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  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 off 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 sniff. “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 offer. “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 off 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 off avoiding her entirely. My life is too twisted for someone normal like her anyway.

  Chapter Seven

  Stella

  “The 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 efficient. 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.”

  B
radley 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 office 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 stuffed into the pockets of his loose, flat-front chinos. His shirt isn’t tucked in as a typical office 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 difficult 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 affected; 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 off.”

  “Because you were staring at me.”

  “You were staring right back.” He’s near enough now that the heat of his body buffets 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 office 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 off 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 a
t 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 effort to maintain my casual stride. Seriously, how does the man do it? How can a few words and the smooth tenor of his voice affect me so strongly?