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  “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 off, 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 sniff, 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 offer, 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.

  * * *

  John

  “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 offerings. “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 different 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 stiff 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.” Sc
ottie 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 staff 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?”