching them.

“You’re just noticing this?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but it comes out weak and thready.

His own lips quirk. “Oh, I noticed. It’s distracting as hell.

They’re like two little dots of butter to ee. Makes me want to lick them, get a taste.”

Oh, God. Lick them, please. I can almost feel it. I want to feel it.

No. Bad Stella. Behave.

John’s lips part a fraction like he just might take that taste.

“Back o ,” I whisper. And yet somehow my traitorous hands find their way to his sides, running over the waistband of his jeans, holding him there.

John makes a sound deep in his throat and tilts his hips, pressing them against mine. A distinctly thick bulge nudges my belly. Both of us lose a breath, and then he’s closer, his cheek touching my temple. “You’ll have to let me go first.”

My thumbs slide under the edge of his shirt and find smooth, taut skin. A tremor goes through his body. I try to think, search for what the hell we’ve been talking about.

His lips brush the crest of my cheek as he murmurs against my skin. “Tell me what you do, Stella. You know you want to.”

My smile feels illicit. Somehow the action is directly tied to all my happy parts, making them draw hot and tight. “I don’t think I do.”

Another hum. “Liar. You’re dying to.”

A soft laugh leaves me. It feels good doing this with him, teasing and bu ng up against each other—two objects unable to keep apart. My fingertip skims along his skin, tracing the edge of his jeans, and he shivers.

“Button …” It’s a warning.

I should heed it. I know I should. But he’s warm and solid and smells like my best dream. “Yes?” He lets out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I forgot what we were saying.”

We both laugh, low and easy.

“You want to know what I do?” I say, a bit hazy, rubbing my cheek against his.

“Yeah.” It’s a whisper of sound at my ear. “Yeah.”

Languid heat melts over me. I sink against the wall, that thick, hard cock of his pressing into the mound of my sex the only thing keeping me standing. A low-lying pulse of pleasure centers there. I push against it to alleviate the pressure, and we both make a sound—pained, helpless, needy.

John rocks against me, barely a movement, but enough to make my lids flutter.

My head is swimming. “I …” I lick my lips, trying to focus.

“You …?” His lips tickle the edge of my jaw.

“I’m …” God, he presses a kiss at the corner of my eye.

“I’m …” I’m sinking into him. His lips part and brush like

wings along my skin. My fingertips slide over his waist, catching goosebumps. Far away from us, someone laughs.

The honey thickness of John’s voice is at my ear. “You’re …?”

My heavy lids open. The world is a blur. John’s so close, the silk of his burnished brown hair tickling my temple, the scent of warm skin and soap teasing my nostrils. “A friend,” I say.

He stills, not tense but really listening now. “A friend?”

I’m clearer too, but not by much. My fingers still gently trace the edge of his jeans. “Yes. A professional friend. If someone needs a friend, they can hire me.”

I feel the jolt of surprise that moves through him. I hear the little gurgle in his throat. Our bodies brush as he lifts his head enough to meet my eyes. His green gaze is a bit hazy and moving over my face as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re a professional friend?” His voice is husky, cracking at the end.

The sound of his shock has the heat draining from me, leaving my muscles cold and tight. I frown, peering at him.

“Yes.” He stares back, his lips parted but no words coming out.

For a moment, it seems he sways. Then he blinks rapidly, high color flooding those perfectly sculpted cheeks. “I …” He takes a step back, his movements sti and awkward. “I …”

“You sound like me,” I tease, weakly, because my heart is pounding. He’s looking at me like I just landed with the Mother Ship.

John attempts to smile but fails utterly. The best he can do is a wobbly tilt of his lips. He runs a hand through his hair

and squeezes the back of his neck, his gaze darting around as if he doesn’t know where he is. And then his eyes meet mine again. Or they try to—he quickly focuses on my face instead.

“I have to go,” he blurts out.

Before I can blink, he’s turning around and striding away as if the place is set to blow.

CHAPTER TEN

STELLA

“M ISS , COULD YOU HOLD THE DOOR ?” The husky request comes from an older woman at the base of the stairs leading up to my building. She gives me a smile, her lips that perfect shade of crimson the film stars of old Hollywood used to wear.

Honestly, the woman could have been a classic film star. Her iron-gray hair is styled in a sleek long bob, her cream and black-trimmed Chanel suit perfectly tailored to her slight frame.

It hits me that I’m simply staring at the woman, obviously struggling to pull her rolling cart of groceries up the stairs. But the oddness of seeing a woman wearing couture, and carrying an honest-to-God Birkin bag worth more than I make in three months, handling her own groceries, has me dumbfounded. Only in New York.

Fashionable she may be, but she’s looks as though a strong wind could blow her away. I’d been headed out, but I set my purse on the door’s threshold to keep it open and then jog down the stairs and pick up her cart. “Let me.”

“You’re very kind,” she says with a small smile. “And new here.”

“I’m Stella Grey.”

“Madeline Goldman.”

“I’ve been here a few weeks,” I tell her as we climb the stairs. “I’m pet-sitting.”

“Killian’s place?” she says with a nod. “I’d heard he was away for a few months.”

“You know him?”

She takes the cart handle as soon as I set it down, and the enormous canary diamond ring she wears winks in the weak sunlight. It’s part of a set, flanking a thin gold wedding ring.

Everything about her exudes established New York money.

Except for the fact that she’s living in a building without a doorman and doesn’t have a driver. That part is a little odd.

But it seems this building attracts eccentric people.

“My dear,” she says, “I make it my business to know my neighbors. It’s safer and friendlier that way.”

“This is true.” We make our way into the building, and I grab my purse, ready to leave.

Mrs. Goldman takes out a set of keys and opens her mailbox while sliding me a look. “I suppose you know Jax as well.”

My heart gives a little leap, trying to escape my ribs.

Pathetic. I have to stop reacting to all things John, or Jax, or whatever he wants to call himself. My life was perfectly good before I met him. A little lonely, sure. Not as exciting, okay.

But fine. Then I meet the mercurial rock star and he dominates my thoughts. Totally unacceptable. Especially since he ran out on me as though he’d seen a ghost.

I swallow past the bitter lump in my throat. “We’ve met.”

She must hear something in my tone because she does a double take and then laughs. “Yes, I can see you have. That boy has a way of making a lasting impression.”

I snort. “He drives me nuts.”

“Then you must like him quite a bit.” She appears pleased.

“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, Mrs. Goldman, but not every annoying person is secretly likable.”

“No, they certainly aren’t.” Her smile grows. “But Jax is.

Remember, I know the young man. Not only is he charming as a prince, he has a good heart.”

I make a noncommittal sound in my throat.

“He also tends to blunder from time to time,” Mrs. Goldman says with a knowing look.

“You could say that.”

“Messed up quite a bit, has he?” Her eyes glint with amusement now.

“Well, let’s see. He accused me of stalking him. Though I guess that’s fair since I accused him of the same. But he also speculated that I was a professional escort when I wouldn’t tell him what I did for a living.”

That at least gets her. Mrs. Goldman pales, her red lips parting. “Oh. My.” “He apologized,” I feel compelled to add since it looks as though she might take John by the ear and lay into him the next time she sees him. “Then he left me high and dry at a party, and we haven’t spoken since.”

I shrug it o , but my shoulders feel too tight, the memory of John clinging like a limpet.

“He likes you,” she says, nodding almost to herself.

My skin flushes. “I don’t see how you’ve come to that conclusion.”

“Can’t you?” she counters softly.

And damn it, I want to crawl into a hole and hide. Because I had thought John liked me. I’d honestly started to believe that there was something between us. But he ran out and left me without looking back. I don’t know what to think anymore.

Then don’t. Forget him and move on.

“At any rate, I’m just passing through and he’s … well, him. Rock star. Legend. All that …” I wave a helpless hand.

“I’m much more suited for nice, normal guys.”

Why am I babbling? I don’t know this woman. I don’t want to talk about John—Jax. Worse, she’s looking at me as though she sees right into my head. An awkward pause fills the space before she sets her mail in her Birkin bag and then straightens.

“I’ve lived a long while,” she says thoughtfully, “and what I’ve learned is there are people who never make mistakes. They never put their foot in it, always act perfectly.

My dear, I don’t trust those people an inch.”

A shocked laugh escapes me. “Because they’re nice?”

“Because no one who lives honestly is perfect all the time.

Those perfect people? They’re often living a lie. A tidy public persona to hide behind.” Her dark eyes glint. “Ever notice on the news, they’ll interview the neighbors of some deranged serial killer, and they’re always insisting he was such a nice, normal man. Ha. Norman Bates wouldn’t hurt a fly, right?”

Her droll tone makes me laugh. “Well, you have me there.”

“There is no such thing as perfect. Human beings make mistakes. Humans who feel greatly often make the biggest ones. It’s the intent that counts. Is it a mistake based on hate, selfishness, or moral cowardice? Give them no quarter.

But an honest mistake backed by a true heart is another matter entirely.”

The bones of her wrist stand out sharply against her thin skin as she reaches for the elevator call button. “My husband —God rest his soul—and I were married for forty years. We both had to learn that lesson the hard way. Forgive the small blunders. Don’t lose out on something due to pride.”

She gives a little sni , and I can’t help but think she’s putting it on a bit thick.

“Forgive me for saying, Mrs. Goldman, but do you often play matchmaker?”

She freezes and shoots me a repressive glare. But then a slow smile spreads over her face. “I am notorious for it.”

“You’re very good,” I o er, holding in my own smile.

“Yes, I am.” Her expression softens. “He’s lonely, Ms. Grey. Though he’d never admit it to me. And he is one of the best men I have had the pleasure to meet.”

Any humor I felt bleeds away, leaving my chest sore. “I think we both might be a little too screwed up to connect right now.”

The elevator dings as she softly snorts. “We’re all screwed up. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You coming?”

“No.” I take a step back. “I’m going flying.”

“You fly planes?” Her eyes light up. “How marvelous.”

“Small ones.” Big planes are boring, frankly. I might as well be driving a city bus with wings. Hank calls me a snob about that, so I’ve learned to hold my tongue. Besides, I don’t particularly like talking to people about my hobby; it’s too exposing and leads to the inevitable questions: How long have I been flying? What got me into it?

Already, I’m regretting opening my mouth, and find myself edging toward the door. “It isn’t easy getting out to Long Island, but I try to go when I can.”

Mrs. Goldman gives me a kind smile. Too kind, which means I hadn’t done a good job at hiding my discomfort.

Usually, I’m an expert at pretending I’m at ease.

“I won’t keep you, then,” she says. “Happy flying. You should take a jacket, though. Spring weather is temperamental.”

I’m already halfway out the door, not wanting to hear any more of Mrs. Goldman’s grandmotherly advice.

J OHN

“I’ M IN OVER MY HEAD .”

Scottie glances my way before going back to studying the row of options in front of him. “What was your first clue?”

His brow furrows. “Though, if I am honest, I haven’t a bloody clue either. Do I go for comfort or ease of portability?

And how the hell does this pram close?”

He makes a furtive flick of a handle as I bite back a snort.

“I’m not talking about the damn strollers.”

In truth, I have no idea why we’re the ones shopping for a stroller. Two more clueless dudes you couldn’t find.

Scottie crouches down beside a black and silver model that looks more like a space pod to me. “Well, I am. The last one Sophie bought had a shit turning radius and the handles were too low for me. Got a crick in my back maneuvering that nightmare around.”

“You make it sound like a car.”

“This is more important than a car. It’s responsible for conveying my progeny.”

I snort but then assess the o erings. “In that case, at least start with the ones that seat them higher up.”

He studies the strollers. “Why?” “The traditional models have the kid’s face at ass level.

Would you want to constantly be looking at asses?”

“Only if it’s Sophie’s ass.”

“Well, of course. She’s got a great ass.”

He glares at me, and I hold up my hands in surrender.

Scottie stands with a grunt and turns my way. “Why are you in over your head?”

Now that he’s distracted me, I’m sorry I said anything at all. But Scottie’s got his laser gaze on me and there is no way I’m getting out of this without him badgering me to death.

I run a hand over my face. “I can’t do this in front of prams.”

“You think they will leak to the press?” he asks, deadpan.

“Har. No, really, you’re hilarious. People don’t get that about you.”

He nods. “Sophie says much the same.”

“Fuck, I’m going to need an antacid after this.”

Without flinching, he reaches into his suit jacket pocket and pulls out a slim metal case. I gape as he hands me two antacids. “Now, talk.”

I chew before confessing. “Something happened.” I swallow hard. “With Stella. Again.”

Scottie holds up a hand, then takes two antacids for himself.

I roll my eyes while he chomps them down. “You finished?”

“Go on.”

Grumbling, I walk away from the strollers, and he follows.

“I apologized for being a shit.” I bypass the bath products aisle. Yellow duckies and green frogs grin down at me.

“Good.”

Cutting Scottie a glare, I look around for a way out. Breast pumps loom to the left, diapers to the right. A veritable maze of happy baby joy and family time all around me. I can’t get enough air in here. A bunch of kids are singing one of my songs over the loudspeaker, which is wrong on too many levels.

“Mmm … Scottie?”

“Yes?” “When the hell did we give the okay for Tots That Rock to sing our songs?”

He winces. “I was a tad distracted when Sophie told me she was pregnant. Slight errors in judgment may have occurred.”

“Right.”

His eyes narrow on me. “You were at the meeting and signed the papers, Blackwood. You might try paying attention if you object to certain avenues of outreach marketing.”

“Uh-huh. Outreach marketing is an interesting term, by the way. Points for that.”

His eyes become slits. “Stop deflecting and tell me about your problem.”

“Stella told me about her job.”

I tug on the color of my T-shirt. I swear they’ve turned on the heat. Smiling, drooling baby pictures leer down at me.

It’s like The Birds with diapers.

Scottie grabs hold of my elbow. “This way.”

I let him steer me out of baby hell and fill my lungs with gloriously polluted city air as soon we step outside.

“Thanks.”

“Same thing happened the first five times Sophie dragged me into one of these stores,” he admits. “You have to work your way up to a full visit.”

We jog across the street and head toward Central Park.

Scottie resumes talking as soon as we’re in the relative privacy of the park. “You have a problem with her being a professional friend?”

“No.” If only. I’d prefer that right about now. “It’s not that …”

“Then what?”

I swear my throat is closing.

“Spit it out, John, or I’m returning to shop for strollers.”

“I found it adorable, all right?” I run a hand through my hair. “She’s utterly adorable. Something happened to me

that I don’t …”

Scottie stops and stares at me. I can’t look him in the eye.

“I was standing there, looking at her, and she became … more. I couldn’t … I couldn’t think, man. Everything simply …” I wave a hand in annoyance at myself. “Tilted. The world titled, and there she was. You know?”

A slow, annoying smile spreads over his face. I want to kick him. But I don’t. I brought this on myself.

“Yes,” he says, “as a matter of fact, I do know.”

I was afraid of that. I remember how Scottie was when he fell for Sophie, his focus shifting from work to one chatty blond who appeared to drive him up a tree. It had been amusing as hell watching him fall. Not so much now. Not when I’m the one toppling.

The first instrument I played was a violin. I liked it fine and was very good at it. But the second I got a guitar in my hands, I knew it would change my life. Same with meeting Killian, Whip, Rye, Brenna, and Scottie. I knew they would play a part in my life, alter its direction and purpose.

I have the same knowing with Stella. She is fresh and new, comfortable and timeless, like one of my best songs, played an entirely di erent way. Only instead of jumping in with both feet, I want to back the fuck away. Unlike the others, Stella scares the hell out of me.

I’d stared at her in that shadowed hallway and it fully hit me how much I want her. I want her under me, over me, beside me. I want to dedicate hours memorizing the pattern of her freckles, each curve and dip of her body. I want her body against mine until her scent is in my skin. I want to taste her, to fuck her, to laugh with her. I want everything.

Sex has always been easy for me. I can detach, let myself feel pleasure, let myself ignore all the shit in my head. I love sex. But I’ve never truly wanted a particular woman before.

One was as good as any. And if someone I was into wasn’t into me, there were plenty of willing and available women to satisfy my needs. I used to love that about sex—the ease and impersonality of it all. I could experience an intense human connection that I desperately needed without having to stay connected after it was over.

Nothing about Stella is impersonal.

Maybe if it were a simple case of lust or the need to fuck, I could handle this thing with Stella. But it’s not. That is abundantly clear. She told me she’s a professional friend, someone whose job it is to make other people feel a little less lonely in life, and that had been it for me. I fell straight into the abyss. My want of her isn’t just physical; it is soul deep.

If the choice is to have Stella in my life without sex, or fuck her and leave her, I will pick celibacy with Stella every time. But how do I expose my soul, as flawed as it is, and have any hope that she’d want me too?

I’m the eternal fuckup. Have been my whole life. It’s a miracle I’m famous. And, yeah, I am adored by fans. But they don’t know me. Stella does, and I’m not convinced she can stand my presence for very long. Sure, she’s attracted. I can see that just fine. But I know for a fact that attraction is a shallow emotion that can easily fade, so it doesn’t inspire much hope. Which is why I want to run as far as I can from Stella. But the harder I pull away, the more I feel her tugging me back.

Scottie is still staring, that knowing gleam in his eyes.

He’s enjoying this.

I rub a hand along the back of my neck and squeeze the sti muscles. “I left her standing there. Did a total runner.”

He nods as though my reaction is perfectly normal, which it bloody well isn’t. “‘We are all fools in love.’”

For a second, I gape at him. “Did you just quote Jane Austen?”

Scottie snorts. “Mate, you had a copy of Pride and Prejudice tucked under your mattress that first road trip we took.”

“I was trying to impress women!”

“Right. That’s why it was dog-eared and falling apart.”

“It was Brenna’s old copy,” I protest, but then shrug.

“Darcy was all right. But it always bothered me that Elizabeth only started to change her opinion of him when she saw Pemberley.”

“She was falling before that; she simply refused to acknowledge it. You’re a cynic for thinking otherwise.”

Scottie pulls out his phone to text for his car. The man never walks around the city if he doesn’t have to. “Which won’t work with Ms. Grey; that woman is a romantic.”

I would ask how he knows, but Scottie knows everything about everyone. No use getting annoyed about that. And he’s right.

Frowning, I look out over the park. The gray sky hangs heavy and full over the rolling green grass. Rain is about to fall and people are heading for cover. Scottie and I head for Columbus Avenue, where his driver will be waiting.

“What do I do?” I blurt out.

Scottie gives me a sidelong look. “Invest in a good set of kneepads. I predict a lot of groveling in your future.”

“If I could only spend time with her without worrying about anything else,” I mutter.

“That would be ideal.” Scottie appears to think that’s impossible. Then again, the lucky bastard was working with Sophie when they met. She had to be around his prickly arse.

A nebulous idea begins to form, tickling the edges of my desperate brain.

“Besides,” Scottie says, interrupting my thoughts, “we have bigger problems right now.”

The sinking feeling in my gut returns with a vengeance.

“You talked to the women?” The list I’d given him was embarrassingly vague, but his sta keeps track of everyone who comes to our meet-and-greets or visits our VIP rooms, which helped a lot, considering that my usual hookups are with women attending Kill John functions.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “We also located the source. A young woman named Karen—” “Karen. Right, that was her name.”

Scottie shoots me an annoyed look. “Apparently, Karen had also been friendly with Dave North.”

Dave North, the lead Singer for Infinite Sorrow. I rub the back of my neck. “Dave know he’s at risk?”

“He does now.” Scottie lets out an aggrieved sigh. “I swear, I should teach you lot a course …”

“Anyway,” I cut in before he can get going, “why do I have bigger problems?”

“Eventually this story is going to break. We cannot contain it.”

“I gathered as much.” Rain begins to fall in slow, soft drops, dotting the backs of my arms. “No help for it, is there?”

Scottie pulls a compact umbrella out of his briefcase before calling the car. “No. But we need to form a plan for damage control. Your image here is key. We have to make it golden.”

The rain comes on harder now, hitting my cheeks with cold splatters. “Scottie, mate, I live like a monk now. And, frankly, I don’t give a shit if they eviscerate me.” Not exactly true. It will hurt, whether I want it to or not. “Don’t worry about me any more than you have to. I’ll be fine.”

Ice-cold eyes level on me, seeing too much. “I used to isolate myself. Look out for others but never myself. It’s a lonely way to live.”

Don’t I know it. Success, failure—those are transient states. Fear can throw you for a loop. But loneliness digs its claws in like nothing else. You can be surrounded by friends and still sink into loneliness. It’s fucking awful.

“Sophie teach you that?” I quip, ignoring the dark abyss of that emotion.

Scottie’s lips curl slightly. “No, mate. You did.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

STELLA

A N INEVITABLE TRUTH about New York City cabs: if it rains, they disappear. Like magic. Another law of rain and the city? It will hit when you’re as far away from a subway station as possible. I’m fairly certain the city wants you to get wet.

Well, I’m wet all right. Soaked to the bone as I trudge up the steps to my building. It’s a spring rainstorm, cold and relentless, hammering my skull with a rat-ta-tat-tat.

Since I went out in a T-shirt and little skirt, I’m fucking freezing. Goddamn it, Mrs. Goldman had been right; I should’ve worn a jacket.

I’d be all right if I could just get warm again. But I cannot get into my fuckety-fuckface building. My hands shake as I tap in the alarm code to the front door. Again.

And again, I get an angry flash of a red: “Access Denied.”

“Come on,” I mutter, a lump rising in my throat. “Let me in.”

If I can’t deactivate the alarm, the key won’t turn. It’s a simple yet maddening security measure that I used to

appreciate. I hate it now. The keypad numbers swim in front of my face. I know I’m getting it wrong. I didn’t write the code down, yet these are the numbers I remember. My memory is solid as stone. How can I be getting it wrong? But I know how.

I punch the code in again, my fingertip aching as I jam it against the keypad numbers.

Access denied.

My vision blurs and I blink rapidly. “Fuck.” The word escapes in a small, hiccupping sob.

Someone bounds up the stairs. Please don’t be him. Please.

But the world isn’t that kind.

“Stella Button?” John crowds behind me, holding an umbrella over our heads. “Why the bloody hell are you standing there? Open the door and get out of the rain.”

Why him? Of all the people who live in this damn building, why does it always have to be him? I’d have preferred Mrs. Goldman’s “I told you so” over him right now.

My throat convulses. “I’m trying.”

He leans closer, obviously straining to hear my weak voice over the pounding rain. “What’s wrong? Is the door broken?”

My lip wobbles, and I bite it hard before answering. “The code doesn’t work.” Rapidly I punch it in only to be denied.

“See?” There’s an awful pause. I can feel the heavy weight of his stare. Then he moves, and I tense as his cheek brushes mine when he bends down. “Stella, love, it’s 22577, not 77522.”

I knew that. But how do I tell him that I thought I’d been punching the right combination, that my messed-up mind switched them somewhere along the way? I can’t. I don’t. I just stand there, rigid and tearing up.

“Hey.” The softness in his voice has me lifting my head.

He searches my face, and the corners of his eyes crease.

“Christ, Stells, you’re killing me here.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I’m the one cold and soaked.

Moving slowly, he lifts his hand and brushes a wet strand of hair o my cheeks. Silence swells between us as he stares at my face like he’s never seen me before. Then again, every time I set eyes on him it feels like the first time and as though I’ve always been looking at his gorgeous face.

We stand like that, the rain thrumming on his umbrella and bouncing o the pavers at our feet. I can’t make myself move or say a word. He is stern and forbidding and beautiful, his dark hair misted with silver raindrops.

I haven’t seen him since the night he ran o on me, but time has done nothing to dull the punch of attraction I feel whenever I’m in his vicinity. If anything, it’s worse now. I take a shaking breath, and his gaze darts to my lips.

“Fornasetti,” he finally blurts out, though his voice is husky.

“What?” My own voice is a sad croak.

John’s brows pull together. “You know those Italian plates? The graphic black-and-white ones with the girl on them. She has these big eyes and cute little nose and sweet bud of a mouth?”

I must be frowning, because his cheeks flush and he rushes on. “You remind me of her.”

“Of a girl on a plate?”

The flush on his cheeks deepens. “Yeah … Never mind.”

He quickly puts in the right code and opens the door. His touch on my lower back is gentle as he guides me out of the cold and rain. I trudge to the elevator, leaving puddles in my wake.

With a soft curse, John shrugs out of his damp flannel shirt and wraps it around my shoulders before hugging me tight to his side. “You’re freezing.”

I hear the condemnation in his voice, like he knows how long I’d been outside, trying to get in and failing. I bite my lip harder. Without a word, John punches the button to our floor. The elevator might as well be a tomb in the silence that follows. I glare down at my toes and shiver while John holds me closer and rubs my arm with his big hand.

I should shrug him o , but he’s warm and it feels too good. Yep, that’s me, choosing basic human comfort over pride. My pride takes another hit when we reach our little landing and John types in the code for my front door.

I lurch back, my gaze finally snapping to his. “You know the code?”

John has the grace to wince. “Killian is my best mate. We know each other’s for safety reasons.”

“Not feeling a whole lot safer right now,” I grumble, stomping into the penthouse.

He follows me in. “I hope you’re pissed on principle and don’t actually think I’d ever come in here uninvited.”

I glance back at him, and my steps slow when I take in his hurt expression. A sigh leaves me. “Yes, it’s the principle.” I give him a weak smile. “If you really wanted to get in, you could just jump over the back wall like I did.”

I don’t think he finds my attempt at humor funny right now. But his sti ness eases. “Any time you’re doing yoga naked, let me know, and I’ll hop over that wall in a hurry.”

Despite the tightness in my chest, I laugh a little. “I’ll put that at the top of my to-do list.”

A shiver wracks my body, and he gestures toward the bedroom with a tilt of his head. “Go get dry. I’ll make you some tea.”

“You’ll make tea?”

His lip quirks as he heads for the kitchen. “Perhaps you don’t know this but, at heart, I am an Englishman. Learning how to make a proper cuppa is a one of life’s first lessons.”

I remember then that John is from an extremely wealthy English family. “Your accent is faint, and comes out at odd times.”

Maybe it’s because he divided his childhood between New York and England. But John’s reaction tells me otherwise.

His grimace is so slight I almost miss it. “When we started the band, I tried my hardest to lose the accent.

Perhaps I was a bit too successful at that.”

“But why?” When it peeks out, his accent is lovely.

John heads toward Killian’s kitchen, giving his back to me. When he finally answers, his tone is dull. “For the British, your accent defines you. The instant you open your mouth to speak, people know where you come from. My

parents are elitist snobs. They hated everything about what I was doing and who I was trying to become.”

He stops at the kitchen counter and stares absently at the cabinets. Tension runs along his shoulders, making the muscles beneath his shirt bunch tight. But then he looks back at me, and the smile he tosses my way is careless and just a bit cocky. “Since they were doing their best to erase me from the family, I thought I’d return the favor.”

Jesus. Hurt for him presses on my chest and urges me to give him a hug. I know all about being abandoned and the defiant rage that follows. I could tell him about that, give him a piece of my own pain. But I also know body language, and his is fairly screaming, “Back o , please.” Besides, we’re not supposed to do heavy and real. He made that clear when he sprinted out of the party. This confession must be an aberration—a slip brought on by my nosiness.

So I play my part and make a joke instead.

I snicker. “You’re an Englishman in New York.”

John’s expression turns blank as he stares at me, not understanding, but then he slowly smiles. “The Sting song, right?”

I nod. “Popped into my head just now.”

Gratitude flares bright in his green eyes, and then it’s gone. But his smile grows. “Whip quoted Sting the other day.” He pulls out a kettle and fills it. “You remind me of Whip.”

“Really? Why?” We’re at opposite ends of the room and he’s turned away from me again, but when he grabs two teacups from the

cabinet, I see a glimpse of his soft smile. “You’re both … kind.”

“Kind?” I don’t know why I’m repeating him. But “kind” feels like a pat on the head.

He glances over his shoulder. “Yep. Kind. The person you call when you’re sinking and need a hand to hold onto because you know they’ll show up.” With a shake of his head, he laughs. “I don’t know how else to describe it.”

Warmth spreads through my chest, but my gut clenches uncomfortably. No one has ever tried to explain me to me. I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to handle him.

I want to ask him more about his bandmates. Does he hang out with them when they aren’t working? Are they as easygoing as he is? Do they sit around and make music? Or maybe they’re just like other guys and watch sports while drinking beers and talking shit.

But to ask seems like prying and too fangirlish. I wish I were cooler about his fame, but it feels as though John is two people. The flirty, sometimes annoying, sometimes impish man who is my neighbor, and then he’s Jax, the superstar who is the object of endless fans’ lust and idolization.

When he talks about his bandmates, I can’t help but think of him as Jax and wonder what the hell he’s even doing here and why he’s making me tea. It doesn’t feel real.

The silence grows awkward, and John catches me stalling.

“Your lips are blue.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

I take a hot shower and put on my softest pajama pants and a long-sleeve shirt. I’m not trying to impress John. How

utterly ridiculous—I totally am. The man is a bowlful of creamy sex with hot fudge on top. My body knows this even if my brain keeps reminding me of why he’s a disaster waiting to happen. Maybe if I didn’t have to live right next to him, or be reminded of hooking up after the sweat dried, I’d want him to want me.

Though, really, despite the fact that he’s a consummate flirt, I don’t think he sees me as a conquest. Guys like Jax Blackwood don’t hesitate. They go for what they want without fear. As much as it pains me to admit, I admire that about him.

I laugh at myself as I towel dry my hair and then head out to the living room. The only truth I need to know is that he’d backed away from me the other night as if I had a contagious disease. I’m in no danger of things going any further than they are now.

The thought is still with me, pulling a melancholy smile to my lips, when I join him in the main room. He has a pot of tea ready and a pile of toast with little pots of jams, honey, and butter arranged on a tray. It’s so very English it tugs at my heart.

“How do you take your tea?” he asks, and I’m struck by another weird sense that I must be dreaming: Jax Blackwood fixing me a cup of tea as solicitous and proper as a butler.

Was Mrs. Goldman right? Is he lonely? I want to ask but don’t have the nerve.

“A little milk. A spoonful of sugar.”

He pours my tea and then hands me the cup. “Killian has a dismal selection of tea on hand. I’m sorry to say, it shall be cheap, bagged Earl Grey for us.”

My fingers wrap around the warm ceramic. “I’m not a huge tea drinker. I don’t think I’d know the di erence anyway.”

He gives me a mock expression of horror. “I’ll make a convert out of you yet, Button.”

John might be on to something because the tea is better than any I’ve had before. Strong but not bitter. Fragrant and milky with just a hint of sweetness. I take another soothing sip and sigh before helping myself to some buttered toast with honey. “Thanks,” I tell him between bites. “This is wonderful.”

He drinks his tea and somehow makes it look manly, the cup dainty in his big hands. “What happened back there?” he asks. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But you looked … lost, Stells. Are you okay now?”

My throat thickens as I nod. “I’m okay. It’s …” I sip my tea to give myself a reprieve. “Sometimes numbers kind of flip in my brain.”

His brilliant green eyes are steady on me. “You’re dyslexic?”

“No, that’s words. It’s numbers for me. A mild case of dyscalculia.” I let out a breath. “It only happens when I’m stressed or overtired. Then it’s like something in my brain just stalls or the numbers will flip. When I try to force it, the situation gets worse. Like today. I was tired and cold and angry at myself and …” I shrug, gripping my cup tighter.

“I’m glad I was there to let you in, then.” And that is the end of it. No pity. No asking questions I don’t have answers to.

John spreads currant jam on his toast, and we eat in silence for a few minutes. It isn’t strained exactly—I’m definitely feeling warm and cared for—but there’s a certain tension tugging between us. I have the feeling that John is bracing himself for something. He keeps shooting me hesitant looks before taking big bites of toast and munching on it as though his life depends on it.

Everybody messes up. I know this. I know he’s as human as the rest of us, even though it sometimes seems he lives above the rest of the world. I settle more comfortably into the couch, drink my tea, and eat my toast. He’ll talk when he’s ready. John isn’t the type to keep silent for long.

I’m proved right when he takes a long sip of his tea and then sets it down. He presses his shoulders into the couch pillows, bracing himself. “I’m sorry I walked away like that at the party.”

Not something I really want to talk about. Words that come to mind start with “embarrassing” and end with “rejection.”

“You bolted so fast, for a moment, I thought they were having the walls and ceiling removed,” I quip. I don’t know if I sound as carefree as I want. Probably not. I told him what I do for a living and he ran—right after he’d been smiling and leaning in as if he wanted to devour my mouth with his.

Clearly, being a professional friend is a turno for him.

A wrinkle forms between his brows before smoothing. “A Megamind joke?” He smiles. “God, you’re adorable.”

“Like a wiggly puppy,” I say under my breath, then shake my head, pushing a bright expression.

But he hears me perfectly well and frowns. “It was rude of me. I don’t know how to explain other than I had a bout of temporary insanity.”

I find myself slipping back into old habits, wanting to smooth over our awkward patch. “No need to apologize. I had to get back to Richard anyway.”

He doesn’t appear convinced. “Had I known you were working, I wouldn’t have pulled you away. Getting you in trouble with a client is the last thing I’d want.”

I narrow my eyes at him because I can’t tell if he’s being genuine or giving me shade. He’s too tight and fidgety for me to get a good read on him. “Richard didn’t mind.”

He rests his feet on the co ee table. “What do you do with these friends? And I’m not hinting about sex, I swear to God,” he adds in a rush.

I husk out a laugh. “I didn’t think you were.” I run a hand through my damp hair. “We do anything they want. The only rules for me is that it isn’t something illegal and there is no sexual contact. Strictly platonic.”

He nods, intent and encouraging me to go on.

“And it isn’t only men who I go out with. I have plenty of women clients as well. You just happened to keep seeing me with the guys.” I shake my head ruefully. “As for what we do, I’ve gone shopping, out to eat, movies, attended weddings as pretend dates. Even a funeral once.”

His brows lift. “A funeral?”

“Yeah. A woman didn’t want to go to her mom’s funeral alone. She had no one close to her left and needed someone to hold her hand.”

His expression softens. “Stells, you really do kill me sometimes.”

“Why?” I ask in a weak voice. The memory of poor Mari’s pain lingers with the telling of it.

“You helped a total stranger get through one of the shittiest days of her life. Not many people would do that.”

“Don’t make it noble.” I glance away. “I didn’t want to be there. I hated every minute of it.”

“But you did it.”

“Only because I know how it feels to be alone. I couldn’t say no to her request.”

“And that,” he says, leaning forward, putting him in my line of sight, “makes all the di erence. You did it anyway.”

“You trying to butter me up, Blackwood?”

He gives me a sidelong look. “Maybe.”

Okay, didn’t expect that. I curl my legs under me. “Why?” His foot starts tapping. “Been thinking …”

I really don’t like the way he looks at me, hesitant and yet determined. “Thinking, what?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I would like to hire you. To be a friend for a while,” he clarifies in the face of my silence.

I try to say something. Really, I do. But my throat constricts. A telltale prickle grows behind my lids. I’m going to cry, and I’m not a crier.

Pay me to be his friend? He might as well have pulled out a scythe and cut the legs out from under me. I’ve dealt with this before, getting close to someone who ends up seeing me not as a true friend but as something less than. Honestly, I’ve dealt with this enough times that I have the standard, “Yeah, sure. Let’s schedule something” answer down pat.

And, after all, he is o ering to pay. Some people—a lot of people—want me to be the friend on call, the friend who acts like a paid companion, who they expect to give them benign answers and pleasant smiles, but they don’t want to pay.

They expect me to act that way for free.

Maybe I should be thankful.

John stares at me with an earnest expression, clearly oblivious that he just mentally gut-punched me. All I have to do is be polite and get him out of my apartment as quickly as possible. But I can’t make my mouth move.

Clearly impatient, he edges forward. “I’ll pay you extremely well. Enough that you don’t have to see other clients. Just me.”

My face begins to tingle. “You want to pay me to hang out exclusively with you?”

Satisfaction lights his face. His big, stupid face. “Yes.” I start my deep yoga breathing.

“Well then?” he asks, hands clenched into fists. “What do you think?”

“You need to leave.” I stand, nearly knocking into the co ee table. “Now, please.”

John lurches to his feet as well, his brows winging up.

“Leave? Why?” I can’t look at him. “Because I asked you to.” Turning my back to him, I pick up the teacups.

“What the hell? What did I do wrong?”

You o ered to pay me for what I would have done for free.

“Nothing.”

A wrinkle forms between his brows. “Then why are you kicking me out?”

So I can cry alone. “I’m tired.”

“Bullocks.” His English accent, rises up, crisp as new paper. “You look as though I’ve sucker-punched you. Is it really so distasteful to hang out with me, then?”

Distasteful? I want to scream. I just might.

John’s color deepens as he takes a step closer, his long, lean body looming over me. “Answer me, damn it.”

When he moves to cup my elbow, I swing my arm away.

“Because you did sucker-punch me, you jerk.”

He gapes at me in shock. “How?” Of all the … My disappointment bubbles up and turns to rage. “How can you not know? Are you seriously that clueless?”

His mouth snaps shut on a glare. “Apparently so.

Enlighten me, then.”

“Because it hurts, okay?” When he frowns, I advance on him. “You think because I’m good old Stella, everyone’s friend, that I don’t feel that …” I wave a helpless hand.

“Black hole of pain? That utter fucking emptiness? People pay me to be their friend. I make people smile and laugh so they can say, ‘There’s Stella, isn’t she good fun’?”

Something dark and bitter burns within me. My words come out like hard punches. “Do you know how many actual friends I have? None. Not a fucking one. Nobody knows the real me. Nobody calls on my birthday, or to see how I’m doing when they haven’t heard from me in a while. No one turns to me for anything other than a fleeting laugh or paid companionship.”

It hurts to say. My vision blurs and I blink rapidly. “I have zero true friends. Just people who know the surface of me.

Sometimes the loneliness of it hurts crushes my chest like a vise. And I sit here, alone, wondering what the fuck is so wrong with me that no one has bothered to try. That no one sticks.”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he rasps, attempting to grasp my shoulders.

I evade him again. “But there has to be. There has to be a reason I have no friends, why no one stays. And that reason is me.” I suck in a shaking breath. “You just proved it. I thought we were becoming real friends—” “We were.” He sounds almost desperate now, a wild look in his eyes as he leans close. “We are!”

“Come o it. You wanted to hire me just like all the others.”

John runs a hand through his hair, making the ends stick out in all directions. “I said that because I wanted to be close to you and am too emotionally stunted to man up to it. There isn’t anyone I want to be around more than you. You occupy my thoughts, haunt my dreams. I can no more stay away from you than I can try to keep my heart from beating.”

His words are everything I’ve always wanted to hear. But his actions tell a di erent story. And I can’t let myself feel that hope. Not right now. I want too badly to believe and can’t trust my judgment.

“If that were true,” I say through sti lips, “you wouldn’t have tried to buy my friendship. I get what you’re saying about manning up. But your first inclination was to buy me.

Which means some part of you sees me as a commodity, not a person.”

“Damn it.” He spreads his arms wide. “I see you, Stella. I want—” “No. I really don’t care what you want right now. I need you to leave.”

His lips flatten. He clearly has no intention of obeying.

“Go.” I push at his chest, backing him up. I know he’s letting me move him. Good. At least he understands no means no. “I can’t handle you here.”

“Stella.” He’s still backing up, awkwardly bumbling toward the door as I herd him that way. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think—” “No, you didn’t. But it isn’t my job to coddle you. Right now, I’m going to lick my own wounds, and I don’t want you here.”

John’s gaze darts over my face. He looks so truly pained that, for a second, I consider relenting. But I always relent, smooth things over during uncomfortable situations. I’m always the one who fixes things. I won’t do it for him. If there is any hope for any type of relationship with this man, I can’t start it as Stella, the emotional sponge.

Perhaps he sees my resolve. He lets out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping. “Okay, Button. I’m going. I …” He frowns. “I’m sorry. Will you please come see me when you’re ready?”

His brows lift, green eyes imploring. My resistance crumbles like dry sand. I resent the hell out of him for that, and that I can’t stop myself from saying, “Fine.”

Before he can say anything else, I close the door on his too pretty face. And then I curl up and cry. I have no doubt John is sorry he hurt me. Doesn’t stop me from feeling

utterly alone. I need a new profession, a new life. I need a release.

Picking up the phone, I call Hank.

“Can you put me on the book for tomorrow?” I ask when he answers.

I was just there today, and usually I don’t fly but once a week, but Hank doesn’t ask any questions. He never does when it comes to personal things. “Sure thing, kid. You need me to pick you up at the station?”

“Yes, please.” I hang up, a little more settled. Maybe I should go talk to John and accept his apology. But my throat is burning and so am I. Whether it’s from my cry-fest or being caught in the rain, suddenly I don’t feel well at all.

CHAPTER TWELVE

JOHN

A MELODY TICKLES the edges of my mind. A song is there, waiting for me. But I can’t seem to coax it out. Thrumming idle chords, I try to let it come.

Instead I find myself thinking of red-gold curls and little cinnamon freckles. I miss her voice. I don’t think I’ve ever missed a person’s voice before. I can’t say there’s anything exceptional or truly di erent about Stella’s voice, except that it’s hers.

This is not good. I’m growing attached to a woman who thinks I’m an asshole. Even if she didn’t, getting emotional with someone is a bad idea. I can’t even be trusted to take care of Killian’s pets—how the hell am I supposed to navigate a real relationship? Fuck, I can’t even touch a woman right now. Doesn’t matter that the antibiotics have run their course and I’m perfectly healthy. I feel infected.

Tainted.

“Fuck it.” I play a few chords but the sound clashes with the furious buzzing of Killian’s front doorbell.

I glance toward my own door. Stella has company?

Perfect. Probably another oddball dude who is paying to be her friend. And she lets them. Me? I get a “fuck o ” in response.

I don’t care anymore. But I do. I was a total asshat for trying to finagle friendship out of Stella instead of simply telling her how I feel. Something I’d apologize for repeatedly if she’d let me. It’s been three days and not a word from her.

I’ve texted a couple of times to no avail. Yesterday, I rang her doorbell and she didn’t answer. Okay, she might have been out, but not knowing sucks. Being cast into social Siberia sucks.

The buzzing keeps going.

My fingers stumble over the strings. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Maybe it isn’t a client. Maybe it’s a date. Someone as cute as Stella likely dates all the time. Is she going to bring him into her bed? Let him touch her? Touch him? Of course they’ll touch. If a guy has Stella in bed, he’s going to touch her. A lot. Everywhere.

The back of my neck grows hot and pinched. Not my business. Not my damn business.

The buzzer rings again. I set my guitar down and grit my teeth. Sweat trickles down my spine. All I see is Stella, her soft, freckle-dusted skin slowly being revealed as some wanker undoes her top— “Mother fuck.” I stand and pace toward the door. To do what? Make a fool out of myself? Beg her to stop? Ridiculous.

Utterly ridiculous. No way am I going to be That Guy. I turn to walk away when some dude starts yelling.

“Hey? Hello in there? You don’t answer, you still owe me money!”

My muscles seize. Owes him money? Oh, hell no. What the ass is going on?

“Yo!” the irate guy in the hall shouts. “Hello?”

He leans on the buzzer again.

That’s it. I’m done.

A skinny, college-age kid flinches when I whip open my door, but he soon settles. “Hey, man. Sorry to disturb.” He glares at Killian’s door. “Your neighbor buzzed me in and then refused to open the door. Someone has to pay for this soup.”

He holds up a bag laden with takeout cartons as evidence.

For one instant, the relief is so strong I lean against my doorway to let it ride. Then concern takes its place because if Stella buzzed this guy up, she should be answering her door.

I pull a few bills from my pocket, way more than the food likely costs. Slapping the money into his hand, I grab the bag and don’t give him another thought as I quickly punch in the code to Killian’s door.

“Stella?” I call out, stalking into the place.

She isn’t in the living room, and my pulse kicks into high gear. The meaty organ pounds in my chest as I set down the soup and call her name again. Louder this time. Kind of frantic, because fuck. “Stella!”

A weak noise from her room has me running up the stairs, my blood ice cold, my throat dry.

Hell, if this is even a taste of what my guys felt when they found me, I totally get why they mother me. I slam into her room and almost stumble on the rug as I skid to a halt.

Stella lies curled up on the bed, shivering, her hair matted and damp, her skin flushed.

“Baby.” I hustle over and touch her forehead. She’s burning up. “Shit. How long have you been like this?”

Sheets, ripe with the scent of sweat, twist around her body. With dull eyes, she looks at me for a second, then sags into the pillow. She doesn’t give me any info, just whimpers.

And my chest constricts.

It’s been years since I’ve been around anyone sick. I think the last time was for Killian when he had the flu. I didn’t take care of him, though. That had been Brenna’s job back then. But I remember my childhood and how my mother would care for me.

“Come on, love,” I whisper as I scoop Stella up. “Let’s get you more comfortable.”

Her head lolls against my shoulder, and she whimpers again. The unhealthy heat of her body seeps through my shirt, and I bite back a curse. Gently laying her down on the loveseat, I hustle into Killian’s room where I know there’s a wet bar. I know this because the bastard stole the idea from me.

Armed with a bottle of cold water and a fresh glass, I head back and find Stella dozing. I use the time to change the sheets on her bed and get some painkillers. She makes a noise of protest when I pick her back up.

“It’s okay,” I tell her softly. “You’ll be okay.”

“Hurt,” she croaks.

“Where?”

“Throat. Everywhere.”

I set her down on the bed and unravel the dirty sheet.

She’s dressed in a rumpled and sweat-soaked tank top and panties. Fuck. Running a hand through my hair, I hesitate for a second but then set my shoulders. She needs to be in clean clothes. End of story.

It takes some doing, but I wrestle a loose white T-shirt onto her and pull the tank o under it. Yeah, I’m being a prude. I’ve seen so many women nude, I’ve lost count. But this is Stella. It feels wrong to see her naked when she’s helpless and sick.

Not that she utters a word of complaint as I work. She just watches me with those dull, listless eyes. Her hand trembles when I give her a glass of cold water, and she only takes a small sip.

“More,” I tell her, pushing the glass back to her lips.

“Hurts.”

“I know, baby. But you need to hydrate.” I hand her two painkillers. “Take these.”

Her grimace hurts to look at but she does what I ask before flopping back onto the pillows. I cover her with a sheet and then find the thermometer.

It’s bad.

“One hundred and three?” I glare down at her. “Baby, you should have called me.”

Stella doesn’t answer but starts shivering again, and I cover her with the quilt.

Irritation and worry churn through my gut as I sit next to her and run my hand over her head. I’ve been dying to touch her hair, wondering if it would feel as silky as it looks. But

it’s sticky with sweat now, and I curse again and pull out my phone to dial Dr. Stern.

She answers quickly.

“I have an emergency,” I tell her as I carefully comb my fingers through Stella’s snarled curls.

“Define emergency, Jax.” “I have a friend here. She’s running a high fever. Chills.

Says her throat hurts. I need you to check her out.”

Now, if I were an ordinary person, Doc Stern would tell me to take Stella to the nearest clinic. But since Kill John pays her extremely well to be on call for whatever reason, she tells me she’ll be right over.

I’m not good at waiting. I hate it. Right now, it’s killing me. Stella is in pain and sick with fuck knows what. My gut knotting, I lie back on the bed next to her. Immediately, she curls into me, resting her head on my lap. Her cheek pushes against my dick, and I try not to wince. I’m too tense to get hard. But that doesn’t stop my awareness of her.

Something about Stella makes my senses kick into high gear. If she’s around, I am focused. It’s a strange sensation. I try not to think about it as I gently trace the line of her hair along her temple. My fingertips tingle as if receiving a lowlevel shock.

“Why didn’t you call someone?” I ask, caressing her jaw.

She’s still feverish.

“Who?” It’s barely a croak, but she says it as if truly curious. Like she has no one and hasn’t for a while. She told me she didn’t have any real friends, but it hits me that I didn’t really believe it. How could I? Stella is light and

sweetness. Every person who gets near is pulled into her orbit. And she thinks she has no one.

My stomach clenches. “Me. You should have called or texted me.”

Her eyes are closed, but she moves her shoulder in a weak shrug. “Fighting.”

The tightness in my gut turns painful. “We’re not fighting. And even if we were, you could still ask me for help, Button.”

Christ. She doesn’t understand this? Friends fucking show. No matter what. I could be acting like a complete dick, but if I called Whip, Rye, Brenna, Scottie, Sophie, or Libby, they’d be there for me. I’d do the same for them. In an instant, I miss my friends.

My thoughts are interrupted when Stella jerks and opens her eyes with a gasp. It stops my heart. “What?” I touch her cheek. “Are you hurting?”

She just looks at the door. “Food. Guy should be here.”

Sagging against the padded headboard, I rest my hand on her head. “It’s okay. I paid him.”

But her eyes stay wild. “Stevens and Hawn.”

At the sound of his name, Stevens prowls out from under the bed and leaps up to cuddle Stella’s thigh. She weakly touches his head. I eye the little fur ball with trepidation. He might like Stella, but the bugger is shifty as fuck. “I’ll feed the pets,” I tell her. Stevens narrows his devil eyes at me as if to say, you better fucking do it or I’ll gut you. I believe it.

“His litter box,” Stella whispers, worried.

I swear Stevens smirks. I suppress a shiver. “Yeah, I’ll do that too.”

Stella sighs and snuggles back down on my lap. “’Kay.” “You want some soup?”

She shakes her head, burrowing in deeper and slinging her arm over my thighs. It does something to me, the way she clings. No one has ever looked to me for simple physical comfort. Ever. I wouldn’t have allowed it. I’m not a cuddler.

Women have tried to cling. It made my skin crawl. I used to think I was broken that way. Incapable. But comforting Stella feels good. Useful.

Idly, I run my fingers through her curls and stare at the ceiling.

The door buzzer goes o . Dr. Stern. Finally.

I move to let her in, but Stella clutches my hips. Her wide blue eyes, dull with fever, find mine. “Don’t leave me.”

Fuck. She’s breaking my heart. I cup her cheek. “Never, baby. I’m just getting the door, okay?”

She blinks, looking hazy and confused.

I kiss her temple. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

The second I lay eyes on Dr. Stern, I grab hold of her bag.

“She’s in the bedroom.”

Stern follows me inside. “Calm down, Jax.” “I’ll be calm when Stella is better.” I halt and spin to face Stern. “Shit. She has a sore throat, Doc. And some kind of pinkish rash on her neck. Could I have …” I run a hand through my hair. “What if I infected her?”

Stern’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t have unprotected sex with this woman while you were undergoing treatment, did you?”

“What? No! Fuck no. But we kissed once. Remember the grocery store incident I asked you about? The kissing bandit?

That’s Stella.”

Stern shakes her head, and her voice softens. “Then you’ll remember that I said you can’t contract chlamydia through a kiss. Jax, the antibiotics did their job. We tested you. You’re clean. So unless you two have had some oral form of sexual contact …”

“No. Just that kiss.” I run a cold hand over my face. “I’m worried … Her throat is sore.”

Dr. Stern touches my arm. “Which could be caused by a number of things. I will test her if that’s what she wants.”

Her expression turns serious. “But I’m going to need your friend’s permission to examine her, Jax. Though, between you and me, if you’re in a relationship with this woman, I would tell her about what happened.”

A weight settles in my chest and guts. “I should have told her from the beginning. I just …” I shrug, my shoulders tight. It feels like ants are crawling over my skin. “Look, can you suggest she get tested?”

Dr. Stern gives my arm a friendly squeeze. “Let me see her. High fever, rash, and a sore throat could indicate strep.”

I expel a sigh and take her upstairs and promptly forget about my own worries when I see Stella curled up on the bed looking weak and pitiful and in pain. Hurrying over, I scoop her up and settle her on my lap, cuddling her close. “Stella Button, the doctor is here. She’s going to help you.”

Stella rests her cheek on my chest. “Okay.”

She trembles, and I kiss her temple before looking at Stern. “Fix her, Doc. Fix her fast.”

Stern’s smile is clearly bemused. “She isn’t broken, Jax. Just sick.”

That might be true. But while Stella is hurting, nothing feels right.

S TELLA

T HERE IS BEING sick and there is being in hell. I am in the latter. Jesus wept, I want to beg for drugs. Just knock me out and wake me when I’m better.

My mind drifts, an ebb and flow of pain and heat and strange noises. I know John is with me. I feel the hard strength of his body next to the mushy, hot mass of mine. I hear his voice, his gorgeous smooth-as-amber honey voice telling me to drink, asking me to lift my arms as he slips a clean, cool shirt over my battered body, telling me that I will be better soon.

Ha. Lies. The pain in my throat is broken glass and slowmoving lava.

Still I cling to him. He is all that is safe and comforting in my aching world.

Then the doctor arrives. I didn’t know doctors even made house calls anymore. She tells me she’s the band’s personal physician. Part of me wants to laugh—of course Jax Blackwood would have a doctor at his beck and call. But I hurt too much and am too weak to do anything more than answer her questions with soft croaks that barely sound like real words.

She’s telling me something important as she examines me. I just don’t care. As long as she makes this pain and hot hell go, I’ll do anything she wants. She swabs my throat and then she’s gone. John is back, forcing fluids down my hellfire throat.

It’s a haze after that. I know he’s here. He lies down next to me, his hands drifting through my damp hair with soothing strokes. It feels too good, and I move closer. He is cool compared to my flame. His arm curls around me, drawing me against his chest. My head finds the crook where his shoulder meets his arm. A perfect resting spot, and I relax with a sigh.

I don’t know how long we stay like that. Time passes, I know. He gives me the antibiotics the doctor prescribed, helps me to the bathroom when I have to go. Helps me back to bed when I’m done. We always settle in the same position.

His fingers in my hair, my hand burrowing under his shirt to find his smooth, cool skin.

Any sense of self-consciousness burns away with my fever. My world narrows down to pain and trying to escape it.

John helps me escape. He takes care of me. My fever peaks in the middle of the night, and he’s there, wiping my arms with a cold cloth that burns along my skin.

“Easy,” he whispers in the dark. “We’ve got to cool you down, Button. Easy now.”

That voice, smooth and gentle, grounds me, makes me do what it wishes. I concentrate on that voice throughout the night and into the morning.

I don’t know why he doesn’t leave me, but am afraid to ask in case I give him ideas. Doesn’t matter; he stays. He

stays, and he has no idea what that means to me. I haven’t been cared for like this since my mom died. Part of me wants him to go. I can’t become attached to him. Because no one stays forever and the leaving hurts too much.

But I don’t say a word. I cling like the weak woman I am.

At some point the next day, he forces me to eat some soup. I am not a good patient, pushing his hand away with a snarl every time the damn spoon hovers in front of my face.

“If you dribble your soup,” he tells me, smiling with his eyes, “we’ll have to put you in the shower.”

I glare at him, spoon pressed between my lips, then sag against the pillows. “Actually, I need to shower. I feel gross.”

John sets down the soup I’ve been avoiding for the past half hour. “Well, let’s get you showered.”

“Alone, rocker boy.”

A look of reproach shoots my way. “I’ve already had about ten chances to see you naked today.” John stands and holds out his hand. “Believe me, I have no interest in that.”

I stare up at him. “Why? What’s wrong with my body?”

He chokes on a laugh. “You’re serious now? Stella Button, your body is fucking gorgeous.” His eyes heat, and he looks me up and down. “Any place, any time you want to get naked for me, I will be there. With fucking bells on. But not when you’re sick. We get naked, it will be when you’re healthy and wanting it. Panting for it.”

God, the way he looks at me. Like he’s picturing it in detail. Like he’s a little dizzy with the idea. Then again, I’m dizzy too. Right now, I don’t know if it’s the fever or him.

Maybe both. “We are not getting naked.”

I wish that had sounded more emphatic.

His lips quirk to the side, but he fails to hide the amused smile in his eyes. “Not today.” He grabs my hand and hauls me up. “Into the shower with you, Stells. No o ense, but you kind of stink.”

My head is leaden, and I lean against him even as I nudge his ribs. “Ass.” He smiles as he walks me into the bathroom. “And to think women claim they want total honesty.”

“Silence is also appreciated in some situations.”

John snickers, then gets the shower ready. He leaves me to it but insists on staying by the door outside. “Call me if you’re in trouble. I mean it,” he says with a tone that is downright bossy. “If you feel dizzy. If you wobble at all, you call me. I’ll close my eyes if you’re worried about me seeing you, but I’m not having you faint and hurt yourself. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.” I give him a weak salute. Truth is, my head is becoming heavier, and I need to get clean before I really do sag to the floor.

My shower is quick. I can’t linger the way I want. My body weighs a thousand pounds, and my throat still hurts. I want to lie down, but the cool water is glorious.

At some point, John slides fresh clothes in for me. They rest in a neat pile on the floor by the door. I don’t exactly like that he picked through my panty drawer, but I’m grateful regardless.

Feeling a little more human, I open the door and find him waiting just as he promised.

“Better?” he asks, keeping his eyes on my face. He’d left me a tank top and sleep shorts to change into. Skimpy but

nice and cool. And frankly, I don’t care if he sees the outline of my nipples. Comfort beats out modesty at the moment.

“Yes.” But I’m fading. My voice is weak and my head pounds from standing up for too long.

Utterly patient, he holds out his big, calloused hand, and I let him guide me back to a freshly made bed.

I don’t hesitate to slide all the way into the middle, making room for him. I need him there so much, I’m tempted to plead, but I don’t have to. He follows me into the bed and, when I tuck myself against his side, he covers us with the blanket. My hair is damp, and he lifts it to drape over his shoulder before wrapping an arm around me.

We don’t say a word, neither one of us wanting to bring up the fact that he’s in bed with me and I’m now lucid enough to be fully aware of him.

“Stells?” he whispers after a moment.

“Hmm?” “Earlier, you said there was no one to take care of you …”

His words trail o as I tense, now fully awake and uncomfortably alert. John squeezes my shoulder, bracing me against him. “What happened to your family? You don’t have to tell me, but …” He shrugs, clearly at a loss.

He’s right. I don’t have to tell him a thing. My life is my business. But he’s also here, caring for me when no one else has. And if I want to have friends, I have to learn to let them inside these walls I have built.

Licking my dry lips, I answer slowly. “My mom died when I was eleven.”

“Babe …” His hand cups my the back of my head in a tender gesture. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

I shrug and pick at a piece of lint on his shirt.

“Undetected heart condition. It sucks but that’s life.” It hurts like hell to swallow. “My dad wasn’t in the picture until then. Mainly because he was a bum. When Mom died, he showed up and brought me to New York to live with him.”

For a second, I see my dad as he was in those early days, fading red hair, scraggly beard, skinny as hell. “My dad was utterly at a loss at what to do with a grieving preteen. He’d taught me what he knew, how to charm people, how to get them to do what he wanted without them even realizing it.

My dad is a grifter, and I’d learned at his feet. Only I’d made an e ort not to be like him—to never take advantage of others”.

Blinking rapidly, I clutch the loose folds of John’s shirt.

“The day I turned eighteen, he left. Job was done, he was out.”

“Jesus.” John wraps me up in a tight hug. I let him because I need it too much. His chest is firm and warm, and I hear the steady beat of his heart against my cheek.

“It was … well, it was shit,” I admit with a pained laugh.

“But I got through it.”

“Of course you did. You’re a badass, Stella Button.”

With a snort, I ease back, and he lets me, moving a bit until we’re both comfortably lying side-by-side once more.

Showering, and this ugly trip down memory lane, has worn me out, and my eyes close.

John seems to know I need a break because he starts to sing, his voice soft and low. The sound rolls over me like a gentle hand, and something inside me eases with a sigh. I’ve never been sung to before. I probably would hate it coming

from anyone else, or crack internal jokes about it being cheesy. But John isn’t just anyone. His voice is his soul. I soak in its beauty and let it take me where it will.

My hand slides under his shirt again, seeking his firm skin. He leans into the touch as his fingers thread through my hair.

I feel safe and protected, entirely at home in his arms. But a small voice inside my head wonders if this is a strange dream. He is adored by millions, his voice a gift people pay to hear, and yet he’s singing to me. How did it come to this?

I drift, listening to the bittersweet cadence as he starts to sing “Asleep” by The Smiths. “Isn’t this song about suicide?” I ask, without thinking.

John pauses and his abs tense. “Yes?” It comes out as a question, almost apologetic and a little cautious, like he expects a lecture. “Or maybe just dying. Hard to tell when it comes to Morrissey.”

“He is quite the chipper fellow,” I murmur, thinking of The Smiths’ singer who’s known for being maudlin on a cheerful day.

John’s chest rumbles in a low laugh. “You know about The Smiths?” “‘I Am Human’ is one of my favorite songs.” I run my hand along his side. “Used to listen to it on a loop when I was fifteen and deep into my teenage angst.”

“Oh, yeah?” His voice is husky and fond. “What made you angsty, Button?”

I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I’d never been kissed. Never even been asked out.”

His stomach muscles tighten. “How is that possible?

You’re cute as hell.”

“Eh, I was redheaded, freckled, round-faced, and at the time, completely flat-chested. Not what the guys in my class were looking for, I guess.”

He smooths his hand up my arm. “Teenage boys are idiots. I mean, I basically had one criterion for girls: easy lay.”

“Lovely.”

“Hey, I said we were idiots.”

“Are you saying that your standards have changed?”

“Ah …”

“Maybe just start singing again,” I advise.

His lips brush the top of my head. “You’re the one who interrupted the quiet beauty of my singing about slowly sinking into an inevitable death as your friends look on and weep.”

Closing my eyes, I flatten my palm against his skin. “Your sense of humor is a little twisted, you know that?”

I can almost feel him smile. “The guys find it annoying as hell.”

“Were you like this before …” I trail o awkwardly.

His chest lifts and falls on a sigh. “Yeah. Abysmal gallows humor and lacking in proper social tact.”

He sounds as though he’s quoting Mr. Scott.

“I knew it.” With a smile, I turn my head into his warmth.

He carries the scent of my lemon-honey soap he’s been using to wash his hands with; underneath that is a tinge of creamy sandalwood that might be his deodorant. Nothing special, really, but I’d happily press my nose to his skin and

breathe him in for days. Truth is, the simple act of being near him makes me happy. “Never change, John. Promise me that much.”

He’s silent for a second, his hand resting on the crown of my head. “Promise.”

“Good. Now, sing me a song that isn’t about death.”

He chuckles, slow and easy, and his fingers play with my hair again. “Mmm … You know, I just realized most slow songs are kind of morbid. Loss of love, longing, death …

Jesus, we musicians are a sick, sad bunch.”

I let out a hu of laughter. “The world is sick and sad half the time. You’re just singing its songs, giving a voice to let all those feeling out.”

He toys with a lock of my hair.

“Do you ever,” I begin thoughtlessly, and then bite my lip to shut up.

His breath warms my hair. “Do I ever what?”

“Nothing.” I snuggle closer. “I don’t know what I was going to say.”

His voice is soft but slightly amused. “Yes, you do. Just ask, Stells. It’s okay.”

I find myself pressing into him, trying to ground myself, to ground him. “Do you ever think about that night?”

He knows exactly what night I’m talking about, and his body tenses.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I shouldn’t have—” “Don’t be,” he cuts in. “I’d rather have you ask then tiptoe around me.”

Dully, I nod, my pulse picking up.

John adjusts, settling down in a more comfortable position. “Everyone tiptoes around it, myself included. It’s like it’s some dark secret, which is a joke because everyone knows.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to say.

But he seems to appreciate it. He gives me a little squeeze.

“We live in a world where people greet each other with ‘How are you?’ But few of us actually want an answer. It’s kind of hilarious if you think about it. We don’t really want to know how someone else is doing, but we want to look as though we do.”

“I’m always tempted to answer that I have horrible period cramps and I can’t remember if I left the oven on, and can you still call it a grilled cheese sandwich if you add any meat other than bacon?”

He laughs short and light. “Definitely no on that last question.” He pauses, then goes on in a subdued tone. “I didn’t know I was in trouble back then. I’d always lived on highs and lows. I kind of thought everyone did. I’d be pumped about life, churn out song after song, stay up all hours just wanting to keep going. Then I’d hit this wall and everything would plummet. I wouldn’t want to get out of bed, preferred sleep over waking, had no interest in anything. But the band was always there. I was famous; I didn’t have time to ‘wallow’ as I used to call it.”

“What changed?” I whisper.

“I don’t know,” he says in a hollow, faraway voice. “The lows became longer, stronger. I started living in my head. I realized I didn’t have any dreams. They were all gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most people have a dream they’re trying to achieve, a goal in life that keeps them going. I’ve done what I wanted to do. I’ve reached my pinnacle. I had nothing left, nothing to strive for. The knowledge of that hit me and I was left staring into an abyss. And the darkness swallowed me up.

“And all I could think was, who the fuck am I? I felt like a lie, and then all this … ugliness started pouring in—telling me I was unlovable, unworthy, a fake—until I felt so dirty and trapped in my own skin that I couldn’t stand it. And there was no way out.”

I stroke his skin now. This beautiful man who has influenced and inspired countless people and didn’t seem to know it. This beautiful man who makes me feel more alive than anyone I’ve ever met. I want to cry because I’ve felt that way before too. Not to the extent that John did, but I understand that horrible feeling.

His body eases a little, but he continues in a rough voice.

“But that’s not what I think about.” He swallows audibly.

“What I hold onto, what I keep crystal clear, is that moment when I started to fade. I remember how fucking terrified and regretful I felt. I didn’t want to go. Not really. I just wanted to feel okay.”

“Honey.” I turn into him, and just cling, my fingers digging into his side. “I’m so freaking glad you’re here.”

He lets out a harsh breath. “So am I, Button. Right.

Fucking. Here.”

I hadn’t meant it literally, but I don’t disagree. John and I have had our moments. We bicker and bounce around each

other like opposing magnetic forces. But right now, it’s perfect.

It falls quiet, then John starts to sing “Something” by the Beatles. I am struck silent. Emotion swoops in strong and thick, and all I can do is lie there and take it, close my eyes and hold him to me. I’m sick as hell, my body aches, and yet I feel like I’ve been granted the best gift in the world.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

JOHN

“S OMEONE TALKED .” Scottie sounds grim but resigned.

Holding onto my phone, I sink into the couch and run a hand over my face. It’s been two days since I’ve seen Stella. I didn’t have an excuse to hang around when she was clearly on the mend. Plus, I wasn’t entirely certain she’d want me there when she was healthy. A sick Stella was needy. Healthy Stella will be back to being independent and not liking me very much.

That’s all bullshit. Truth is, I didn’t want to stick around to see when she finally got well enough to ask questions— such as why I was freaking out over STDs. Why I’d insisted Stern ask Stella if she’d be willing to be tested, even though I’d been told the chances were nil.

Hell, she’ll have gotten her results back by now. Dr. Stern thought Stella had strep and had started her on antibiotics.

Logically, I understand that Dr. Stern had been telling me the truth, that a kiss wouldn’t have infected Stella. But I can’t relax until I know for sure.

Even if Stella hasn’t heard back from Stern, she’ll know all about it now. It’s a shitshow all over the news. Just as I’d predicted. Jax Blackwood, fuckup royale. Can’t keep his shit together. Man-slut who screwed his way into STD Land.

Innocent girls tainted.

I snort. Clearly the press had never actually met the women I’ve hooked up with. Not a single one was innocent or coerced. But that doesn’t exactly make for good press.

God, how will Stella look at me? My guts turn to ice.

“Jax? You there, mate?”

I stir out of my haze and switch to speakerphone. “Yeah.

Someone talked. We knew it would happen eventually.”

My mind drifts back to Stella. Should I text? Crawl over the wall and go see her?

Scottie clears his throat. “You have any idea who it could be?”

“Does it matter? It’s out now. Nothing will change that.”

“Damn it, Jax, are you even paying attention? You never take anything seriously—” “Bullshit,” I snap, having enough. “I make jokes or downplay a situation because that’s how I deal. And, yeah, I’m forgetful to the point of irritation. It irritates me too that I can’t keep my mind focused. I’m supposed to write lists to keep track of my shit, but that means fuck all when I can’t remember to make a list in the first place. But all of that doesn’t mean I don’t care, Scottie. It just means I don’t do a good job of showing it.”

He’s silent, and I know he’s trying to figure out how best to manage me. Ah, Scottie. He is nothing if not predictable.

“You’re right,” he says finally. “I apologize.”

Well, he finally got me. I didn’t see that coming. I should feel vindicated, but I’m uncomfortable instead. “Forget it, man.”

“I was being a wanker, Jax. We both know it.”

I fight a smile. “Fine. You’re a wanker. I’m glad we can finally acknowledge the gorilla in the room.”

He grumbles, then clears his throat. “How’s Ms. Grey? I heard she was ill.”

Of course he’s heard and is putting things together.

Wrong again, though.

“It wasn’t Stella.”

“How do you know?” He sounds more curious than accusatory.

“Because I know her.” I glance toward the terrace.

Sunlight shines bright against the glass and hurts my eyes. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Stella doesn’t talk. She gets even.”

Scottie’s laugh is short. “You sound bizarrely thrilled over the prospect.”

He has no idea.

“I haven’t gone out yet,” I tell him. “But I don’t think anyone knows where I am at the moment.” I’ve never brought anyone outside my circle to this condo. And I could be in any city in the world.

“Regardless, I have Bruce camped outside your place.”

We have a couple of bodyguards on sta who work our public events. But we rarely use them during our day-to-day life. Who wants to live like that? Besides, I can defend myself just fine. Something I remind Scottie of now.

“Of course you can.” He doesn’t sound as sincere as he should, the asshole. “However, someone needs to keep an eye out in case there’s a mob situation. Bruce was available.

Don’t worry, he’ll blend.”

I snort. “Scottie, he’s a bodyguard named Bruce Lee who looks a lot like the master Bruce Lee. He attracts attention just by being him.”

“To be fair, it isn’t his name that garners attention from strangers,” Scottie deadpans. “It isn’t as though he wears a shirt that says, ‘Hello, my name is Bruce Lee.’” I laugh. “I should have one made for him.”

“I’m sure he’d love that,” Scottie drawls.

“Putting it on my to-do list.” My grin fades. “Seriously, I don’t like the idea of him sitting outside, twiddling his thumbs. It’s unnecessary and ridiculous.”

Actually, Bruce is one of my favorites. He’s funny as hell and is the one who taught me mixed martial arts. Killian and I took classes from him for years before Scottie hired him as a part-time guard.

“He’s staying. Expect to be shadowed for a while.”

“No fucking way.” I sit straighter now. “I mean it. I see one of the guys following me around, I’m sending him home.

And don’t even try that manager shit with me on this.”

I’m met with silence. I don’t bother trying to fill it. I’ve played chicken with Gabriel Scott before.

Finally, I hear a long-su ering sigh. “Do me this small thing, Jax. Keep a low profile. I don’t know how much you’ve seen—” “I’ve seen enough,” I cut in. Enough to make my stomach heave. Enough to tempt me back into bed where I can close

the world out entirely.

“Then you know to keep quiet until we can issue a statement.”

I laugh without humor. “There is no good way to spin this shit.”

“No, there isn’t.”

His flat response makes me cringe.

“Then we’ll let it ride,” I tell him, fighting the urge to vomit.

“Assure me that you’ll stay away from your usual haunts.”

“Jesus, Gabriel. Has lack of sleep addled your brain? You don’t need to lecture me. I don’t have haunts anymore. I’m a damn hermit these days.”

“Right,” he says after an awkward pause. “Well, my work here is done then.”

Despite myself, I smile with true amusement. “Yeah …

It’s been fun.”

“You’re a terrible liar, John.”

“Don’t John me.”

“Did you or did you not just pull a Gabriel on me?” he retorts.

“You were being a wanker again.”

“Speaking of people who call you John—” “Excellent segue,” I cut in.

Scottie expels a protracted sigh before he speaks. “Have you explained the situation to Ms. Grey?”

I resist the urge to squirm. “Are we gossiping now?”

“Yes.” “God help me.” I rub my tired eyes and close them.

“Have you?”

“No,” I grit out. “I was too busy taking care of her while she was sick.” And, you know, chickening out.

“You poor smitten kitten. You’re in deep, mate.” He sounds so smug, I’m sorely tempted to hang up on him.

“What was your first clue, Fred?”

“Fred?” The confusion in his voice makes me laugh.

“Out of all the gang, you’d definitely be the one to wear an ascot, so yeah, Fred.”

Scottie sco s. “I’m tempted to say you’d be Shaggy but you’re more the Daphne of the group.”

“Fred had the hots for Daphne,” I point out.

“This conversation has taken a strange turn and is making my head hurt.”

“And my work here is done,” I say proudly.

I can visualize him rolling his eyes.

“Speaking from personal experience,” he says, getting back on point. “I can only advise that you be honest with Ms. Grey. Likely, she’ll have questions—” “Scottie, man, I’m not involved with Stella. We’re just … I don’t even know what we are. But I’m not trying to get in her pants.”

“Lying makes my headache worse,” he mutters. “I don’t know why you bother with me.”

“I’m a walking cautionary tale,” I say, annoyed now.

“Not exactly prime boyfriend material.”

“The fact that you used the word ‘boyfriend’ tells me all I need to know,” Scottie says. “Get your head out of your ass and talk to the girl. Oh, and we’re all coming over tonight for dinner.”

At that, Scottie hangs up. Since he often hangs up on me when he’s done with a conversation, I don’t take it personally. Only now I’m alone with silence. Talk to Stella? I feel like a kid again, about to face the headmaster and really wanting to run the other way. That kid wants to go downstairs and hang out with Bruce instead.

“Shit.” I run my hand through my hair and squeeze the back of my neck. I know what I have to do; I have to talk to Stella, warn her o while I still have the strength to let her go. Because there’s one thing I understand quite well: I always manage to disappoint the people I care about, and I don’t want to be yet another person in Stella’s life who fails her.

S TELLA

W HEN YOU ’ RE SICK , you kind of go with the flow. It’s not like you can protest. Your whole world narrows down to how bad you feel and how can you feel better. In that hazy reality, I hadn’t truly thought about the fact that John was there with me. But I’m well now, and I’m thinking about it. A lot.

He took care of me. Better than anyone has since my mother died. The knowledge leaves me all tender and squishy inside. I owe him. I miss him.

I might have been physically miserable when he was here, but I’d been completely comfortable around him. Happy, even. Which is bizarre, given the amount of pain I’d been in.

But he’s gone now. He’s been gone for days, and I haven’t heard a peep out of my friendly neighborhood rock star. It’s unsettling. How can he go from being utterly attentive to completely gone? Did I o end him somehow? Was it a pity thing?

I almost don’t want to know. Pity would kill me. But I find myself sending him texts anyway.

He doesn’t answer them. And, because I’ve apparently become a total masochist, I call him too. It goes straight to voicemail.

“I guess that’s that,” I mutter, tossing my phone onto the kitchen counter. Hurt invades my chest. It’s an ugly, sticky lump that I can’t dislodge. It follows me all day.

I’m halfway to being pissed all over again, but then I remember how he held me, changed my sheets, sang me songs. He was all in. John is many things—he is by no means perfect—but he’s never cruel. He would answer my texts and calls.

Suddenly, I’m ice cold. Something isn’t right, and I’ve spent days pouting when I should have been thinking objectively. It’s been days.

Without another thought, I head for the terrace and hop right over the wall. When I pound on the glass door, no one answers. I should go back home, but I can’t. Not when my instincts are shouting at me to keep going.

The door isn’t locked, and I really should talk to him about proper security. But at least I’m inside.

“John?” I creep through the living room, my heart pounding too hard for comfort. I don’t want to be afraid or

think dark thoughts. I don’t want to worry about him like this. But I do.

There is an air of disuse here, as if he is gone. Maybe he went somewhere. He’s under no obligation to inform me of his comings and goings. But I’d heard music earlier, so I know someone has been here.

Another swell of cold fear prickles over my skin.

“John?” I call, louder now.

From somewhere upstairs, I hear a creak and then John’s voice, rough and grumbly and confused. “Stella?”

I should be polite, wait for him to come to me. After all, I’ve invaded his house. Again. But I find myself hurrying up the stairs. I just need to see him, know that he’s okay. “Are you decent?” I shout as I near his bedroom.

Another creak sounds, as though he’s moving around on his bed. “Jesus. I’m not naked, if that’s what you’re asking.”

There’s a protracted pause, then he adds, “But I can be.”

Relief floods my body at the sound of his voice and the familiar way he teases.

“I was just trying to give you warning that I was coming up,” I call back, and I swear I hear him mutter “pest.”

In a louder voice, he calls back. “You don’t need to give me a warning.”

He’s bantering just as always, but it lacks its usual vigor.

His bedroom door is half open, and I push inside.

It’s dim, the curtains drawn against the daylight. John is sprawled on a big bed, staring at the ceiling, though he clearly knows I’m here. I slow my steps and look around because this is not what I expected John’s room to look like.

Velvety black walls, heavy matching drapes, polished wood furniture, and oil paintings in gilded frames—it’s as if I’ve stepped out of New York and straight into the English countryside, but a bit edgier.

“Well,” I say, running a finger over a tobacco leather wing chair positioned in front of a black marble hearth.

“This is cozy.”

John snorts but continues to gaze upward. “Killian calls it old-lady decor.”

It is. But in a nice, I come from old money sort of way. “It’s very Downton Abbey. With a bit of Addams Family twisted in.”

John looks at me then, tracking my movements. He’s wearing gray lounge pants and a ratty olive green T-shirt.

Thick stubble covers his jaw, but he appears clean enough.

We haven’t seen each other in a few days, and I’ve missed him. Even with the strange, detached look he’s giving me, I’ve missed him.

I could lie to myself and say I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed him, but I know better. I missed him the second he left my bedside. I’d wanted to beg him to stay. Hang out with me, not because he felt some obligation to take care of me, but because he wanted to be near me.

“Most of this stu was my Gran’s,” he says. “I don’t know, it reminds me of childhood.”

My childhood home was cluttered with battered IKEA furniture and street finds. There was nothing homey about it, and I’d never try to replicate it. I’d rather live in John’s gilded nostalgia. I have a brief fantasy that includes scones with tea and John playing the part of randy duke.

“You hate it.” John’s voice has me glancing at him.

His expression is neutral, like he simply stated a wellknown fact and doesn’t expect a reply. But he’s too still, and I know he wants my opinion.

“Honestly? I want to curl up and read and hope another freak blizzard hits just so we can light the fire.”

His answering smile is wan. Not what I expected.

Ordinarily, he glows with an internal light so brilliant, it’s sometimes hard to face full on. But now that it’s dimmed, I want that light back.

I near the edge of his bed. It’s high enough that I have to hitch myself onto it. The cashmere duvet cover is dark gray and blue plaid. Not my style, but soft and sumptuous beneath my fingertips. “What’s wrong?” I ask him. “Are you sick?”

He glances away. “No. Just tired. Thought I’d take a nap.”

I’m all for a good nap, but John looks as though he’s been here a while. A few dirty bowls and glasses clutter his night table, and there’s a lived-in quality about the room that’s in direct opposition to the empty feeling downstairs. If I didn’t already know that John has dealt with depression, I might have thought little of the scene. But now, my hackles are up.

“How long have you been napping?”

He scowls at me. “What is this? Why are you even here?”

I ignore the punch of hurt because I know defensive evasiveness when I see it. “I wanted to thank you for taking care of me. But you haven’t returned any of my calls or texts.”

“No need to thank me. It was my pleasure.” There is nothing but sincerity in his expression, but that horrible, flat, lifeless tone remains.

“I was worried about you,” I confess.

Oh, he really doesn’t like that. “I’m a grown man, Stella Button. You don’t have to worry. I am fine.”

“If you’re fine, maybe you should get up? Have a shower.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you saying I stink?”

He doesn’t, actually. Not that I can tell from where I stand, anyway. But his general listlessness bothers me. I’m at his bedside and he hasn’t even tried to sit up. He simply lies there entrenched.

“It’ll get your blood going,” I tell him, nudging his knee.

John blinks up at the ceiling. “I’ll get up soon.”

When I simply stare at him, he lifts his head and looks down the elegant length of his nose at me. “I am okay, Stella.

As you can see, I haven’t hurt myself, or whatever it was you feared.”

He sounds irritated, but I can hear the embarrassment he’s trying to hide. I get why it irks him that people assume the worst when he doesn’t reply to their calls. But I don’t feel remotely guilty. He is too important, and I refuse to tiptoe around his feelings if it means his safety is in jeopardy.

I keep my voice light. “Was I this pissy when you found me sick? I can’t remember.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a near thing. “You were worse. Then again, you were actually sick. I’m not. So, if you just stopped by to check on me, you can go.”

The finality in his tone brooks no argument. But he holds my gaze all but daring me to not to go. And I realize that,

despite his irritation, despite the fact that he’s clearly baiting me, he doesn’t want to be alone.

“If you won’t get up, then shove over.”

John’s brows lift. “What?”

“You heard me. All this worrying that you hurt yourself while playing guitar naked has made me tired. I need a nap too. Move.”

His smile is small and wry, but he does as asked, making room for me and resting his head in his hand as he watches me climb onto the bed. It’s a struggle to get up.

“Jesus. Did you inherit this bed from royalty or something? Maybe the princess who slept on a pea?” His bed is a cloud of perfection, utterly luxurious with the buttersoft covers. I really do have the urge to burrow down and nap the day away.

John chuckles. “Sorry to crush the fantasy but it’s new.”

With a sigh, I rest my head on a pillow and face him.

Though we’re not touching, we’re close enough that I feel the heat of his body. “I thought Killian’s bed was nice, but this is a whole other level of cushy.”

John’s brows snap together. “Can you not refer to the place you currently sleep as Killian’s bed?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, Killian and Liberty’s guest bed. Is that better?”

“Yes.” My lips pull on a smile. “You sounded a little jealous there, you know.”

Lying this close to him when I’m not sick is a strange sensation. I’m aware of his size, so much bigger than mine.

I’m aware of the cadence of his breath, and that he smells a

bit like Earl Grey and lemons. And I am aware of the way his green eyes look at me as though I’m all he sees.

“You’re right,” he says lightly. “I thought that was fairly obvious, Stella Button.”

We’ve edged closer to each other. Our forearms touch. His skin is warm, the soft friction of it against mine making the little hairs along my arm lift.

“That I’m always right?” I retort, teasing him because I’m afraid what I’ll expose of myself. “I’m glad you’re finally admitting it.”

“You have a gift for deliberately misunderstanding me.”

His expression is fond and a bit tender as he reaches out and touches the tip of my nose. “I won’t try again,” he whispers roughly. “Ever.”

A lump gathers in my throat. “I ask if you’re okay because I care. But you don’t have to reassure me. Or please anyone.

You did nothing wrong, John.”

He lets out a hard breath, and my fingers find his.

Without hesitation, he turns his hand palm up and threads his fingers with mine. His thumb strokes a slow circle over the backs of our knuckles.

My voice is a ghost between us. “You want to know why I came looking for you?”

His focus intensifies. “Tell me.”

He’s still gently exploring my hand, the smooth skin along the back of it, the sensitive edges of my wrist, and between my knuckles. I feel fragile just then, like he might break me with one harsh touch or if he lets go.

I don’t look away. “I missed you.”

His fingers convulse on a squeeze. “I missed you too, Button. I just …” He shakes his head. “Don’t know why I didn’t respond, honestly.”

But I think I do. Because when I’m low, I don’t want to be the one seeking out company. I want someone to find me, to tell me I’m wanted, needed. And when I don’t get that, I sink lower. Maybe John is di erent in that regard, but somehow, I doubt it.

I swallow hard. “I thought … I had this feeling that the world might be getting a little too dark, too heavy for you right now. That you might have needed a hug.”

My confession seems to wash over him, and he flinches, closing his eyes like he’s considering turning away. I want so badly to clasp his hand hard and hold on tight. But I don’t. It isn’t my decision to make.

His eyes are over-bright when he opens them and looks at me. The pain in them takes my breath.

“I do,” he rasps. “I need …”

I open my arms to him. Shaking, he leans into me, his head resting on the slope of my breast, his arm wrapping low around my waist and tugging me against him. Our legs tangle as we move to get closer. John sighs, his body melding into mine. And I run my hands through his hair, making nonsensical noises under my breath.

“Fuck, Stella … It hurts, and I don’t know how …” His body clenches as if he’s mentally willing himself to keep it together.

“I know, honey.” I stroke the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. Tight muscles feel like steel under the silk of his skin.

He swallows audibly. “It comes and goes. I’m on top of the world, then suddenly I’m not.” The warmth of his breath gusts over my breasts. “My therapist warned me. She said it’s an endurance race. You endure. You keep moving forward. But some days, Stella … Some days I get so fucking tired.”

“Then rest,” I whisper. “Rest with me. Let me be where you lay your head for a while.”

He stills, his cheek pressed against my chest. “I don’t want your pity.”

No, he wants reassurance. I get that. “You don’t have my pity. It’s what you do for the people you care about.”

I wish I had better words for him, a better way to comfort, but he is the poet, not me. I can only hold him and hope it helps.

The sti ness in his body eases but he remains completely still. “You care?”

“Of course I do.” A blush runs over my cheeks. We’ve been at each other’s throats for so long, talk of feelings is awkward. “I’d like to think we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“Friends,” he repeats under his breath. But when I twitch, completely embarrassed by his lack of enthusiasm, he holds me fast. “We’re friends, Stella. We’ve always been, even when you didn’t realize it.”

There’s no missing the rebuke in his tone; it only makes me smile. “Okay then.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

We fall into a tentative silence. I play with his hair, running my fingers through it, and he slowly relaxes against me. The knowledge that I helped him feel even a little better

is gratifying. But I can’t stop thinking about the state I found him in. “John?”

“Hmm?” He’s loose-limbed and warm now.

I hate that I might ruin that, but I have to ask the question. “It’s Tuesday.” Instantly, he tenses. Guilt pricks at my neck. I keep stroking his hair, fearing he’ll withdraw.

“You see Dr. Allen on Tuesdays, don’t you?”

John tucks his head further into the crook of my shoulder.

“I forgot.”

“John—” “I swear I did,” he says, stronger now. His long fingers curl around the curve of my hip and hold tight. “I know it sounds like utter bullshit, but I forget things. Especially when I get low.”

“I believe you,” I say softly. “But isn’t when you’re feeling low the most important time to remember your appointments?”

I can’t see his face, but somehow I know he’s scowling.

It’s there in the bend of his neck and the clench of his hands.

“I’m supposed to write lists,” he grumbles against my chest, then laughs shortly and without humor. “Kind of hard to do when I forget to write the bloody lists as well.”

“True.” I bite back a fond smile. “I could help, you know.

Remind you to—” “No,” he cuts in, soft but vehement. “I don’t want that from you, Button. I don’t want you to see me that way. As someone who needs minding. Someone to fix.”

“I do not see you that way,” I retort.

This time, it’s John who soothes, rubbing slow circles on my hip. “I know, love. But there are some things I need to

learn to do on my own. Please.”

All the fight leaves me. He’s right, and pride is a powerful thing. Sometimes, it’s all you have left. I can only do as he asks. “All right. But please promise me that you’ll call Dr. Allen.”

There’s a small smile in his voice when he answers, “I will.”

He nudges my hand with the crown of his head. Subtle, he is not. But since I love playing with his silky hair, I happily take up running my fingers through the strands once more.

When he speaks, his voice is a ghost of sound. “Killian was so pissed at me. When I tried. I mean, I get it—” “I’m sorry,” I cut in sharper than I intend, “but Killian can go fuck himself.”

John’s shoulders jerk. “Jesus, Stells,” he says with a husky laugh, “don’t hold back.”

“I know he’s your friend. But I’m serious. He can fuck right o with that.”

I feel him smile against me as his grip tightens. “It scared him, Button. Scared them all. It changed all of us in a way I didn’t think about. We were like spoiled children before that.

Then suddenly, life got too real.”

I can practically feel the weight of that change sitting on John’s shoulders. I press my lips to the top of his head.

“When I was five, I ran out into tra c and almost got hit by a car. The second my mom got to me, she slapped me on the butt and screamed at me for being careless. She’d been scared to death and her reaction was to lash out.” My fingers trail through John’s hair. “And I get that’s why your friends acted the way they did. But the initial scare is long over,

John, and yet it still bugs you. You’re still trying to protect their feelings.”

John sighs. “Shit. I know. Can’t seem to help doing that.”

“Because you’re a fixer.”

“Hardly.”

“You are,” I insist softly. “You smooth things over, try to make people feel better. Just because you do it with a load of snark doesn’t make it less true.”

A ection warms his voice. “Just like you.”

We are alike in that way. I hadn’t thought it when I first met him, but I see it now. Our approaches are di erent but the intent is the same.

My eyes are drifting closed when he speaks again.

“You smell nice.” John’s observation wakes me up.

“Okay.”

“What’s with the tone?” he asks, clearly amused.

I shrug. “Smelling nice should be a given. Because the opposite would be that I smell bad—” “Which would be a problem,” he adds solemnly.

I nudge his shoulder. “It’s like me saying, hey, John, look at you being all clean.”

He laughs and he rises. His nose skims my jaw, causing happy shivers to break out over my skin. “Stella Button, you think too much.”

I can’t help running my hand down his waist. He’s warm and solid. “Better than thinking too little, isn’t it?”

His answering hum vibrates between us, then he shifts, tucking his cheek into the crook of my neck. “Let me elaborate on my previous statement. You always smell nice.

But there’s this scent I can’t place …” He breathes deep, then

lets it out slowly, heating my skin. “It’s sweet and clean but soothing and kind of spicy. It’s in your hair and on your skin.” A big hand trails down my arm, John’s calluses rough, but his touch tender. “I love this scent. And it drives me insane because I don’t know what it is.”

Ye gods, the way he touches me. It’s gentle a ection, but I’m burning up.

I clear my throat but my voice sounds too thin when I finally answer. “Your elaboration is definitely better than your initial comment.”

John hums again, his lips brushing my collarbone. “You going to tell me what it is?”

I honestly have no idea; I wasn’t aware I had a particular scent. And his lips lightly tickling my neck distracting me.

“Uh … my shampoo?”

He gives me another tiny kiss, a little tease of a touch.

“Nope,” he murmurs in a low, drugging voice. “It’s in Killian’s apartment too.” His lips press against the underside of my jaw. “Like you’ve fully inhabited every inch of the place.”

God, it feels too good the way he’s exploring me with those small kisses, as if he can’t really help himself. I can’t either. My hand slowly runs up and down his trim waist. I struggle to keep track of the conversation, and then it hits me. “Oh,” I say, in a burst. “It’s lavender.”

John pauses for a second. “I hate lavender.”

“Wait. You hate the way I smell? Stop talking in circles.”

He sighs. “You’re trying to pick a fight, aren’t you?” He nips my side with his fingers. “We’ll talk about why in a minute.”

I glare down at his head, not that he sees me. He’s too busy fiddling with my shirt, running a finger along a fold in the fabric.

His voice stays low. “I’m pretty sure you heard me earlier when I said you smell nice. So it can’t be lavender. I fucking hate lavender. Had this assistant once—June. She loved that crap. Thought it was calming and put all these lavender oil sticks everywhere. Gave me the worst headaches.”

I can’t help but smile. “There’s a huge di erence between cheap essential oils and the actual plant. I have potted lavender on the terrace, in my bedroom, and in the living room. Use bundles of it to keep my clothes smelling fresh.”

He breathes in deep and then lets it out slowly. Pleasure shivers through me, my skin prickling.

Kiss me. Let me taste you. I need it. The words stick in my throat. I’m nearly vibrating with want, and he feels it. He has to, because he tenses. For a hot second, I expect him to raise his head and find my mouth with his. But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he clears his throat.

“Thank you for coming to find me,” he says.

I lie there, slick and burning, not sure what to do with the formality of his tone or the fact that he’s stopped exploring me. “Of course,” I say, staring at his bent head, and the way it makes him appear defeated. Whatever is bothering him still weighs him down. “You want to tell me what set you o ?”

The muscles along his neck and shoulder go rock hard.

Though he doesn’t move, I can feel every inch of him withdraw, as if a massive wall has slid between us. “It wasn’t any one thing. It just happened.”

He’s lying. I don’t know how I know, I just do. But I can’t force trust. I can only support. “You know what I think we should do?”

John shifts against me, sending a delicious tremor into my lower belly that I studiously ignore.

“What should we do, Button?” His teasing tone is back, but he’s easing away. So much for sex. Maybe all he really needed was a bit of physical comfort. Despite now being horny as all hell, I don’t begrudge him that. Comforting people is my wheelhouse, and I’m more than happy to give that to John.

“Order a pizza and watch a movie.”

The bed barely moves as he flops onto his back and rests his head on his hand. His hair is mussed and there are circles under his eyes, but he doesn’t look lost anymore. “Who gets to pick the movie?”

“Me. Obviously.”

He flashes a quick smile. “Obviously. What are you going to torture me with, little mint thief?”

“For that, I should pick a Twilight marathon.” I smile evilly as John groans. “But I’m feeling magnanimous. I’ll go with the Lord of the Rings trilogy.”

John stares at me for a long moment, his lips slightly parted. A strange look flits through his eyes, then he slowly smiles. “How did you know those are my favorite movies? No one knows that.”

Pleased, I smooth back a tuft of his unruly hair from his furrowed forehead. “Because we have scarily similar tastes, remember?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he swoops down and gives me a swift, light kiss on the cheek. With that, John rolls over and hauls himself out of the bed. Uttering another groan, he lifts his arms over his head and lean, tight muscles stretch out, exposing a line of flat abs and smooth skin. “You know, Stella,” he says when his arms fall loose and relaxed at his sides, “you’re a Mary Poppins.”

“Mary Poppins?” I repeat, watching him saunter into the bathroom. “Like a governess?”

He stops in the doorway and glances back. “Practically perfect in every way.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

STELLA

I’ M BREWING co ee the next morning when an email comes in from Dr. Stern. At first, I don’t pay it much attention. She reminds me to finish o the last of my antibiotics and stay hydrated. I know this well. But it’s the rest of her report that has the blood slowing in my veins. Apparently, I’m also free of any sexually transmitted diseases.

It’s not like I don’t remember Dr. Stern asking if I wanted a complete checkup, including blood work for any possible STDs. At the time, I thought it kind of her to be so thorough.

Now, however, it has me pausing. Because a forgotten memory flickers to life. She’d said John was worried, that he’d wanted me to get those tests, but that it was up to me to choose. Some fuzzy ignorant part of me had hoped it was his weird way of assuring both of us were safe for sex. But her use of “worried” makes me wonder why.

Why did John worry specifically if I had an STD? Was this some bullshit throwback to when he believed I was an escort?

A slow simmer of rage builds and bubbles. But then I think of him slumped in bed, the way he seemed to mentally beat himself up. He’d been hiding something. All through our movie marathon, I’d known. It was there in the tension that kept creeping back up his neck, and in the tightness of his jaw when his attention would flag. Yes, I’d known something was bothering him deeply, but I couldn’t force him to tell me what.

I’m about to text John and ask, I don’t know what, something, anything to give me a hint about what’s going on, when I get a text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Hey, this is Brenna. Doing a little PR damage control. Since you’ve been hanging around Jax, they might come to you for questions. If anyone does, just stay calm, say no comment, and get out of there.

“What the fuck?” What the hell had John done? But I think I know, and it makes my heart plummet.

My fingers fly over the phone, responding to Brenna so she won’t text again.

Will do.

It takes all of two seconds to find the stories. This time, my chest squeezes tight. The way they dig into his personal life makes my skin crawl.

One thing is clear: John lied to me. A lie of omission is still a lie. He kept me in the dark.

“Damn it.” I set my phone down and stare out the wide window wall where the sunlight reflects o the buildings in the distance.

I’ve been lying too. I’m more invested in John that I’d wanted to admit. Maybe I’d have been able to walk away

earlier on. Before I’d been sick, before I’d hunted him down and comforted him in return. I can’t do that now.

It scares the crap out of me. They say there are times in your life when you realize everything is about to change. I never believed in that, until now. I’ve never been one for change. But I can’t deny it any longer—John means something to me. I might mean something to him too. Or maybe our relationship is just a distraction for him. I’m not sure. But I do know one thing: when he eventually slips out of my life, it will hurt.

I need to sort this out before I go over there and say something to him. I have no idea what I would even say at this point.

I have no one to talk with about John. It hits me like a punch to the stomach the moment I pick up the phone to dial and realize I don’t know who the hell I’m calling. More to the point, there is no one to call. It hurts. More than I expected it to. I’ve spent years pretending that my life is filled with people and joy, when really I’ve walled myself o in this self-protected tower. I didn’t need anyone to talk to about men and personal worries because I’ve never let myself get attached to anyone or anything.

A lump fills my throat and swells until I have to swallow convulsively. Hurt su ocates, pushes in on the walls and makes the room stu y. Outside, the city waits for me, a never-ending river of motion and humanity and noise.

But as soon as I get outside, I find myself hesitating. I’m not in the mood to walk and roam.

Ten minutes later, a light, dry voice made rough by decades of smoking cuts through my brooding thoughts.

“Don’t you have a terrace in that apartment of yours, my dear?”

Elbow braced on my knee, chin resting in my hand, I glance up from where I sit. “I’m more of a stoop kind of gal,” I say to Mrs. Goldman.

Her red lips pull into a thin but friendly smile. “I grew up in the Lower East Side. Sitting on the stoop and playing around in the fire hydrant spray made up the majority of my childhood.”

“I would have liked to play in a hydrant spray,” I tell her.

She makes a noncommittal noise. “You look like you could use some company.”

It is on the tip of my tongue to pretend that I’m fine. But I can’t make myself do it. I shrug instead, embarrassed that I’m so obvious. But she doesn’t look at me with pity. Her eyes are warm as she nods.

“As much as I’d love to relive my childhood by sitting with you,” she says, “my hips cannot tolerate it. Why don’t you come upstairs with me, and I’ll fix us a nice lunch.”

Again, I want to protest, to tell her not to put herself out on my account, but I find myself clearing my throat and pushing a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Goldman. I would appreciate that very much.”

“Come along then.” She waves me up. “And don’t forget to dust o your bum.”

A few minutes later, I’m sitting in Mrs. Goldman’s cozy kitchen as she bustles around getting lunch together. I’ve been informed that I am a guest and thus not allowed to help. Lunch is an assortment of fresh bagels, lox, cream cheese, tomatoes, pickled herring, pitted cherries,

pumpernickel bread, chicken salad, with little dishes of mustard, capers, and pickled onions, and a bottle of champagne to top it all o .

“Because I love champagne,” she says, pouring each of us a glass. “And you should indulge in what you love every day.”

“Every day?” I take a sip. It’s crisp and cold and perfectly bubbly.

“It need not be the same thing every day. But I’ve come to the realization that denying ourselves daily joy is to live a half life. And where is the fun in that?” She raises her glass and salutes before drinking. A satisfied sigh leaves her lips.

“Wonderful.”

I make myself a chicken salad sandwich on pumpernickel, accepting a knife from her to cut it in triangles. “Some people would argue that indulging in whatever you want leads to recklessness. That it’s safer to pace yourself and refrain sometimes.”

Mrs. Goldman smears some cream cheese onto her bagel.

“Safer, huh?” She smiles but her dark eyes gleam when she looks up at me. “How alike you and Jax are.”

“Me? Like Jax?” I laugh shortly.

She isn’t at all thwarted. “To a tee. Both following the safe plan in life.”

Another shocked laugh bursts out of me. “Oh, come on, Jax never plays it safe. His whole life is one big indulgence.”

One iron-gray brow wings up. “You think so?” She adds a few slices of tomato to her bagel and sprinkles capers over it.

“You realize that what one person considers a risk can be familiar comfort for someone else. That boy’s lifestyle has

the appearance of living on the edge, but for him, it might as well be a cradle.”

“I guess I didn’t think of it that way.” I take a bite of my sandwich, mainly because I suddenly don’t want to talk. But even though it tastes delicious, I find it hard to chew past the lingering lump in my throat. I swallow with di culty and take another long sip of champagne, grateful for the way it fizzes in my mouth.

Quiet descends as we eat. But I feel her curious gaze on me. Mrs. Goldman, while not my age, or even really a friend, is the kind of woman you know you can talk to and she’s not going to sugarcoat a thing. Even better, she’s obviously good at seeing clearly in places I cannot.

With a suppressed sigh, I set down the remains of my sandwich. “I’m attracted to Jax—John. I think of him as John.”

Both brows lift this time, but Mrs. Goldman isn’t surprised. “Of course you are, dear.”

My cheeks heat, and I know they’re bright pink, damn it.

“Okay, obviously I always was. But it’s more now. I like him.

A lot, and …” I press my hot hand over my burning eyes, a pained, wry smile pulling at my lips. “I can’t ignore it anymore, you know? I think … I think I either have to acknowledge it with him, or move on. Because I’m not one to stick around”—who are you kidding, Stells? You never stick around—“being moony over a guy who might not like me in the same way.”

I bite my lip, internally wincing at my emotional spew.

From behind the shade of my hand, I hear Mrs. Goldman make a noise of amusement.

“Oh, I have a feeling he likes you just fine, dear.”

I sneak a peek at her through my fingers. How would she know?

She smiles broadly. “The notorious womanizer—yes, I know his reputation well—is spending time with you. Men like him don’t do that unless they are hooked.”

I slump against the table, resting my forehead on my bent arms. “God. I sound like I’m in high school, worrying if a boy truly, really, actually likes me.”

Delicately, she slides my plate out of the reach of my hair.

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in school, but I do remember how to pass notes.”

I groan and lift my head. “I’m scared.”

The tremor in my tone softens her expression. She leans forward, closer to me. “Of what?”

What indeed? The hottest, funniest, strangest, most unpredictable man I’ve ever met. Before I saw him in that sadly depleted, pre-blizzard grocery store, I would never have thought of John as my ideal or even dating material. He exists on a plane that mere mortals like me never reach.

“He isn’t safe,” I whisper.

Mrs. Goldman sits back, crossing one slim leg over the other. She takes another sip of champagne, considering me, and I find myself desperate to fill the silence.

“I’m not going to lie. I’ve had celebrity crushes. Hell, every time I see an Avenger’s movie, I want to put my two Chris loves on slow motion and repeat. And I’d think, oh, if I were alone in a room with one of those hotties, what would I do?” I force a pained smile. “But when I’m actually faced with the real thing? This wonderful man who also happens

to be extremely famous? He’ll never be like other men. He’ll always be more.”

“I’m certain Jax believes he’s just like other men.”

“I’m sure he wants to be,” I say. “But what we want and what we get isn’t always the same. He’ll always have the public and the pressures that come with it.” I run a hand through my tumbled hair. “Then there’s his …” I can’t say it.

I’m ashamed to even think about it.

Mrs. Goldman’s dark eyes don’t blink. “His illness.”

Again my cheeks flame. “Yes. No.” My shoulders slump.

“I feel like a jerk for even … especially when I have no idea what will happen. But it’s not exactly like I have my shit together. Half the time, I’m a mess, and I’m afraid I’ll fail him by not knowing what to do.” He’s had enough people bumbling in his life.

I press a hand to my hot forehead and sigh. “I don’t know what I’m even saying. I’m all confused. I just can’t help thinking the deck is already stacked against us. From both outside forces and inside ones.”

“It is,” she says simply. “Stacked against you, I mean.”

I’ve just said as much, but her instant agreement hits me straight in the chest, and I plop back against my seat, deflated. I haven’t had much experience being on the receiving end of advice, but I’m fairly certain the person is supposed to bolster you. Aren’t they?

“Fear will do that to a relationship.” Her smile is thin.

“I’d kill for a cigarette, but I’m trying to cut back.” She pours us more champagne before she speaks again. “I told you I grew up on the Lower East Side. But I spent all my married life living Uptown. Eighty-second and Madison. I

loved that place. I’d walk to the Met for lunch on my rare days o .”

She toys with the stem of her glass. “Then Jerry passed, and all I could see was him. In every room, every echo when I walked those empty halls.”

“How did you end up here?” I ask, not knowing exactly where she’s going with this, but understanding that she’ll eventually get there.

The lines mapping her face deepen, radiating outward from her eyes and mouth like a starburst. “This is where I met Jerry.”

“In this apartment?”

“No. In this church. We were both attending a wedding here. Patricia, the bride, was my secretary at the brokerage firm I worked in. Jerry owned the firm, though I hadn’t met him until that afternoon. He was too high up in the firm to bother with the new hires.”

“Wow. And now you live here.”

“Yes. I had my lovely four thousand square foot duplex, a home full of wonderful memories, and I could not stand it anymore. One day, my cab was stuck in tra c right outside this building, and there was a big sign advertising the new condo conversions. I remembered that first time Jerry and I had bumped into each other on those stairs leading up to the church doors.” She laughs softly, her eyes crinkling. “Two New York Jews about to head into a Catholic wedding.”

An image of sweat-slicked John, fresh from his run and giving me his smarmy smile as we bumped into each other on the stoop for the first time, fills my mind. “So you brought a place here.”

“Yes. Even though it was tiny, had no doorman, and was away from all my friends. It was the spot where it all started, and now it is home.”

Mrs. Goldman reaches out and touches my hand with the tips of her fingers. Her knuckles are knobby, the back of her hand veined and spotted, but still elegant, her skin cool and soft. “Oh, you should have seen that man in his prime. Jerry was rich as Midas, handsome as sin, and looking at me as if I were a crisp hundred someone had left on the sidewalk.”

I laugh, and she allows a fond smile.

“And I was more than willing to be picked up. We fell for each other like a house of cards in a sti wind. But I resisted for the very real fear that I’d lose myself to him. It was the late sixties. We women were burning our bras, but it was still a man’s world. I was a novelty to even have an o ce, much less a secretary. Every ounce of respect I gained I had to fight for. Fight to keep. How would it look if I suddenly took up with the big boss?”

She shrugged and sipped her drink. “I’d be seen as nothing more than a pathetic light skirt, scaling the corporate ladder on her knees. But I loved him so. I knew he was both the beginning and end of me. Jerry o ered to quit, give it all up.” She ducks her head as if laughing inwardly.

“But that wouldn’t have changed the perception of me. We were at a stalemate. Fated to both love and resent each other.”

“What did you do?” Obviously, she’d married the man.

“I broke up with him.” She pops a cherry into her mouth and chews industriously. “And I was damned miserable.”

“Did you go back to him?”

“No.” She smiles. “He called every evening with one question. ‘Is it still worth it?’ I held out for months. Until finally, I could answer, no, being apart from him wasn’t worth it.”

“Then you got together, lived happily ever after and all that jazz, right?”

Mrs. Goldman shakes her head. “No. Everything I feared they would think, they did. I had to quit the firm and open my own. Set me back years because no one wanted to hire a woman as their financial manager.” A dark look comes into her eyes. “But I persisted. And I made it.”

“But you lost—” “What?” she cuts in. “The respect of a bunch of ignorant cocks who didn’t really respect me in the first place? Lost sleep? Money?”

She rests her arm on the table and for a moment the expression in her eyes is wide open and young. “I lost all those things. And gained the love of my life. It wasn’t all champagne and roses, though we indulged in those every day. We struggled, fought. Jerry had dark months of depression now and then. So did I. On paper, we were a disaster. Together …”

She tails o with a shrug and looks away. Tears well in her eyes, and she sni s. “Damn, I really do want a cigarette.”

Her loss and the love she felt for her husband wraps around us, both smothering and yet somehow warm. I give her a moment, my own thoughts running amok.

“I don’t know if John is the one,” I say finally. “But he’s only one I’ve thought about taking a chance on.”

Mrs. Goldman straightens and pins me with a look. “Then what are you waiting for?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

STELLA

M Y FINGERS ARE ICE COLD . I don’t know why I fixate on that, but I can’t seem to ignore it as I open the sliding glass door that leads to the terrace. My heart pounds heavy and frantic in my chest, and I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. I have no reason to be nervous, but here I am, freaking out.

At my ankles, Stevens lets out a plaintive yowl and rubs his sleek body against my calf. He’s been sticking close by since I got sick. I’m better now, but the little guy still worries.

“You’re staying here, bud.” I gently nudge him back into the house and close the door before he can follow. He stares at me with solemn eyes as if he’s sending me o to war.

I laugh at my wayward thoughts but it still doesn’t ease my tension.

The setting sun burns pink and gold along the terrace and warms the stone that runs along the wall between Killian’s place and John’s. I press my hands to the stone and close my

eyes for a long second before leaning over and calling out.

“I’m coming over the wall!”

John’s doors are open, and I soon hear his voice inside.

“You can’t just text like a normal person, can you?”

“Nope!” I scramble over the wall—all grace and dignity— and hop down on his terrace. My hands have gone from icy to clammy.

I rub them on my shorts and make my way inside.

John sits slumped on his massive couch, his head turned my way. His expression is blank but despite his casual pose, the long lines of his body are tight and still, as if he’s holding his breath. He isn’t wearing anything but a pair of jeans slung low on his lean hips. His bare chest and hard abs are distracting as hell.

For a second, I just look at him. His chocolate-brown hair sticks up like he’s been gripping the ends of it. Thick stubble shadows his jaw, making his wide mouth seem paler but softer somehow. But his green eyes are hard now, an almost eerie jade surrounded by his dark lashes.

Facing him now just makes it more acute; I am seriously attached to John Blackwood. And this is not a good thing. He looks at me as if he’s thinking the same, like he’s warning me to turn around and get out while I can. But it’s too late.

I take a step closer to him. “So …”

The corner of his mouth quirks weakly. “So.” It shouldn’t be this hard. My breath hitches. “I received an interesting email from Dr. Stern.”

He blinks slowly. “I bet. And?” “I had strep throat.”

John seems to sag into the couch pillows. He doesn’t say anything, though. Just watches me.

I move a little closer. “In all other regards, I’m perfectly healthy. No STDs.” He flinches, his fists clenching and releasing. “Good.” He clears his throat. “That’s good.”

“Is that why you stayed with me? Called your personal physician? Because you thought you’d given me chlamydia?”

Irritation flares in his eyes but when he speaks, his words are measured. “I called Stern because you were sick as hell. I stayed with you because you needed someone to take care of you.”

“But you were worried, weren’t you?” I say in a low voice.

“That you’d given me an STD.” He looks away and his jaw bunches. “Apparently, you can’t get it from kissing.”

“But did you know that? Is that why you backed away that night? Because you thought you were contagious?”

“Christ, Stells …” His eyes go wide and a bit wild. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, but I’d never put your health in danger that way. Fuck.” With a sound of annoyance, he looks away.

I feel about two feet tall. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to figure this out.”

He nods but keeps his attention on the far wall.

God, I’ve messed this up. I’m a professional friend, for fuck’s sake, but I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with John. He never reacts how I’ll expect, and I’m totally out of my element here. I stand by the edge of the couch and wring

my hands. “I don’t understand. You were worried about me because—” “You kissed me,” he cuts in with a rasping voice. “The night we met. I was infected then and didn’t know it.”

His eyes lower and he studies his clenched fists.

“Oh,” I say.

A snort leaves him. “Yeah, oh.”

In the resounding silence I hear the blood rushing through my veins. I’ve hurt him.

He sighs and runs his hand over his messy hair. “As soon as I found out, I asked Dr. Stern about that kiss. If you were safe. She assured me it was okay. But I kind of freaked when you had a sore throat.”

I would have too. Logic doesn’t always listen when fear shouts in your head.

He stares up at me with solemn eyes. “I should have told you. But fuck if I could find a good way to say, oh, hey, I know you don’t think the best of me but let me add one more thing to the list.”

“I don’t think badly of you, John.” He has to know that.

His fists clench, then he flexes his fingers as if trying to shake something o . “I’m tainted, Stella.”

“You are not tainted,” I grind out. “A good round of antibiotics will clear you up and life goes on.”

He snorts, his brows winging up with a look of bemused irritation. “I took the meds. I am clean now. I have been for two weeks.”

“Then what you do mean—” “Because that label will always hang over me,” he cuts.

“Jax Blackwood, tainted. A pathetic joke. Fuckup—”

“Stop,” I snap. “Just stop that crap right now.”

He frowns at me. “What crap?”

“You think you’re tainted and pathetic because you contracted an STD? Do you know how many people contract diseases? How many people have died because of one? Are you really going to sit there and call them that?”

His expression turns mulish, and he glances away.

I push on. “I doubt many people go looking to get a disease. And even if they weren’t acting responsibly, should that matter? Don’t put that shame on them, on yourself.

Don’t be one of those people who acts like their shit doesn’t stink, who think that by shaming others who have fucked up or face misfortune, it will protect them from unfortunate things befalling them as well. It’s false comfort at best, and there’s already too much judgment in the world as it is.”

John rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “Can we skip the lecture? I’m simply telling you what the world already thinks of me.”

“I don’t give a shit what the world thinks of you, and neither should you.”

His brows snap together. “Just like that, huh?”

“Yes.” Red flushes over his cheeks as he sits up and leans toward me. “Until that tidal wave of judgment washes your way, you haven’t got a clue. No, I don’t want to give a shit what people think, but I do. I feel it. Right here.” He stabs at his chest with his thumb. “I feel it every time I walk outside and someone recognizes me. They used to look at me with adoration. Now, it’s either pity or a smirk or both, and I fucking hate it. But most of all, I hate that I care.”

His words ring in the ensuing silence between us. Anger crackles over him, his chest rising and falling in agitation. I don’t avert my eyes; it feels like a betrayal to do so.

I clear my throat, swallowing the need to touch him. “I’m sorry. It was out of line to get all self-righteous on you.

You’re right; I don’t have a clue how it must feel.” I raise a hand, then let it fall. “I’m sorry.”

All the sti ness leaves him on a heavy exhale, and he sinks back onto the couch cushions. “Ah, hell, don’t give me that look. I can’t take it.”

“What look? I’m not giving a look.” I’m honestly not— my contrition is real.

He tilts his head my way, a slight smile on his lips. “Yes, you are.”

“I’m not. I swear, John.”

The smile grows. But it’s thin and weary. “It’s a look, all right. Those big, sad blue eyes, full of worry and regret. It hurts to see it.”

My lips twitch and I fight my own smile, because I know he isn’t angry anymore. “It upsets me that I added to your grief. I was trying to be helpful.”

His laugh is husky. “Stella Button, you annoy the hell out of me sometimes, but I like that you’re willing to fight my battles. Even if you’re fighting me while doing it.”

Relief flows through me, taking the strength from my knees. “Well, then, I should probably confess that I meant what I said.”

He snorts. And it sounds an awful lot like “No shit, Stells.”

I choose to ignore it. “You are not tainted or pathetic. I will never see you that way.”

As soon as I say the words, I’m embarrassed. Not because they aren’t true, but it feels like they’ve revealed too much, and he’s too silent. We’re facing each other, but I can’t really look him in the eye. Maybe he can’t either because his gaze is hazy, almost lost.

Uncomfortable heat cramps my insides and pricks at my skin. I want to turn and walk away, but I can’t move. That too would reveal things I don’t want seen.

A deep breath moves through him like a sigh, and then he blinks as though coming out of a fog. When he looks at me again, his eyes are bright, like green glass in the sun. A man’s eyes shouldn’t be that expressive. It makes a woman forget to keep up her defenses.

“Stells,” he whispers, “where have you been all my life?”

A lump rises in my throat. “Drifting.”

The corner of his lip quirks. “Well, stop. Don’t drift away.”

“Okay.” It’s a croak of sound, my chest too tight for more.

His expression twists and becomes pained. “You wouldn’t be so quick to agree if you really knew what I was thinking.”

My heart thuds hard against my ribs.

Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“What are you thinking, John?”

From beneath lowered lids, he watches me, his long, lean body suddenly loose and languid on the couch. “I want to kiss you.”

My breath escapes in a whoosh. “Just that?”

God, please do it. Over and over.

“For now,” he says quietly. But I see him retreating into himself.

It’s shame. No matter what I say, he still believes he’s damaged goods.

“And if I want you to do more than kiss me?” I ask, pushing.

The light in his eyes dims further. “Button …” His voice cracks and he swallows. “You’ve got to learn not to take me seriously. I say stupid shit all the time. I’m not the guy for you.”

My heart drops to my toes. I should believe him; why would he lie? There’s a thread of truth in his words. I can hear it clearly. I should let it go. The voice in my head—the one that always seems to show up and tell me that I’m a failure—is insisting that I’d never have a chance with a man like John. He is a legend and I’m just plain old me.

Thing is, I hate that bitch; she’s ruled too much of my life as it is. I suspect most of us have a similar voice, an invasive naysayer who tries its best to make us hate ourselves. I suspect John has one that turns into a full-on scream some days.

I take a deep breath, press my cold palms to my hips. “It was bullshit, then? You wanting to kiss me?”

The muscles along his torso and arms visibly clench. And for a second, I wonder if he won’t answer me. But then he does, all hard tones and rasping pain. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night we met and you stole one from me. I want to learn your flavor, the sounds you make, how you’ll move against me when I taste you.”

His eyes go hot, focused on my lips. “I think about your mouth all the time. Those teasing little freckles, the soft curve of your upper lip, the stubborn fullness of your bottom lip.” He husks out a laugh. “Stella Button, it’s downright embarrassing how much I think about kissing you.”

“But you won’t.” I don’t even know how I’m talking right now. Inside, I’m a damn puddle of heat and hazy want.

“No.” I feel that “no” like a kick in my chest. I should drop it and save myself further humiliation. But I can’t. “Why?” His hand shakes as he runs it through his hair. “Sex confuses things. Especially for me. I don’t know what to do once it’s over. It could break us, Stella. And I can’t a ord to lose you.”

Jesus, the things he says to me. How can he possibly think he’d lose me?

“Or it can be the beginning of us,” I counter, heart in my throat—in my hands, because I might has well have set it right in his lap.

His expressive mouth quirks, fighting a smile, but he looks tired and resigned. “I won’t fall in love with you, Stells.”

That hurts, but it’s not like I didn’t expect it. I’m not sure I even want love. Love equals loss in my world. I don’t want to hurt anymore. But I do want John. That much I’m finally willing to admit. Because denying it hurts too. “Who said anything about falling in love?”

His smile is faint. “Well, that’s a relief.”

Oddly, he sounds almost disappointed. Beneath lowered lids, he watches me walk toward him. With each step closer,

my heart beats harder and faster. The couch creaks a little as I put my knee on it. I straddle John, moving with a liquid languor like I’m flowing through water.

His big hands settle on my hips, and his grip is firm when he pulls me closer until the notch of my sex presses against the growing bulge in his pants. We both suck in a breath.

Light-headed and awash with heat, I lean into him, the tips of my breasts brushing his bare chest. My hand cups his neck, and the rapid beat of his pulse plays against my fingertips. Still, he watches me, silent and unmoving, his muscles tense.

“John?” I whisper, our lips close enough that his soft breath tickles mine.

His voice is just as soft when he answers. “Yeah, babe?”

“May I kiss you?”

A tremor goes through him, and he swallows hard.

“You’re asking me?” The disbelief in his voice is faint but there all the same. His grip on my hips tightens and tugs.

I adjust my seat, my sex pressing more firmly into his swelling cock. “Anyone ever ask you before?”

Up close, his eyes are pure green, his lashes thick and soft; he’s almost too beautiful to look at. He blinks, those lashes sweeping. “No. Can’t say it’s ever mattered before.”

Before.

It matters now. Because he’s been sitting here believing he’s tarnished, thinking I didn’t want him.

My fingers trace the strong column of his throat. “Thing is, I think about kissing you too. Ever since I stole that first one, I’ve wanted more.” John’s hand slides up my back as I talk, his fingers tangling into the damp heat of my hair. I

shiver with pleasure, my confession coming out in a breathless rush. “Whenever I open my mouth to talk to you, I’m afraid I’ll beg for another kiss, just a little taste of you —” “Stella?” he cuts in, his gaze hot on mine.

“Yeah?”

“Kiss me.”

So I do. And it’s so good that my entire body sighs with relief before melting with heat and need. His mouth opens to mine like he’s been waiting an eternity to feel me, taste me.

I’m wrapped around him, as close as I can get, our tongues gliding, our lips slow dancing.

John grunts, low and impatient, his grip in my hair tightening. He tilts his head, trying to get more of me. And I feel it everywhere, as though my body is attached to strings that draw up tight, clenching every muscle with desire. We kiss like that until we can’t breathe, then draw away panting, only to come back to each other again. And again. Deep, luscious kisses that only last a few seconds before we try another and another.

John catches my lower lip and suckles. “Oh, fuck, you feel ... I’ve needed you …” He kisses me with soft greed, his hand moving over my body like he’s memorizing every dip and curve. “I’ve needed you, Stells. Needed this. Just this.”

I’ve needed it too. I didn’t realize how much until I’d touched him.

His lips skim over my neck, scattering shivers along my skin. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

He does too, his hair cool and silky in my hands, his jaw rough with stubble that tickles my lips. And the whole time,

he’s rocking against me, working his hips in a slow, beckoning motion that makes me slightly frantic with lust.

Our mouths come together and it’s explosive this time, our control slipping. I cup the hard caps of his shoulders, my fingers gripping and caressing. His hands slip beneath my shirt, smoothing the sides of my waist.

“I want to see you,” he says against my mouth. “Can I take this o ? Can I see you, sweet Stella?”

Heat rolls over me waves. “Yes. Yes.” Our fingers tangle, mine trembling with impatience, as we pull the damn, su ocating shirt o together. It doesn’t cool me down. I burn hotter as John’s gaze moves over my torso, his expression rapt. “So pretty, Button.”

I’m wearing a simple white bra, but under his stare, I feel as beautiful and delicate as spun sugar. His wide hands slide up my ribs, and I arch my back, thrusting my breasts out. He sits up, arms wrapping around me, and presses a tender kiss to the swell of my breasts. “Every night, I’ve dreamed of this. Of you.”

His skin is hot and damp under my palms, and I run them over every inch I can.

The blunt tips of his fingers trace the clasp of my bra.

“This too?” he asks.

“Yes. Please, John.” My breasts are swollen, my nipples tender and achy. I need his touch. “Please.”

“Anything,” he says. “Anything you need.”

The bra slips away. He makes a sound deep in his throat.

“Oh, hell. Freckles. You’re killing me.” He goes about kissing each one, his tongue touching them like they’re candy. When

he finally gently laps my nipple, I groan, tilting my head back.

His hot mouth closes over me and pulls with rhythmic tugs. The tip of his tongue flicks the swollen tip, and it’s too much and not enough, and I curl myself over him, my arms around his neck, my breast at his mouth. I’m riding his cock, dry humping him as though we’re horny teens in a backseat.

John releases my nipple with a wet pop. I shudder, wanting him to return.

“Touch me,” he says, moving his lips along my skin, seeking out my other breast. “Please. Touch me.”

His belly is tight and smooth. I follow the ridge down the center of his abs. He grunts, his mouth full of me. I fumble with the button of his jeans, and then he’s in my hand, hot and hard and substantial. I stroke that silken heat, my thumb running over the weeping crown, and he shudders.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck. More, Stella. Give me more.”

His mouth finds mine. There’s no more talk, just soft whispers of want and approval, needy whimpers, and groans for more. Our kisses are a mess, frantic, wet, deep.

Exchanges of breath. Shaking exhales. I’m jacking his cock as he tweaks my nipples, and it’s so hot and good. I’m going to come and he hasn’t even touched my clit.

“John …” I rock against him, keening.

“I know,” he rasps, “I know.”

I feel it rising, hot, cold, making me tremble. My body tenses at the precipice.

A loud buzz cuts through the air. We both jump at the sound. Hot on its heels, another buzz rings out.

My forehead rests against his. “Who is that?”

“Shit.” John swallows, moves his swollen lips over mine.

“Ignore it.”

Whoever it is starts pounding on the door.

“Oy!” a deep male voice shouts. “Get your ass in gear and open the door.”

Panting, we both turn our heads toward the door in question.

John’s hands are still on my breasts, and I feel him tense before he slides them down to my hips. “Fucking cockblockers.”

I husk out a laugh and slump against his warm chest. I’m still a little dizzy and a whole lot breathless. John presses his lips to the top of my head. “It’s the guys,” he says into my damp hair. “They invited themselves over for dinner. I forgot.”

“Wonder why,” I murmur, and it’s his turn to laugh weakly.

“Fuck,” he groans, long and pained. But it looks like that isn’t going to be happening anytime soon. “Shit, shit, shit.”

John breathes slowly out through his nose in a clear e ort to calm himself.

I empathize. I’m too worked up, my sex is pulsing, wet, and left wanting. A shudder wracks through me, and John gives me a reproachful look, his fingers gripping my hips a little tighter. “Be still,” he warns, “or I’m going to fuck you with them listening on.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” I ask, eyeing the cute little disk of his hardened nipple. I want to give it a gentle bite before licking away the sting. “Because I’m willing to be subjected.” But despite my bravado, and his pained groan, I

ease o him. Goddamn, his cock looks good, all thick and dark with lust. It jerks in my direction, as if beckoning me back. And I’m tempted. So very tempted.

The door buzzes again with a relentless insistence.

“I’m coming, all right?” John shouts, his voice a little broken.

“Not in the way I’d hoped,” I mutter.

He husks out a weak laugh, running a hand through his hair. Sweat slicks his taut chest and abs. “Laugh it up, chuckles.”

“It’s either laugh or kill your friends.” I struggle with my bra. I’m sweaty too, my breasts swollen and sensitive.

Grabbing my shirt, I pull it over my head and stand. “I’ll get the door. You fix …,” I wave a hand in the direction of his persistently hard dick, “all that.”

“I think I might break it if I try to tuck it away right now,” he grumbles before standing and hiking his jeans up.

A wry smile tilts his lips. “Sorry about this, Button. I’ll make it up to you.” He gives me a butter-soft kiss, and then hustles toward the bathroom.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

STELLA

A LONE IN J OHN ’ S living room, I run my fingers through my hair and straighten my shirt. I’m certain I’m a mess; my lips are tender and probably look bruised. But these are rockers.

They’re used to sex, and I can’t feel any shame. If anything, I’m annoyed at their ham-handed instance on interrupting us.

I’m still practicing my look of cool composure when I open the front door. It abruptly fades as I come face to face with what is arguably the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen.

He stands on the threshold, impeccably dressed in a fine gray suit, his ink-black hair gleaming in the hall light, aqua eyes sharp with focus. I swear I go a little weak-kneed at the sight. But that’s not what makes me utter a gasp of true delight.

Another set of brilliant blue eyes has me enthralled. I fall a little in love just then. Because the infant cozily tucked in the chest carrier the man wears is the cutest baby I’ve ever

seen. The little guy clearly knows it and gives me a gummy smile while waving his chubby fist.

“Oh, my god. Be still my heart.”

The man in the suit doesn’t change his expression, but something that looks a lot like beaming pride fills his eyes and makes him suddenly seem human. He puts a protective hand upon the baby’s stomach. And there goes my ovaries. I can feel them bursting into flames as a happy sigh escapes me.

“He has that e ect on people,” says another man at his side. I hadn’t even noticed him, which is shock enough because the guy is hot, not in the cool perfection of the guy with the baby, but in a rangy, easygoing way. This is a guy women flock to, knowing that he’ll treat them right even as he breaks their heart. He’s a lot like John in that way.

Recognition hits me. He’s Whip Dexter, the bassist for Kill John. He gives me a friendly but assessing smile. “One look at those baby blues and women turn into a puddle.”

John appears at my shoulder, wearing a shirt and looking aggrieved. “Jesus, you’re not falling for Scottie’s face too, are you?”

“Scottie?” I ask blankly.

“He means me,” Hot Baby Daddy says, his accent as crisp as his suit.

This is the man who hired me? Of course he is. I recognize his voice. Scottie meets my eyes and one of his black brows ticks up a touch. He knows perfectly well I was gushing over the baby but clearly doesn’t have any intention of correcting John. I wonder about that, as John keeps complaining.

“Seriously, it’s just embarrassing. He’s happily married, you know.”

Annoyance skitters down my spine. I just had my tongue in John’s mouth, and he thinks I’m crushing on Scottie?

Then again, the man is gorgeous—I can see how he’d make any guy leery.

I sco and roll my eyes. “Oh, for crying out loud, I was talking about the baby.” I make a goofy face at the cooing little. “Wasn’t I? You cute little dude.”

“Little dude,” repeats Whip with a smile. “I like it.”

John expels a breath, having the grace to appear chagrined. “Right. Felix. Didn’t see him there. Hey, little man.”

“You were distracted by my stunning good looks, weren’t you?” Scottie quips. “I get that a lot.”

John flips him the finger.

“Is that his name?” I ask Scottie.

“Yes, this is my son, Felix Tiberius Scott.”

Felix lifts a fist as if to say, “Respect my awesomeness, woman!”

Scottie gave his son a Star Trek name? I fall a little more in love with the both of them. Though, really, Scottie is too cold and too pretty for anything other than casual admiration. His baby, though? I want to bite those chubby cheeks.

“He’s gorgeous.”

“Thank you.” Another lift of those imperious brows.

“Miss?”

I get the weird feeling he knows but is asking out of politeness.

John and I speak over each other.

“I’m—” “She’s—” Whip cuts us o . “Maddy, right?” He gives me an innocent smile. “Jax told me he’s been making dinners for his neighbor Maddy.”

Maddy? Who the fuck is Maddy? I sti en, my face feeling like concrete. He’s been making “dinner” for one of the other neighbors? I’m just one of many?

“Ah, no, I’m …”

John makes a noise of irritation. “This is Stella, not Maddy. Jesus, I think it’s pretty fucking clear she’s not Maddy, you asshat.”

Okay, that hurt. I can’t pretend it didn’t. I shoot John a glare as he ushers Scottie and Whip inside, but I don’t get to say a word because Scottie turns and pins me to the spot with his weirdly intense gaze. “We finally meet, Ms. Grey.”

Oh, shit. I’m not supposed to be in contact with John. And here I am. In close, personal contact. I open my mouth and find my voice gone.

“Did you seriously tell her not to talk to me?” John says, putting it all out there.

Scottie gives him a passing glance and Felix blows spit bubbles.

“Yes, I’m Stella Grey. I know you said not to engage with John but—” “Yeah,” John drawls, “that plan went out the door when she stole my ice cream.”

I round on John, who is now a dead man. “Hey! You had your paws all over my mint chip. I just took it back.” Each word is punctuated by a poke to his ribs.

John skitters back with a yelp. “Jesus, calm down with the stabby finger. And we both know that’s not true, Stella Button. Need I mention the—” “Utter another word and I will bite you like a rabid ferret.”

John gapes at me for a second, then bursts out laughing— full, shoulder-shaking laughing that cause tears to well in his eyes.

I hu out an annoyed breath. “I’m serious. Fear my wrath, rocker boy.”

He laughs harder. “Make it stop,” he rasps through his tears. “My stomach hurts.”

“Ass-nugget,” I mutter, which makes him hunch over.

The coo of a baby has me pausing, and I realize we have an audience, one I’d totally forgotten about. Heat rushes over my face and prickles my skin. Oh, fucking hell.

Mortified, I elbow John and slowly turn to face Scottie and Whip.

Whip grins wide and pleased and, to my horror, he’s recording John laughing. “Sorry,” he says to me, “but that had to be saved for posterity.”

I have no idea why the sight of John losing it is that big a deal, but I’m too focused on Scottie to care. “Sorry,” I say to my employer. “I really didn’t mean that.”

Scottie’s dark brow wings up. “That would be a shame, Ms. Grey. If anyone needs to be taken down by a woman emulating a rabid ferret, it’s Jax.” God, I really did say rabid ferret. I want to slink away and hide.

John sobers then. “Hey,” he says outraged, “what did I do?”

“Shall we print up a list?” Scottie murmurs without any heat. Then he turns to me. “Rest assured, Ms. Grey, my intent was to spare you any irritation. It was certainly not to keep you from meeting Jax.” “She calls him John,” Whip points out, still weirdly happy.

“It’s my name.” John flicks Whip’s ear and then dances out of reach when Whip reaches to smack his head. John glares at Scottie. “And you, Mr. Traitor, keep this up and I’m telling Sophie the stroller you bought is not Parent Guideline approved.”

Little Felix makes an indignant squawk.

Scottie pales, his arrogant brow wrinkling. “An utter lie.

You wouldn’t stoop so low.”

“Try me.” John sni s, his chin lifting. “Bad enough you tried to pound my door down.”

Whip snorts. “Interrupted, did we?” He appears fairly pleased at the notion.

He earns another ear flick. Whip is about to say something when the elevator door opens and two people get out, clearly arguing.

“The fact that I smiled at the Uber driver and wished her a nice evening does not mean I was hitting on her,” says a big, blond guy, clearly Rye Peterson. The sheer perfection of his thickly muscled arms is enough to identify him. There is a Tumblr dedicated to “Rye Peterson’s Arms.”

The woman with him is Brenna. Just like on the night of the party, her long hair is in a high, sleek ponytail that she

flips over her shoulder. “The fact that you took her number makes you a total liar.”

His hands lift in exasperation. “What was I supposed to do? Toss it back to her? Then I’m all over social media as Rye the asshole who was mean to some woman. And you know it.” He leans in, crowding her space. “I mean, are you or are you not my publicist?”

Brenna gives him a cool look. “As your publicist, I’d advise you to keep your dick in your pants.”

His smile is dark. “Sounds a lot like jealousy to me, Berry.”

“Berry?” Whip repeats, breaking their silence. “You got a pet name for her?”

Both of them freeze, Brenna turning a shade of raspberry pink. I empathize. It sucks how easily we redheads blush.

Felix coos in the silence. Brenna smooths her skirt and heads our way, her heels clicking on the marble. “Felix Tiberius, my man.” She lifts his tiny fist and baps it against her palm.

John steps back from the doorway. “Can we take all the drama inside, please?”

“No drama,” Brenna assures. “Just dealing with someone’s big head.”

“Which head are you talking about?” Rye says with stage leer. “Because I have two heads, sweetheart, and they’re both big.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Brenna sing-songs as everyone files into the penthouse.

“Where’s Sophie?” John asks, cutting o Rye’s protests.

“Out with her mum.” Scottie makes his way to the Biedermeier sideboard that serves as a bar. “She sends her regrets.”

Before John can close the door, the elevator dings again, and a pretty woman with silver-blue hair steps out. She looks like a 1940s pinup but is dressed in blue overalls and red Chucks and is holding a large tin food container.

“Freedom!” she cries in a very good Braveheart impression, hand held high in victory.

From the way Scottie and Felix both beam at her, I’m guessing this is Sophie.

John gives her a kiss hello on the cheek. “Thank Christ. I don’t want to deal with Scottie being in a mood because you’re not here.”

Scottie snorts. “For that, I’ll still be a moody git to you.”

But to Sophie he smiles. “Darling, your men have missed you.” Felix squawks in agreement.

“My handsome boys,” Sophie coos, smothering them with smoochie kisses. Neither male seems to mind in the least. In fact, they both purr under her care. She turns to John. “I know you have dinner covered, so I brought some bibingka for dessert.” Her words trail o and her eyes go wide with some sort of internalized shock. “Holy hell, I’m becoming my mother. Quick, somebody take this damn food and perform an exorcism!”

John snickers. “Too late, the damage is done.”

“Oh, hush your evil mouth.” She swats his arm and then turns to me with a smile. “Hey, I’m Sophie. I’ve heard good things about you.”

“Really?” It comes out in an embarrassing squeak.

“Oh, yes. Gabriel says you’re driving Jax crazy.” She practically beams. “Which is a wonderful thing indeed.”

“Darling,” Scottie interjects smoothly, “leave Jax be. He’ll have a fit, and we’ll never eat.”

“Watch out, Stells,” John murmurs. “Apparently, I’m to have a fit soon.”

“At least I know I drive you crazy.”

“You already knew that, Button.”

True.

He closes the door, and I step close to him. “Who is Maddy?”

The extremely fond look in his eyes kind of makes me want to scream. Especially since it’s clear he knows I’m jealous. “Maddy, my dear sweet Stella, is our seventy-fouryear-old neighbor who kindly lets me into her home now and then when I get lonely for company.”

I stare like a stunned deer for a second before my body sags. “Oh.” He’s smug as hell and has every right to be. “I kind of love that jealous little growl you made, though.”

“I did not growl.” I wrinkle my nose when he stares me down. Okay, I might have growled. “Maddy is Mrs. Goldman?” What is her first name? Madeline? It has to be her. Though I can’t picture calling her Maddy.

John confirms it with a nod. “You’ve met her?”

“We had lunch together. She tried to play matchmaker between us.”

“Really?” He sounds pleased. “Well, that just proves she has great taste.”

“Don’t get a bigger head, John. You still need to fit through doors.”

Smiling, he touches my wrinkled nose fondly. “I was talking about her taste in you.”

Gah. He’s going to kill me with his charm. They’ll find me in a puddle of lust with only my panties floating in it.

“Hey,” Rye calls over to us, “stop making heart eyes at each other, and let’s cook. I’m hungry.”

John’s mouth quirks. “Lesson one when it comes to my guys: Rye is an asshat.”

“I heard that!”

“I meant you to!” Shaking his head and silently laughing, John takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen.

And that is when I fully realize I’m going to have dinner with three-fourths of Kill John. More importantly, I’m with John’s closest friends. Suddenly, I’m nervous.

J OHN

S TELLA IS ABOUT to meet the majority of my family. My true family, that is. I have parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. Not a single one of them acknowledges me anymore.

I’m an embarrassment. First, for being a rocker. Second, for publicly exposing my mental health “issues.” For them, decorum trumps everything. One does not gyrate on a stage, singing songs about fucking. And one definitely does not try to take one’s own life in a public manner. Apparently, you do

that shit behind closed doors and wait for the family to properly cover it up.

My family takes pride in the blueness of their blood and expects every member to behave accordingly. I find this ironic as hell, given that I’ve met the Queen of England, have hung out with both young princes, and am generally more familiar with Royal Palace-sponsored events than any member of my esteemed family. Maybe that’s the problem— I succeeded on my own terms.

Whatever the case, aside from Killian and Libby, the people I love most in the world are here now. And so is Stella.

While my dick is not a happy camper for being interrupted, and my balls ache something fierce, I’m glad Stella is meeting my mates.

Rye plops his ass down on the sofa. “I don’t smell any food.”

“I forgot to cook,” I confess with a wince. I’m notoriously forgetful and it pisses people o .

Whip slaps a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“You had better things to do.” He nods in Stella’s direction.

“I get it, man.”

I can’t even pretend that it wasn’t Stella distracting me.

But the fact that she flushes cotton-candy pink has me elbowing Whip’s gut. “Knock it o .”

He takes the hit with a laugh and then heads for the kitchen. Brenna and Sophie follow, and the three of them start rummaging through the fridge, finding the two whole chickens I’d bought to roast.

“Let’s get this meal started,” Whip says, turning on the oven.

Sophie and Scottie look on with Felix as the rest of us make dinner. Stella and I stand by the sink peeling potatoes, our arms brushing now and then. Every time it happens, we slide each other a look, and Stella smiles shyly. It makes me want to kiss her. Every time.

I am so aware of this woman, it isn’t funny. And smitten.

Ridiculously smitten. It’s worse, now that I know her taste, how she feels against my mouth, under my hands. She’s my new favorite song; I want to play her over and over.

With prep done, I take over the bulk of the cooking, mainly because I’m the best at it. Stella laughs as Rye and Whip tell stories about being on the road. And because they’re prats, most of the stories revolve around my more embarrassing moments.

“What about the first Rolling Stone interview?” Brenna interjects helpfully.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I raise a hand in defeat.

Stella’s gaze darts around the kitchen island, taking in everyone’s evil grins. “What happened?” She’s clearly relishing my pain. Little tart.

Brenna is practically giddy as she tells the story. “It was Kill John’s first Rolling Stone interview. Big time, right?”

Stella nods, rapt with anticipation.

“Jax and the reporter had been flirting the entire time,” Whip says as he chops some rosemary. “It was disgusting, really.”

“Only because she ignored you,” I feel obligated to say.

Without pause, he flips me o and continues his story.

“We’re wrapping things up, and Mr. Smooth sidles over to get her number.”

I shake my head, my face hot.

Stella’s eyes are wide and deep blue. “He struck out?”

“It’s comforting to know you find the idea shocking, Button,” I deadpan. “But no.”

“No,” Whip agrees with a snicker. “Not exactly.”

Rye’s grinning wide, his eyes forming little blue triangles.

“He’s standing there, all ‘So, babe,’ when suddenly he starts bobbing and weaving his head around, with this weird face …”

At that moment, everyone does the face, lips pinched, nostrils flaring as though they’re sni ng something o , and Stella starts laughing. They all do. I grimace at the memory.

Rye is still laughing as he talks. “And we’re like, what the fuck was that, dude? But Jax plays it o as if nothing happened and tries to talk to her again.”

“Only he starts bobbing around again,” Brenna says, doing a fair imitation of me.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, the echoes of that long-ago embarrassment humming along my skin.

“What was going on?” Stella asks, looking from me to my friends.

I don’t get to answer. Whip beats me to it.

“He opens his mouth one last time to speak when he suddenly sputters and coughs, just fucking gagging.”

Rye is practically weeping with glee. “And the reporter is backing up, looking really regretful she bothered talking to this wingnut, but she asks him if he’s okay.” Rye wipes his eyes. “And Jax says …”

As one, my traitorous friends all shout out as one, “I … swallowed … a … bug.”

Everyone laughs. And I do too, grudgingly. It had sucked, but it was funny. “Fucking gnat had it out for me. It was stalking me the entire interview.”

Snickering, Stella rests a hand on my forearm, her smile bright even though it’s clear she’s fighting not to laugh.

“Poor baby.”

Everything in me warms, my attention homing in on where she’s touching me. Two hours ago, I thought she wouldn’t want to see me again. I’d been sucked down in a vortex of dark, taunting thoughts. She’d yanked me right back into the light.

I want to bend down, fit her lips to mine. I want to haul her into the bedroom and learn the topography of her curvy body. I want my friends to get the hell out of here. I want a lot. Want, want, want.

Not that my loudmouth friends notice.

Rye is still talking. “The reporter looks at him like she thinks he’s trying to be funny and is failing miserably. But she clearly wants to give him a chance. And she says, ‘Was that an Overboard quote? It’s my favorite movie!’”

Stella bursts out laughing. “She did not.”

Rye nods. “Jax goes blank for a second and then nods, all solemn and serious, and tells her it’s his favorite movie as well. That’s all it took. Coolness restored.”

“Such is the power of Jax,” Brenna deadpans, rolling her eyes.

I lay a hand to my chest. “What can I say? My bullshit fu is strong.”

Thankfully, my friends don’t mention that I did hook up with the reporter. And the entire time, she kept asking me to

do Overboard quotes. Which was really unfortunate since I never saw the movie. Awkward as hell.

I don’t regret my past. I don’t regret playing fast and loose with sex when I was younger. Overall, I’d enjoyed myself. A lot. I’m never going to be Saint John, but I now understand why Whip has said goodbye to casual sex. I’d never been myself. Never had anything real.

Unfortunately, therein lies the crux of my problem. I want sex with Stella. I want her and only her. But there are dangers with getting attached. Becoming dependent on someone is a big fucking no-no. I can’t rely on her to bring me out of my dark moods; I’ve got to do that for myself.

And it isn’t an even exchange. Stella can o er me so much. What can I o er in return? Orgasms? Sure, that’s great, but I’m realistic enough to know she can get that elsewhere—not that it wouldn’t kill me if she did. I have very little privacy, and any woman who takes up with me will have hers invaded just as badly. Maybe worse, since far too many shitheads enjoy tearing down the women famous men love.

Love. My throat goes dry and tight.

“Mate, you’re about to curdle the gravy,” Scottie points out at my elbow.

“Right.” I turn down the heat, add some more stock, and try to focus.

He gives me a sidelong look, his lips quirking, and I’m tempted to kick him. But I don’t. I finish up with a dogged determination. Despite my best e ort, one ear remains attuned to Stella laughing with Sophie and Brenna as they set the table. While Rye and Whip talk my ear o about new

beats, I watch her smile and flush with simple enjoyment. I drink my beer and pretend everything is business as usual.

But when we sit down for Sunday roast, I seek her out, picking the chair next to hers. My hand finds its way to the soft, smooth nape of her neck. I talk to my friends and play with the silky strands of her red-gold hair. Happily, Stella lets me, keeping very still, like she’s afraid I’ll stop.

Not bloody likely. Not when I finally get to touch her the way I’ve been dying to all along.

“Right then …” Scottie sets his silverware on his empty plate, “Brenna and I have been thinking.”

“Oh, hell,” Whip mutters.

Rye’s mouth twists in silent agreement. I don’t know if they’re bemoaning the horror that is Scottie and Brenna’s plotting in general. Or if it is something more specific.

Because I’m the one Scottie is staring at.

“I thought we banned you two from using your Wonder Twin powers,” I say, resting my arm along the back of Stella’s chair.

Brenna’s little nose lifts with a sni . “Only when used for evil.”

Rye snorts. “When you’re scheming, it’s all evil.”

“Quick, Scottie,” she says, while glaring at Rye, “I need to form into a giant water gun.”

Scottie lets out a long-su ering sigh before turning his laser eyes on me again. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings —” “No, you don’t,” Whip says with cheek.

“But there’s a horde of press camped outside my o ce,” Scottie goes on.

“I think they should be called a murder,” Sophie says, as she bobs little Felix on her arm. “You know, like a murder of crows?”

Scottie’s lips twitch. “Apt comparison, Darling.” His expression settles back into sternness. “A murder of press has settled on Kill John’s proverbial doorstep. Brenna’s o ce is getting hammered with calls.”

I resist the urge to squirm, and I really don’t fucking appreciate that he’s bringing this up in front of Stella. But all I show them is a bland smile. “Then say ‘no comment’ and move on.”

Brenna blows a raspberry. “Not gonna fly, Jaxy-bear. This is one of those we need to spin it and fast type deals.”

Scottie rests his forearm on the table in an attempt to appear casual, when everything about his posture is crisp e ciency. “Just this morning, I had a woman call to say you slept with her last week, and she’s afraid she’ll be infected.”

“Bullshit. I haven’t touched anyone in months—” The words die in the air as I snap my mouth shut. Didn’t mean to admit all that.

But it’s out there, and everyone is looking at me like I have two heads.

“Well,” Brenna says, struggling, “that’s …”

“Unexpected,” Whip says before coughing “manwhore” under his breath.

I flip him o , then pin Scottie with a look. “The last woman I touched was …” I grimace.

“Ms. STD Panties?” Rye supplies.

Both Sophie and Brenna flick his ears.

“Hey!”

“Don’t shame her like that,” Sophie says. “Not with the way you go carousing.”

“Amen,” Brenna says.

Rye scowls and rubs his ears. “Can we stick to Jax’s problem?”

Brenna shoots him a repressive look but then turns serious. “We were thinking that if you were in a relationship …” Her gaze darts to Stella. “Something serious that conveys you’ve settled down.”

I jerk upright, my hand sliding from Stella’s chair.

“Brenna …”

She ignores my warning. “Stella, I know this is a lot to ask—” Alarm races up my spine. “Hold on one—” “But would you consider posing as Jax’s girlfriend for a couple of weeks? We’d pay well.”

“Are you o your fucking nut?” I shout, pushing back from the table. The chair teeters behind me. “I just got Stella to forgive me for calling her an escort, and here you are asking her to play girlfriend for hire?”

I’m so pissed I can barely see straight. “Bloody, fucking …

I am not some broken pot you need to glue back together.

You don’t fix me. You had no right to trample in here and—” “John.” Stella grabs my hand and squeezes it. From the way she says my name, I’m thinking she’s called it a few times.

The entire table is silent, my mates staring up at me with varying expressions of discomfort or shock. All but Stella, who gives me a wane smile. “It’s okay,” she says. “I know this wasn’t your idea.”

“You bet your sweet arse it wasn’t,” I snap, still shaken, then let out a breath. “Button, I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be. They’re only trying to help.” She’s still holding my hand, and I thread my fingers through hers as I sit back down. Stella glances at a grimfaced Scottie and a pissy Brenna. “I can do it.”

“No,” I cut in, barely keeping my voice level. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Stella’s eyes narrow. “You need a girlfriend. I am a professional. We both know that.”

It’s a kick to the cods, honestly. Though part of me wants to laugh—after all, I’d tried to hire her less than a week ago.

Only I don’t particularly find this funny. It hurts.

“Excuse us for a moment,” I say to my friends, my eyes on Stella. I hold onto her hand firmly and lead her out to the terrace. She stomps along behind me, obviously expecting a fight. Just as well, since she’s going to get one.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

STELLA

J OHN in a true temper is a sight. From what I know of him, he’s either the easygoing “you do you” rocker or, if he’s in a mood, a smarmy ass. But this is di erent. His lean body is practically vibrating, all those ropy muscles pulled tight and standing out against his golden skin as he strides out onto the terrace and rounds on me.

Green fire lights his eyes. “What the hell, Stella?”

The lack of a nickname feels like a punishment. And how messed up is that? I slide the glass door shut because I’m not having this conversation with his friends listening on. “Why are you opposed to this? Not a week ago, you wanted the same thing they’re asking of me.”

High color works over his cheeks. “I admitted that it was a stupid, dickhead thing to suggest.” He takes an agitated step in my direction. “What I can’t understand is why you’d agree now when it clearly upset you before.”

I shrug. “You didn’t need me before. Now you do.”

“You’re wrong if you think I didn’t need you before.”

The look in his eyes has my pulse kicking up. “But you don’t now? Now, when you need to be seen with a girlfriend.

I don’t understand you.”

How can he not get that I want to help him? Out of all the people in my life, I want to help him most of all. And he won’t let me.

John rakes a hand over his hair. “I don’t want to be another asshole who employs your services.”

“They aren’t assholes, John. It’s my job. One that I like.”

Or used to. Now, I’m not so sure.

He frowns o into the distance. “Maybe they’re not at first. But the ones who want to keep the friendship and the payment?” His gaze collides with mine. “You were right, you deserve more. Don’t you forget that.”

“I’m not forgetting it,” I say, throwing up a hand in frustration. “You need to be seen steadily with someone. I can do that for you.”

“Can you?” he snaps, his nostrils flaring.

“Yes,” I snap back. “Again, what the hell is your problem?”

He takes another step. “Two hours ago, I had your tits in my hand and my tongue down your throat—” “Classy, John,” I cut in, flushing hot.

“And it was fucking perfect,” he lobs back. “The best feeling I’ve had in so long, I can’t remember anything better.”

My knees go weak, a breath leaving me in a soft, “Oh.” “Yeah, ‘oh,’” he says dryly, his brows lowering over angry eyes. “And there I was thinking, finally. I finally got to taste and touch the girl I can’t stop thinking about, and then

what happens? She and my well-meaning but pain-in-theass friends agree that she should be my fake girlfriend.”

He levels me with a look, and I realize this isn’t rage he’s been showing, it’s hurt. Instantly, I feel small and horrible.

“Shit,” I whisper, staring up at him.

His mouth quirks bitterly, but he doesn’t say anything.

“John.” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”

I take a step toward him but he evades me, giving me his shoulder as he stares out at the city. “Forget it. It isn’t a big deal.”

“Yes, it fucking is.”

John whips around. “Yes, it fucking is,” he agrees, striding toward me.

Before I can move, he’s picking me up with shocking ease, his big hands cupping my butt. Automatically, my legs wrap around his waist, my hands grasping his shoulders.

With two steps, he has me up against a wall, his long, firm body pressing against mine.

“Was it not real enough for you?” he says against my mouth, our lips barely brushing. My lids flutter. His breath is warm and scented with the wine he drank. “Did you not feel how much I wanted you?”

I feel it now, a hard, thick presence nudging my sex. My thighs clench, and he feels that too. A rough sound escapes him, and there’s no more talking. His kiss is swift, brutal, desperate, greedy. Our lips press against each other’s, shaping, nipping, sucking. His tongue is a smooth, slick glide over mine. A sweep and a plunge, deeper, stroking, taking. It ignites me, makes me groan and whimper, wanting more of it, of him.

John rocks against me as our mouths fuck, his hands gripping my ass tighter. And I’m light-headed yet too damn heavy with need that I feel weak. When he pulls away, my mouth chases his, my lips swollen and wet. But he ducks his head and sucks my neck, tugging at that sensitive skin.

“I don’t want fake, Stella.” His mouth touches the crest of my ear. “I don’t want to pay for it. I don’t want to pretend.”

My hands are in his silky, messy hair. My hips grind into that lovely hard cock of his. “You can have whatever you want.” I’m panting now, my nipples tight and sore.

“Anything.”

John stills. The tip of his tongue flicks a spot on my neck that has me bucking. He presses a soft chaser kiss there before lifting his head. In the shadows, his eyes gleam. “Be with me. Let’s fall together, Button.”

Fall. Really fall. I can feel myself doing it, that swift plummet with nothing to hold onto. Nothing to save me. It’s scary as hell. From the look in John’s eyes, he knows it, fears it too. But he wants it anyway.

“You said you weren’t going to fall in love.”

His gaze moves over my face before meeting my eyes. “I walked out on you that night because I knew that if I could fall for anyone, it would be for you.” John rests his forehead against mine, and his lids lower. “I’ve never been in love.

The idea of it scares the shit out of me, and I keep telling myself all the reasons we shouldn’t be together. But when I’m actually faced with walking away? After what we did on the couch? No.” He shakes his head. “Fuck no. I can’t do it. I want to try with you.”

I’m already over that ledge. “Okay.”

His body sti ens for a second, and then he smiles. It’s like the sun melting through ice, brilliant and hot and lighting me up. In that moment, he is incandescent, and I catch my breath. He steals it from me with a swift, deep kiss I feel in my toes. I whimper, opening my mouth for more.

John gives it to me, kissing and kissing like I’m his drug of choice. Then he pulls away with a pained groan. “Shit, you tempt me.”

“Good,” I pant against his neck, nuzzling there. “Take me to bed.”

He leans his cheek on mine, his body shuddering.

“Can’t.”

My fingers drift down to his chest. God, he has a nice chest. Firm, defined. I want to lick it. “Tell your friends to go home and you can.”

John chuckles, and the vibrations tickle my oversensitive skin. “No, babe.” With a sigh, he takes a step back and carefully sets me on my feet. I’m wobbly and weak-kneed.

But he holds onto my arms, giving me a smile that is part pure, satisfied male heat, and part pained regret. “We’re going to do this right. I’m going to woo you.”

My fingers curl over his hard biceps. “Consider me wooed.”

He utters a shaky laugh. “I meant dates. Taking things slow.”

Given that my sex is wet and throbbing, the thought of “slow” sounds like torture. “Why?” His hand comes up to cup my cheek, and the rough edge of his thumb caresses my swollen bottom lip. “Call it selfish, but I want the experience of dating, that anticipation of

working up to sex while getting to know you better. Because you are too important to turn into something as simple as casual sex. I don’t want to lose you to that.”

My heartbeat is in my throat, my chest a hollow ache. He looks at me as if he sees it all. As if he knows exactly how it feels to be alone when surrounded by people. I guess he knows that better than I do. His voice is like warm honey in the dark. “It’s always been people wanting you to please them. Let me give you something more. Something true.”

“John …” I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do.

He wraps me in his arms, his hand holding my head to his chest where his heart beats strong. “I don’t know where this will go, or if I’ll be any good at it, but I want to be on this road with you.”

I let out a soft laugh. “Oh, you’ll be good at it. You already are.”

We stand there in silence, holding onto each other. My hands find their way under his shirt to his warm skin, and he trembles. Smiling, I press further against him. “Okay, but no sex at all?” I tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “My brain can accept that this is a good idea, but my vag is a little hussy. She’s gonna be pouting if she’s ignored.”

John bursts out laughing, his chest brushing mine. “God, I like you.”

The awe in his voice has me nudging his side. “You don’t have to sound so surprised by this.”

“But I am,” he says with candor. He rests his chin lightly on my head. “The last girl I truly liked was Pippa Hicks in sixth year. Sweet girl. She let me look up her skirt.”

I snort. “Typical.”

Laughter laces his voice. “She also gave me the answers for our maths primer.”

My smile presses into the wall of his chest as I hide my flaming cheeks. “Oh, well, that’s a di erent story entirely.”

His skin is smooth and warm beneath my fingertips. “I like you too.”

“Good.” He peers down at me and a grin spreads over his mouth. “Don’t you worry. I’ll pay proper attention to your sweet little kitty.” With a yelp, he backs away, evading my pinches and laughing. “She may not get the full-service meal at first, but I’ll keep her content.”

I pinch him again, and he keeps laughing, wrapping me up so my arms are trapped between us. His laughter dies down. “And we kiss.” His gaze lowers to my mouth, all hot and covetous. “A lot.”

“A lot,” I reply in a daze.

His expression is dazed as well. “Kissing you has become my favorite thing.”

My lips are still swollen and sensitive. I am completely down with this plan, but I don’t think it will go the way he intends. “You ever just make out with a girl before, John?

Fool around with no sex?”

A small wrinkle forms between his brows. “No. Why?” I grin, my clenched hands opening and pressing into the firm wall of his chest. “I’m thinking you’re about to be more tempted than you realize.”

John’s eyes light with amusement. “I’m not going to cave, Button.”

“We’ll see.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

JOHN

I WAKE up with the lyrics to “Suddenly Stella” tripping around in my brain. Like most of my best work, the song isn’t planned, it simply pops up and takes residence in my mind. I write down several verses while I drink my morning tea, then I’m headed out to meet my muse.

She greets me with a smile, her hair glowing like a sunset around her pretty face. “Have you had breakfast?”

“Just a cup of tea.”

She hooks her arm through mine. “Come on then, Englishman in New York.”

“Where are we going?” Today, Stella is showing me a bit of her world. I admit, I’m curious as hell. Sure, we seem to bump into each other at an alarming rate, but I don’t know everything she does. I don’t know how she views life. I’ve only ever looked at the world through my own eyes. Never cared to do more … until Stella.

“Everywhere,” she says.

It quickly becomes apparent that Stella doesn’t simply live in Manhattan, she’s a part of it. I’ve lived on this island on and o my whole life, but I’ve never inhabited it the way Stella does. First o , everyone knows her. We step into a bagel shop, and two guys behind the counter immediately holler “Stella!” like a couple of lovelorn Marlon Brandos.

She greets them, cheeky as always. “Tony. Murray.

Looking good, boys.”

Actually, they look like walking adverts for mustache wax or spokesmen for hipster craft beers, the type that tastes of chocolate and acacia berries or some fussy shit.

Tony, a muscle-bound Italian with a walrus mustache, serenades her with a truly awful rendition of “There She Goes” by The La’s, while Stella cringes and laughs. The place is packed, and while we wait our turn, people glance at Stella, clearly wondering who she is. I’m standing right next to her, and not one person looks my way. It’s fucking grand.

We get to the counter and the wiry, bushy-bearded Murray asks if she wants the usual.

Stella glances at me. “You have an order in mind?”

“What’s the usual?”

Her smile is coy. “You’ll just have to see if you pick that one.”

Worst-case scenario, I’ll hate it and find something else to eat later. But considering our eerie similarities in taste, I doubt that. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Two, Marco. And co ee.” Another glance at me, and I nod. “Make that three co ees.”

Murray shakes his head in resignation. “You’re too good, kid.”

“A regular saint,” she deadpans but doesn’t appear o ended.

“Three?” I murmur as Murray goes o to get her order.

“How thirsty are you?”

“The third isn’t for us,” she says before Tony comes over to talk her ear o . He tells her about his wife, Glory, who’s having their second kid any day now. He shakes my hand when Stella introduces me as her friend John. And then he’s back to asking her if she liked his recipe for minestrone.

“Bet it’s not as good as my apple cake recipe,” Murray says, handing over our order. While Stella grapples with the co ee, I take the bag of food and pay him. She shoots me a repressive look that I meet with a shrug. I was raised to pay for my date. I’m not sure if that’s sexist, since I’d do it if I were into dudes as well.

“They complemented each other,” she says diplomatically. “Soup for dinner. Cake for dessert.”

They’re too busy to chat anymore, and wave us goodbye.

“We can eat this at Union Square Park,” she says outside.

“It’s two blocks away.”

“You going to tell me what your usual is?”

She grins wide. “An everything bagel with herb cream cheese and smoked sturgeon lox.”

My stride stutters. “Stells, our breath is going to scare people.”

A light laugh escapes her. “Good thing we’re not supposed to have sex.”

I give her the side eye. “Kissing, however, was an agreedupon activity, Stella. Be prepared. I will brave the garlic.”

At the entrance to Union Square, she stops next to an old guy who’s busy covering the sidewalk with chalk art. The guy is good, his images lush with vivid color. There are some highly detailed reproductions of old masters—Leonardo, Michelangelo, and next to them, a rhinestone-wearing Elvis and a pouty James Dean.

The artist looks up and gives Stella a toothy grin. “Star Girl.”

“Ramon. Thought you might like a little ca eine.” She hands him a cup of co ee.

“You’re an angel,” he says before taking a sip.

“I thought I was Star Girl,” she says.

“All Star Girls are angels,” Ramon insists. “I’m gonna do your portrait now.”

“I’ll come back later and see,” she promises.

With a nod, we’re o again.

“That guy is good,” I tell her.

“He is.” A wrinkle gathers between her brows. “But he’s in his own world. Sometimes he’s lucid, sometimes he’s not.

He forgets to take care of himself, so people around the neighborhood help him out when they can.”

Not just people—Stella.

“You really do look out for everyone, don’t you?” I admire the hell out of her for it.

But she clearly doesn’t like the attention. Her frown grows as her cheeks pink. “It’s not … I just … No one took care of me unless I asked for it, and I remember how that felt. If I see someone who needs help, I just … act.”

I sling my arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to the top of her head. “That’s what makes you Star Girl.”

We eat on a bench under the trees. Our bagels are still warm and soft. “This is ridiculously good,” I say around a mouthful. “Garlicky as hell, but good.”

Her eyes light up, her cheeks stu ed with food that makes her look like a chipmunk. “Told you.”

She swallows, licking an errant dab of cream cheese o her lip, and grins like a kid in summer. I lean over the mess of co ee cups and sandwiches and kiss her. A squeal of protest vibrates against my lips, and I smile, not moving away.

“John,” she protests again, her mouth on mine, “I stink.”

“I warned you.” I nip her bottom lip, then suckle it. “A little garlic isn’t going to put me o .”

She doesn’t stink, though. Maybe it’s that old adage that people eating the same thing don’t notice. Or maybe I just want to kiss her more than anything else. But she simply tastes of Stella, buttery sweet like to ee on my tongue. Her mouth softens, and she leans into me, her fingers gripping my shoulder, tracing the edge of my collar. I feel that touch at the base of my spine.

We kiss under the sun, our lips learning each other’s.

Weirdly, we’re both sort of laughing little hu s of breath between kisses. I don’t even realize we’re swaying until we almost topple.

My arm shoots out to brace us, while the other wraps around Stella’s shoulder to haul her against me. She snickers, and I press my lips to her smiling mouth one last time. “You make me dizzy, Star Girl.”

Blue eyes shine up at me. “That’s Star Lord to you.”

“Don’t mess with my Marvel idols, Button. It would be all kinds of wrong to associate you with Peter Quill. Some things are sacred.”

Stella shakes her head with amusement, but then her attention snags on the surrounding park and she sits a little straighter. “You make me forget where I am.”

She doesn’t blush, but her shoulders hunch a little like she’s trying to make herself smaller, and it hits me that she’s embarrassed. Though I really want to, I don’t touch her again. “You not into public displays of a ection?”

Her mouth quirks. “I’m not sure.” She shakes her head slightly, biting the corner of her lip. “I’ve never done it before. Have you?”

Public displays? Yeah. A lot of my sexual encounters were out in the open. Blow jobs in the after-party room, quickies in the hall, group sex in hotel suites. I shift in my seat, the hardwood bench suddenly really fucking uncomfortable. I’m not exactly ashamed of what I’ve done in the past. But to equate that to what I’m doing with Stella feels all sorts of wrong.

She’s watching me carefully, and her smile grows crooked. “By the expression on your face, I’m guessing you have.”

I clear my throat. “Actually, I’m haven’t.” When her brow quirks in disbelief, I hold her eyes with mine. “There’s never been any a ection involved before.”

Funny how that makes it harder to bear. For both of us, apparently. Because we both look o , each of us suddenly way too interested in what’s going on in the park. I take a hasty sip of my co ee. It’s a flat white, creamy and too hot to

drink fast. The tip of my tongue smarts in the ensuing silence.

Stella takes another bite of her sandwich, then eyes me thoughtfully. “I like kissing you. In private or public, it doesn’t matter.”

Warmth spreads over my chest in a slow-moving spill, and I smile.

“But I draw the line at copping a feel of my boobs. That’s private-time fun,” she finishes with a blunt practicality that has me laughing.

“Noted.”

We finish our food, and then Stella takes me walking down Broadway into SoHo. Again, I experience the strange phenomena of not being recognized, and I don’t think it’s due to me wearing a ball cap low over my brow. It’s Stella, who shines like a star. Shopgirls know her, guys selling watches on the corner know her. A man named Amin tosses her an icy bottle of water when we pass his bodega. He won’t take any cash for it. Stella, after all, helped him find his missing cat one day.

“Forget Star Girl, you’re the Queen of Manhattan,” I say after she takes a drink of her water.

Stella snorts. “You live someplace long enough, you get to know people.”

“I don’t think so.” I shake my head, taking in the cinnamon sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the way her penny-bright curls bounce with each step she takes. How can I not write a song about her? She is poetry made flesh and bone. “I’ve lived here on and o my whole life and I don’t know anyone the way you do.”

“You know Sam.” “Who sells guitars. I don’t interact with anyone outside the music business.” I glance at her, not wanting to see pity in her eyes. But she simply walks along, her expression thoughtful, and I try to better explain myself.

“It’s not that I don’t like people. I meet hundreds of them in any given year. I’ve just never been particularly able to initiate a conversation.” It’s a bloody miracle that I couldn’t keep from teasing Stella all those times.

“You’re an introvert who’s also a rock star.” A grin flashes in her eyes. “That’s it. You come alive during the performance, but when it’s over, you want your alone time.”

I think about it for a second and snort. “It’s true. God, what a profession for an introvert to pick.”

“Would you choose something else if you could?” She sounds genuinely interested.

“No.” I don’t even hesitate. “I love it. Even with all the pitfalls, I love it with all I have.” Our hands find each other’s and I thread my fingers through hers. “I miss performing for the fun of it, though. The simple joy of making music. All the guys lost it when I …” I take a slow breath. “Anyway, it was like a skip in a record, knocking us all o track. But they got it back. Except for me.”

Her blue eyes cloud. “What do you mean?”

“I’m faking it these days, Stells. I go on that stage and it feels like an echo of me. I experience it as if from far away.

Sometimes, I think about those early days, when we’d have to cajole a club owner to let us play and be damn thankful when one finally agreed.” My mouth quirks at old memories.

“When we were really new, and really terrible, there were

times we’d go and play on the sidewalk, just so someone other than our friends could hear us. I was hopeful back then. Music was my air, not the water rising over me.”

I don’t know why I’m unloading on her, only that it feels good to talk to someone outside the band, someone I’m not paying to listen to me. It occurs to me that Stella is the only true connection I’ve made with someone in my adult life who is solely for me. I don’t know whether that’s fucked up or we’re all living in these isolated social bubbles, but I like it. I look at her now, not finding any pity, just acknowledgment.

“I want to breathe freely again, Button. Does that make any sense?”

Her nose wrinkles as she stares o , contemplating. “I think at some point, we all start feeling that water closing in.

We all want that air.”

“You choking too?” I ask softly.

Absently, she nods. “Some days.” A gust of wind blows down the avenue, tossing her air about her face, and I realize we’re standing still while people on the sidewalk rush past, flowing around us as though we are rocks in a river.

Stella tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “When’s the last time you performed just for the music?”

“When I played for you at Sam’s shop.” That didn’t exactly end well, and we both know it.

She hums thoughtfully. “I think you need to do it again.

Let’s go.”

“Wait, where?” There’s a light in her eyes; she’s plotting things. Stella kind of things.

She squeezes my hand. “You’ll see.”

“Last time I heard those words with that tone, Rye got us all drunk and convinced us that it was a great idea to shave our pubes.”

Stella misses a step, almost stumbling o the curb. I haul her against me, wrapping my arm around her waist. She laughs up at me, the sound short and shocked. “All o ?”

“Yep. Itched like fuck growing back,” I grumble, fighting a smile. I’d blame that one on the ignorance of youth but it was only three years ago.

“Welcome to the world of women’s problems,” Stella deadpans. “Talk to me after you’ve tried a Brazilian wax.”

It’s my turn to nearly stumble.

“Stop gaping like a fish,” she says with another laugh.

“Come on, we’ve got to get going.”

“Wait. Can we talk about your adventures in waxing? Or maybe give me the rundown on what you’re doing these days?”

Sadly, she keeps walking, leaving me to follow.

W E END up in Battery Park, and when Stella stops near a group of young and ragtag musicians busking, I start to get the idea. And take a huge step back. “Nope. No way, Button.”

Her eyes are wide and innocent. An excellent farce. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I know your evil little mind better than you think. You want me to busk with them, don’t you?”

She blinks, her lips parting in surprise. “Okay, you’re good.”

I snort. “Like I said, I know you.”

Hot color washes over her cheeks. “Damn, already predictable.”

“Like hell. You surprise me all the time. It gets me hot.”

She blushes a deeper shade of pink but then shakes o my sad attempt at distraction and tugs at my sleeve with renewed determination. “These kids are here every weekend and never get any money.”

“Because they stink.” When she glares, I hold up a hand.

“Come on, you have ears. They’re horrible. No use sugarcoating it.”

“I know they’re horrible. But you aren’t.”

“And, what? I’m supposed to go over there and say, hey, can I borrow your gear and upstage you with my professional licks?” I make a face. “I’ll come o as a complete wanker.”

Stella’s grip on my wrist is firm, as if she thinks I’m going to turn and run. I might. I just might. But it’s kind of cute that she thinks she can hold me back; I’ll just put her over my shoulder and take her with me.

“Okay,” she says, “maybe it’s a stupid idea—don’t agree yet. Hear me out.”

“Wasn’t going to say a thing,” I lie.

“If you go over there and o er to play with them, maybe sing a few songs, you have no idea how it will go.”

“I have ideas,” I mutter. “None of them are good.”

“But you don’t know,” she says emphatically. “It isn’t planned like your gigs. It isn’t safe. You go over there and you’re on your own without a net.”

I study the teens playing. They’re attempting a Lincoln Park song. It’s painful to hear. They know how to play, just