Stella straightens, her blunt nose wrinkling. She hesitates.

“Was it a song?” I ask. “A certain player you admired?” Me? One can hope.

“You’re going to laugh,” she says, eyeing me like I’m waiting to pounce.

“I’m not going to laugh.” I scratch the stubble on my chin. “Well, maybe.”

Stella glares, but Sam cuts in. “Nobody judges musical tastes here.”

“Jax does,” she says somewhat petulantly. It’s weird hearing her say my stage name. I can’t really call it a stage name at this point either. Everyone calls me Jax. I only hear the name John if one of the guys or Brenna is pissed at me. I’ve been Jax so long, the name John is barely me anymore. But for reasons I don’t fully understand, I prefer to hear it from her lips.

“Jax has to be a snob,” Sam says, cutting into my thoughts. “He’s English.”

“It’s a badge of distinction,” I tease. “Now tell us your dark secrets, Stella Button.” I want them all. What the hell? Why? Why should I even care?

Not seeing my frown of confusion, Stella sighs. “Okay. I was sixteen and went with some friends to see a re-showing of Pulp Fiction at one of those big theaters.” Already, I’m perking up, a grin pulling at my lips, because I know what she’s going to say. Her blush is freaking adorable. “And there was that guitar piece by—”

“Dick Dale,” Sam and I say in unison.

“‘Misirlou.’” I press a hand to my heart. “A brilliant classic.”

Stella appears relieved that we approve. Though, honestly, if she’d thrown out some garbage song, I wouldn’t have said a word. Despite my teasing, Sam is right; there is no judging here. “It was just so fast and free,” she says. “I wanted to feel that free.”

Why did she? Why are there shadows in her eyes when she says it? Absently, I scratch my chest where the skin has gone hot and tight. My interest in this girl is getting out of hand. I am cool and collected, an iceberg, remote and alone.

Ah, hell, even I can’t swallow that tripe.

“Are you okay?” Stella asks, peering at me as though she sees far too much.

“I’m fine.” I glare back, hoping to throw her off. “Why?”

She shrugs. “You kind of look like you had indigestion.” Sam snickers while Stella smiles, all Ms. Innocent Helper. “I was going to offer you an antacid.”

“Cute,” I mutter. “My stomach is right as rain, Button. But the minute I feel a rumble, I’ll let you know.”

Her lips press tight, and I can’t tell if she’s fighting a laugh or if she’s annoyed. Probably both.

I break our silence by turning toward Sam. “You have the strings?” I’d almost forgotten why I was here in the first place.

“Sure do.” He heads to the back of the store, leaving Stella and me alone.

“Sam is awesome,” Stella says. “I’m going to ask him if he wants to be on my sandwich rotation.”

“Sandwich rotation?”

She studies a Whammy pedal sitting on the counter. “Some people don’t like leaving their shops for lunch. So I bring them a sandwich.”

I know I’m staring. I can’t help it. I haven’t met anyone like this woman. Never met anyone so dedicated to making others feel better just by offering simple things. “Who are you?”

She frowns as if I’m off my nut. I’m beginning to think I am with her.

“I’m Stella Grey,” she says simply.

Shaking my head, I give her a wry look. “You are a remarkable woman, you know that?”

Her cheeks pink. “Aren’t all women?”

“Not the way you are.” Not to me, at any rate. I love women and live in awe over their strength and cleverness, but none of them fascinate me the way Stella does. I could spend all day happily waiting to hear what she says next. A warning voice in the back of my mind says I should probably be concerned about this, but I ignore it in favor of watching her blush. Such a lovely clash of pinks and reds.

Sam comes out from the back holding a black-and-white 1976 Fender Strat with a maple neck. “Got something for you. David said you’d asked about it.”

“Holy shit,” I breathe. “Tell me we’re talking about the same David.”

“You know it.” Sam hands me the guitar. “Signed the back.”

Sure enough, there’s a signature on the back, made out to me.

Stella watches us with wide eyes, clearly out of her element. “Who is David?”

I heft the wide-body guitar in my hand before settling it on my lap. “You might know him as U2’s lead guitarist. We hung out a few times, talked about exchanging guitars.” I test the strings and make a small tuning adjustment. “Thought it was one of those things you say off the cuff, you know?” Looks like I’m going to have to pick out something nice to send to him. Totally fucking worth it.

“Are you in love?” she asks with a soft smile.

I return it. “Right now, it’s more like lust. I’ll have to get to know her to see if it turns into love.”

Stella makes a noise of amusement, and I plug the Strat into an amp. The low-level hum kicks straight into my chest. Mostly, I’m known as the lead singer for Kill John. When the guys and I formed the band, someone had to take point on songs. I had the strongest voice—though Killian is no slouch and does his fair share of singing. More importantly though, I had the biggest ego. I’d lived for the limelight, while Killian preferred to hang back. But my love of music started with the guitar, and I will always consider myself a guitarist first.

“You ready for me, honey?” I murmur to the guitar. She hums in my hand, waiting to come alive. I glance up at Stella. “What do you want me to play?”

Her denim eyes go wide, her pink lips parting in surprise. I have the insane urge to bend close and kiss them. I imagine the taste of chocolate mint on her tongue. Stella nibbles on her lower lip, and I hold in a grunt. Get a guitar in my hand and my mind immediately goes to sex. The two are forever linked. Which sucks for me since I’m on bread and water when it comes to fucking.

Iceberg, man. Be the iceberg.

“One of yours,” she says, thankfully cutting into my straying thoughts.

I shake my head. “Feels too pretentious.”

Stella snorts. “You’re a gifted musician. It is not pretentious to play your music.”

How can I explain that playing something of mine right now hurts too much? My music is my soul. Playing it to nameless thousands isn’t real to me. Playing for this woman who sees far too much already? I might as well open a vein.

I shrug. “Even so, pick something else.”

Her little nose wrinkles as she considers her options. “You’re saying that used to be The Edge’s guitar?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Even though I can’t fully expose my soul, I want to play for Stella, show her what I can do. She’s heard me play before but that wasn’t for her. And she’d been annoyed. This will be pure. A gift, even though she won’t realize it.

“I think you should play a U2 song, then,” she says.

“Excellent decision. What song?”

Her smile is the sun breaking through the clouds. “I leave that to you.”

Even though I asked her to pick, the fact that she put the choice back in my hands and trusts me to give her something good, makes my chest go uncomfortably tight. I run my hand over the gentle curve along the edge of the Strat, the wood like silk against my palm.