The surprise is the way Isa is curled into him, her lithe, toned body practically leaning on his. Oh, God, she’s touching his hair, gently teasing the tips as he smiles at her with a stupid, fucking hazy-eyed grin. “Do you really think I’m beautiful?” she asks in soft wonder. “I’m so old.”

“You’re not old,” he murmurs. “Any man would be thankful to have you.”

I don’t hear the rest of what he says, my ears are ringing too hard. My fingers have turned to ice. Jealousy, disgust, rage, disappointment…it’s an oily stew in my gut. I swallow thickly, feeling sick. I watch in mute horror as Rye’s words are cut off by my aunt’s mouth. He makes a noise of what I can only guess as lust as she wraps herself around him and kisses him like he’s…

With a muffled sob, I wrench myself away and rush back down the corridor. I hate him. He has no shame. No honor. He’s kissing my aunt, his best friend and bandmate’s mom.

The memory tears away like a bandage ripped off too fast. I take a deep breath to clear my head. But the feeling of that day lingers with sticky fingers.

Eventually, I let go of what I saw. The health of the band depended on maintaining the status quo. But it broke my trust in Rye. From that day on, I never let him see my deeper emotions. I never let him in the way I let the others. Now he wants in, deep in. Moreover, he wants my trust. I don’t know if I can give him that, no matter how tempted I am.

I grab the milk and hot water bottle and head for my room. I no longer feel empty and sad. But I still feel alone. And unnerved.

Chapter Five

Brenna

 

Killian’s loft is filled to capacity, the air humid with the warmth of too many humans and the mingling scents of dozens of perfumes. Usually, these parties are exhausting. But these are our closest friends, fellow musicians, people we’ve met along the way. No one here is worried about being seen or who they should see. They’re just having fun. Sophie, Jax, Libby, and I worked hard to make it that way, only inviting people we knew would get along.

Though Jax is more of a homebody nowadays, he insisted on having a birthday party for Stella. She spent years as a professional friend—yes, there really is such a thing—but never had any true friendships of her own until Jax came into her life. Add a shitty, neglectful father to the mix, and it meant that Stella never had any birthday parties. Jax wants to give that to her.

“She needs to see how much she is loved,” he’d said.

I know for a fact Stella understands how much she’s loved. Jax shows her every day. My cagey, allergic-to-relationships friend has done a complete turnaround to devoted boyfriend.

On the patio, Jax and Stella dance to The Smiths’ “How Soon is Now?” There’s an inside story to that, I’m certain. Jax requested the song personally, and they’re sharing a look that speaks of intimate connection. Watching them bump and sway, so close they appear as one, both pinches at my chest with undefined longing and makes it swell with happiness for them.

I turn from the scene and head for the bar where Scottie is making drinks. What few people know is that he tended bar in the early days to keep himself fed and make connections for the band. He’d never been a chatty bartender, but people loved him—maybe because of that. Okay, and probably because he looks like a walking cologne ad. Doesn’t hurt that he concocts excellent drinks, when so inclined.

He sees me coming and pulls out a bottle of high-end vodka from some hiding place beneath the bar. By the time I lean against the gleaming black marble bar, he’s setting out an icy vodka tonic with peels of lime, lemon, and grapefruit twisted together in an artful multicolored swirl.

I take a sip and close my eyes for a second. “Despite what I tell the others, you are my favorite friend.”

“Obviously,” he says with utter sincerity as he fixes himself a Manhattan with quick and precise moves. Impeccably dressed in a dove-gray bespoke suit and more beautiful than a man has a right to be, he really is something to watch in action. I’m tempted to throw down a tip.

“This is where you say I am your favorite too.” I take another sip.

The barest smile curls the corner of his lip. “My dear, there was never any question.”

“That’s not a real answer, handsome.” Truth is, neither of us is very good at playing favorites, although we’ve tried throughout the years. I settle on a stool with a sigh, and Scottie leans a hip against the bar.

His cool blue eyes study me, and I resist the urge to squirm. “Should I be concerned?”

For a hot moment, I fear he knows about Rye’s proposal. But Scottie is the last person Rye would confess to, and if the others knew, they’d have already teased. No, Scottie simply knows me well enough that he’s noticed something is off. This is the problem with being too close to a group of people. Pretty soon, I’ll be facing a group intervention, and I’ll have to run off to Tibet just to get away from all the meddling.

“You needn’t,” I say with forced lightness.

“Hmmm.” His eyes squint as he surveys the party and takes a drink of his cocktail. When he looks my way, worry laces his expression. “Whatever it is, I am here for you.”

God. He’s going to make me cry. My throat clogs, and I hide my distress behind a long swallow. Vodka shoots into my system and warms it up. “Some problems,” I say when I’m certain I won’t sound like a frog, “friends cannot fix.”

His stern countenance smooths out. “Ah. It’s like that, is it?”

“Like what?” I huff out a laugh. “I haven’t said anything.”

“Of course you have. You see your friends settling down. And now you’re thinking about your own love life.”

“Oh my God. Stop.” How the hell does he do that?

“There’s no need to feel ashamed.”

“I’m not ashamed.”

His black brow quirks. “Your blush tells me otherwise.”

Curse my pale hide. “Is this your bartender shtick?”

“Shtick? What do you mean?”

“Ten years of living on and off in New York and you don’t know what ‘shtick’ means,” I mutter. “Are you the counseling bartender now?”

His smile is quick and ruthless. “Actually, I was thinking this was more the role of a shadchan.”

“A what?” And then it hits me that he’s used a Yiddish word—one I don’t know. The little shit has been playing me.

Lips twitching, he leans closer. “There’s someone I think you should meet.”

“Oh, hell.” Horror threatens to swallow me whole. “You’re matchmaking?”

Scottie winces at my screech. “I wouldn’t normally, but I believe you two would hit it off.”

“Kill me now,” I mutter. “Just kill me and feed my body to the wolves.”

“I believe you mean to the hyenas. They prefer carrion.”

“Scottie,” I grind out. “I’m about ten seconds away from killing you.”

His eyes gleam with evil mischief. “Make up your mind, Ms. James. Is it you or I who should be murdered?”

An arm brushes against mine. “Why are you guys talking about murder?” Rye asks with an amused laugh.