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  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 offering 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 coffee 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 offered 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 off 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 different 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 stiff 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 different 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 off” 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 off 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 low-level 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 off. 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.”