My face goes hot, and I look away, pretend I’m inspecting the road. “We could have walked around the puddle.”

I don’t think I fool him for a second.

“It would have taken too long. And this way, I get to carry you.” He winks in that cheeky way of his.

I have no idea why he’d want to, but I’m afraid to ask. Being held by him is strange enough as it is. But it feels good. Really freaking good. I have visions of him carrying me around from now on. John Blackwood: my new mode of transportation.

“The last time someone carried me, I was ten,” I murmur.

He steps seem to slow as he looks me over, his gaze like a hot stroke on my skin. The smile that pulls at the edges of his lips is gentle. “Ah, honey, with those big baby-doll eyes and little freckles, sometimes you do look like a kid.”

A huff of irritation blows from my lips, and I start to wiggle. He grips me tighter as his glances down to at breasts. His smile grows wider. “But you’re all woman, aren’t you, Stella Button?”

“Oh, let me down,” I snap, flushed and annoyed. “I don’t care if my feet get wet. I’m not listening to this hackneyed flirting—”

He puts me down abruptly, and I utter an inelegant “Oof!”

“There you are,” he says happily. “All safe and dry.”

I straighten my shirt. “Ass.”

He snickers, pleased with himself. “You really are easy to annoy.”

“You’re the only person who annoys me.”

Although it’s not completely true. He only annoys me some of the time. Mostly, he’s surprisingly charming.

John runs the tip of his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “Aren’t I the lucky one?”

He actually sounds like he believes that. A smile tugs at my lips. He’s soaked all the way up to his ankles, his once white Vans now a murky gray. That can’t be comfortable. And he did it for me. Not just charming, but kind too.

We’re at the closest subway exit now. And I glance toward it. “I’m headed home.” I want to ask if he’s going there too but don’t.

John glances in the other direction. “I’m going to that guitar shop over there.”

If he hadn’t pointed it out, I would have missed it. The place doesn’t have a sign, and the plate glass window is grimy and almost completely covered by old concert posters.

“Ah. Well … happy shopping.” That’s my cue to go. I don’t move.

Neither does he.

We stare at each other.

He bites the corner of his bottom lip. “Want to come along?”

A happy jolt goes through me. Down, girl. Resist. Don’t follow him like a puppy.

My mouth doesn’t get the memo, because it’s open and speaking before I can shut it. “Okay, sure.”

John

* * *

What am I doing here with Stella?

I’m not sure. I mean, yeah, I know I invited her to come with me to my favorite guitar store in New York. I just don’t know why.

Liar. You know why. You like her.

Fuck. I do. She makes me laugh, and she’s just so strange. In a good way. Like an Escher drawing, surreal and a little disorienting but you want to keep looking because you know you’ll discover something new. Who the fuck is Bradley to her? Why do I have a bad feeling I won’t like the answer?

I shake my head at myself as we walk toward the shop. Not my business. We’re not even friends, just neighbors who bicker and flirt. Even so, instinct has me placing my hand on Stella’s lower back. I feel the heat of her through her clothes.

She’s wearing a long white blouse under a tight black sweater, paired with a flippy black skirt that makes her look like some sort of sexpot version of a schoolgirl. Totally works for me. Maybe too much. Stella might be short, but her legs are strong and curvy. God, she’s wearing pale gray knee-highs. Fucking knee-highs? Has she any clue what that does to a guy?

It takes me right back to public school days in England where my number one objective was to find my way into a girl’s knickers. Without thought, I trace my fingers down the narrow curve of her back, and she shivers. My dick stirs, waking from a long sleep.

Not good. Needy dick is under house arrest.

I drop my hand.

Sam is, as always, in his battered red leather recliner by window. Surrounded by guitars hanging on the walls, propped in stands, and tucked away in cases, he appears almost a shepherd tending his flock of instruments. He doesn’t look up from the latest edition of Guitarist, but calmly sips a mug of what I know is herbal tea.

“Jax,” he says, flipping a page. “Was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Looking well rested, Sam.” In truth, Sam looks a hell of a lot like the late, great BB King. His talent is pretty close to the master’s as well. But Sam plays for himself, not a crowd. “Got something for you.”

He sets down his magazine. “Introduce me to your lovely friend first.”

Something I’d been about to do, damn it. I hold a hand out toward Stella, who is hovering by the door, her big eyes taking in the organized chaos. “Stella Grey, this is Sam Absolom.”

For this, Sam stands. “How do you do, Ms. Grey?”

She shakes his hand. “Very well, Mr. Absolom.”

“Pfft. I’m Sam. Don’t know why Jax felt the need to be so formal.”

Stella smiles, and it hits me that she’s always smiling. Not because she’s forcing it but it’s simply her natural inclination to be sunny. For someone who slips into the dark far too often, her glowing warmth is a beacon. I ease closer. “I was being polite.”

Sam pffts again. “Now show me what you got.”

Demanding bugger. I love the guy. “Here.” I pull a small pack of guitar picks from my pocket. My thumbprint has been inked on the back of each. “As promised.”

Sam gladly takes them and sets the pack behind the counter. “Have a lot of young ones asking for these.”

Which is why I did it. I remember the first time I entered this store. Sam let me touch one of Kurt Cobain’s smashed guitars, nicely framed and waiting for a wealthy customer to pick it up. I’d felt like I was connected to a piece of immortality. I still feel that way sometimes; one day I’ll be bones and ashes, but my music will live on.

Sam takes Stella’s elbow and guides her around the room, pointing out various guitars and telling her the pros and cons of each.

Stella takes it in with wide eyes and pink lips softly parted. “They’re all beautiful.”

“That they are.” Sam’s knobby fingers trail over the sweet curve of a Gibson Acoustic Hummingbird. “Which one is your favorite?”

“Oh …” She spins in a circle, her arms spread wide. “All of them.”

Sam laughs. And like that, he’s charmed. The sucker. “Have you ever played?”

I want to know too.

Stella flushes prettily. “I tried once. I’m ashamed to say the strings hurt my fingers too much to continue.”

Now, if it were anyone else, I’m fairly certain she’d be getting a lecture on fortitude and working through the pain, but Sam—the old dog—merely nods in understanding. “Have to be bit by the bug or it doesn’t work.”

Oddly, Stella appears to exactly what he’s talking about. “Some things are like that.”

“What made you want to try, though?” I ask, unable to keep quiet. My voice seems to startle them both, as if they’d forgotten I was there.