I’ve performed for movie stars. I’ve played for royalty, and artists, and for other musicians. There’s never been any hesitation or need to impress. To make music is like breathing. Yet I’m suddenly anxious. I want to do Stella right.

She’s waiting, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining, that gorgeous tumble of red-gold hair surrounding her round face. Did I once think she was plain? I’d been fucking blind.

Shaken, I start to play the first song that comes to mind. I have no idea if she knows the song I’ve chosen, until I glance up and see her face. God, that awe. It’s too much.

I look away, trying to concentrate on playing, when I really I’m hiding. But I don’t stop. I start to sing the lyrics to “All I Want Is You.” It’s one of the first songs I learned. It’s beautiful, haunting, and I’ve always loved it. But it’s never meant anything to me. I won’t let it mean anything now.

I sing and I play, and I let everything else fade. Or I try. But in the back of my mind there is Stella. Stella watching me. Stella hearing my voice, the song of my guitar.

And though I’d only wanted to show her how gorgeous this guitar is, I’d picked a song that’s all about the voice. I can’t hide in this song. Singing it well means letting emotion into the equation.

The constant heaviness within me turns into something thicker, viscous and warm, then tight and thin. Yearning. That’s what this uncomfortable feeling is. Fucking yearning.

I push it into the music, desperate to let it free, get it away from me.

Sweat trickles down my back. My throat burns as I sing about promises made, love that lasts to the grave, and the simple need to love and be loved.

I’m thinking too much, which is never a good thing. Emotion chokes me, clutching my throat and locking down tight. I’m going to be sick. My hand shakes. The next chord is weak, my voice slipping off-key.

I end the song with a garbled sound and face the silence, aware of Stella and Sam staring at me, expecting an explanation. Humiliation prickles along my back.

But then Stella claps. I’m so shocked by the happy sound that my chin jerks up.

She beams at me. “That was brilliant.”

She means it. I don’t know how she missed the utter shittery that was the end. Or maybe she’s ignoring it. Either way, the walls are pressing in on me. My iceberg is crumbling. I need out and away. I need to be alone. There’s a strange safety in solitude.

And maybe that’s why, once I’ve finished my business with Sam and arrange for the Strat to be delivered, I do my very damnedest to drive Stella as far away from me as I can by acting like the biggest douche bomb possible.

Chapter Eight

Stella

* * *

I think I have stars in my eyes. I don’t have a mirror, so I can’t confirm. But I feel them. I know I’m gaping at Jax. I can’t help it. I am starstruck. I have been from the moment he started to play.

“Play” is too weak a word for what he does. He touched his fingers to those guitar strings, opened his mouth, and the world changed. My world changed. Who I was, all my problems, fears, everything dropped away, and there was just sound, music, emotion. His emotion, bittersweet and beautiful and aching.

God, his voice. It isn’t showy or strained. It doesn’t rely on flash to get the message across. It is smooth, deep honey, the caress of tender fingers along the nape of my neck, a flutter of butterflies in my stomach. Jax Blackwood sings like he’s telling you a secret that only you’re worthy of hearing.

When I’d asked him to pick a U2 song, I hadn’t a clue what he would choose. I’d thought maybe something fast and upbeat. Instead, he plays me a love song. His version of “All I Want Is You” is beautiful and painfully filled with desperate yearning. He sings and tears my world open. My heart is an exposed wound, and I have to blink rapidly not to cry.

But he doesn’t even see me. Eyes lowered, the thick fan of his lashes hiding his gaze from mine, he plays with fluid ease and sings about forever.

With each line, every chord, my fingers dig deeper into my thighs, my throat swells tighter.

I love him in that instant. Completely. Painfully. I know it’s an illusion, a testament to the power of his talent. And the moment he stops, I’ll be released from this spell. But it doesn’t make it any less intense.

He gets to the final refrain, his voice growing husky and crying for his love, his fingers flying over the strings, the music getting tighter, faster, more urgent. He’s coming undone. Sweat drips from his brow; the corner of his mouth quivers.

I move to reach for him, but then stop. He’d hate that.

The chords clamor, going off-key, his voice breaking. The final note dies awkwardly, both hanging in the air and somehow abruptly final.

He stands there, no longer Jax, but John, his chest heaving. His hand trembles as he runs his fingers through damp hair and glances wildly around as though seeking escape. I clap because I don’t know what else to do.

He accepts my praise with a tight nod, still not fully looking at me, and then hurries along his purchases with Sam. The guitar will be delivered later. I get the feeling he doesn’t want to touch it just now. He’s still a little shaky when we leave the shop and step out into the crisp air.

John pauses to pull his fake glasses from his pocket and put them on. Another run of his fingers through his hair to tidy it and he’s back to being the hot geek. He shoves his hands in his chino pockets and gives me a benign smile like the whole impromptu concert never happened. “And that was Sam’s Guitar Shop.”

I have no idea why he wants to avoid that incredible display of talent. If I could do what he does, I’d be a musical hussy, performing on every damn street corner at all hours of the day and night. But I play along. “I liked it. Sam too.” I’d forgotten to ask Sam about the sandwiches. I’ll go back on my own later.

“He’s a great guy. Worked with a lot musicians over the years.”

Though his tone remains causal, he’s gone pale around the edge of his mouth, but his stride is missing its usual fluid grace.

We walk a little way in silence. It isn’t comfortable, but I’m not certain what’s wrong. Is he embarrassed? How can he be? He’s a rock star. It’s literally his job to perform. I’m usually much better at reading people and making them comfortable. For shit’s sake, I’m supposed to be a professional. But here I am unable to come up with a single word of meaningless chatter.

John nudges me with his arm. “Back to this Barry business.”

“Barry?” I frown. “Barry White? Barry Manilow?”

He chokes out a laugh. “Those are your first choices for Barry?”

“You think of anyone else when mentioning Barry and music in the same conversation?”

He shrugs. “I’d have gone with Barry Gibb or Barry Bonds.”

“I don’t know who those last two are.”

“A musician and a baseball player—and it hurts that you don’t know their names. But, no, I was not talking about any famous Barry. I meant your date. Barry. The wally who looked like he could be an actuary.”

“It’s Bradley, and he’s a forensic accountant.”

“Ha. I was close.”

“I’ll be sure to remember that when I introduce you as a bassist-playing choir singer one day.”

He nudges me again. “Salty Stella. And to think I walked through dirty water for you.”