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  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

  An 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 off 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 off 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 off 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 off, 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 stiffness 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 off, 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 difference 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 turnoff 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 las
t 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 coffee 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 difference. 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?”