Fall (VIP #3)(24)

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.