Fall (VIP #3)(49)

“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.