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  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 off 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

  Sometimes 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 offer 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 offer Richard a bright smile and accept the glass of champagne he offers. 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 different. 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 staff 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 difficult 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 offered 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 cuff 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 fluffy 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 difficulty, 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 stiffens. Fuck it. I’m not explaining anything.

  He holds my gaze. “Hey, Stella.”

  The soft way he says my name catches me off 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 off. 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 stiff 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.