My smile sneaks out, but I don’t say anything. I’m not that easy.

He grunts in clear annoyance. “Stop avoiding the question, Button.”

“Was there a question? I must have missed it in all the Barry excitement.”

“There was.”

“Really? All I heard was ‘Back to this Barry business.’”

I can feel him rolling his eyes, even though I keep mine on the street in front of us.

“Smartass,” he mutters before clearing his throat and talking to me in a crisp English accent that rivals Mr. Scott’s. “Ms. Grey, I have been meaning to inquire. What is the nature of your relationship with Bradley, the forensic accountant?”

I can’t help laughing. “You sound like a professor.”

His grin is a quick flash of teeth. “I was channeling my father, actually. Something I try to avoid when I can help it.” He tips his chin in my direction. “Well, then? Answer the question.”

“Yeah … No comment.”

John halts, his mouth dropping open in clear outrage. “You can’t say that!”

“Of course I can,” I toss over my shoulder. “It’s none of your business.”

He starts moving again, taking two long steps to reach me. “Come on. What gives, Stella? Bradley said you were worth every penny. And he isn’t the only old guy I’ve seen you with.”

It’s my turn to halt. “What? When? Are you following me?”

“See, that was three questions,” he says smugly. “And I bet you want them answered, don’t you?”

I step into his space and poke his chest. “Talk, you.”

John grabs my poking finger and deftly links his hand with mine, holding them close to his stomach. My knuckles brush against the hard wall of his abs, and heat dances up my inner thighs. Flushed, I yank away, but it doesn’t kill his smug smile. “Two days ago, Madison Square Park. You were eating at Shake Shack with some older, nervous dude, and you were doing most of the talking, I’ll add.”

He’d seen me with Todd? And I hadn’t noticed?

Uncomfortable heat washes over my face. “Jesus. You were spying on me. What the hell, John?”

His eyes narrow. “Hey, I was sitting two tables over, minding my business and drinking a coffee shake. You’re kind of loud, you know.”

“And what the hell were you doing there at the same time I was? At the same time today too? Suspect.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” He waves a lazy hand. “I admit we have a freakish timing thing going on. And believe me, I’m disturbed too, but I’m not following you. I’ve better things to do.”

“Like eat alone?” As soon as I say it, I’m sorry.

John barely reacts, which is worse. He shuts down, going blank. “Yeah, eating alone,” he responds thickly but without heat. His meaning is perfectly clear; eating by himself ranks higher than doing anything with me.

Inwardly, I wince, but I’d been shitty to him too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did.” His tone is lighter, his mouth twitching as if fighting a smile. And I realize that John isn’t one to hold grudges. A lot of people claim that they let things go, but few do. Hell, I rarely do.

“Well, I didn’t mean it as an insult,” I clarify. “I eat alone too.”

“When?” he asks, peering at me with suspicion in his green eyes. “Because there seems to be a pattern here.”

“Two men do not make a pattern.”

John stares as if I’m full of it. Which I am.

“Maybe I like older men. So what?”

He snorts. “Older men who have money to pay.”

Shit nuggets. My thighs quiver with the urge to run away. I hold steady. “What are you implying?”

John looks up and down the street before leaning close. His voice is a warm rumble at my ear. “Are you an escort?”

He might as well have slapped me. I rear back with a gasp, feeling oddly exposed. Is this why he’s been talking to me? Some morbid curiosity about what my profession might be? Those stars in my eyes? Gone. Any semblance of happy thoughts I had in regard to my new neighbor? Up in flames of hellfire.

John’s brow knits as his gaze moves over my face. But he doesn’t appear repentant, just impatient.

“Did you just ask if I am a whore?” My voice echoes over the street, and a man walking his dog turns his head toward us.

John ignores everything but me. “Not a whore. An escort. They don’t sleep with all their clients. Just ones of their picking.”

Rage vibrates through my bones. “I … You … I …”

“You and me …” He waves a hand. “Spit it out, Stells.”

“Fuck you!” I blurt with heat. “Fuck you with a swizzle stick.”

John glares, his cheeks turning red. “You don’t have to be rude.”

“I’m rude?” I practically choke on my shock. “I’m rude? You’re accusing me of being a prostitute.” The worst of it? I feel ashamed. And I have no reason to be. None at all. I’m not an escort, and even if I were, that would be my business, not his. But that’s what his words have done to me just the same.

“You wouldn’t be the first one. It’s the world’s oldest profession,” he says, as though he’s telling me something I don’t know.

I pull myself up to my full height. “You know what? We’re done.”

I turn and march away.

Of course, the ass-nugget follows.

“Oh, come on. What else am I supposed to think?” He waves a hand wildly. “You’re hanging out with goofy old dudes who say you’re worth every penny and want another go.”

I pick up my pace. “I could be teaching them to knit!”

“I’ve yet to see a knitting needle make an appearance.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’ll only stick you someplace rude.”

“Kinky. But it still doesn’t explain the dudes.”

“I could be teaching them yoga, or how to dance. Anything.” I glare up at John as I stride along. “Anything other than fucking them for money!”

His blush deepens. “Geesh. Okay. I get it. Fucking for money is a no-go.”

I snort and shove him away. Or try to; the oaf is too strong to budge. “Stop following me,” I hiss, headed for the subway.

“We live in the same building.”

I halt and he does too. He’s tall enough that he blocks out the hazy white sky as he looks down at me, perplexed.

“Listen, dickwad.” I punch his stomach for emphasis. It’s like hitting a warm wall, damn it. “When I say we’re done, I mean we. Are. Done.” I jab him with every word. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Just forget you know me.”

His expression could only be described as a man pout, his full bottom lip jutting. I have the urge to bite it. Sadly, I can’t decide if I want to bite it in a sexy way or an evil, you will feel my wrath way. Maybe both.

When he talks, his voice is solemn and thoughtful. “I think we should revisit this when you don’t want to tear my dick off or stick knitting needles in odd places.”

“You’ll be waiting a long time, then.” With that, I raise my hand and hail the cab coming down the street. I rush to it and jump in. John watches me with a blank expression as I reach for the door to shut it. I glare. “Oh, and ‘Open Shelter’ is saccharine and sophomoric at best.”