“Sounds like you’re the prick in this particular scenario.” With that, he starts to jog.

I easily keep up. “I didn’t mean to be. I have very good reasons for wanting to know.”

“Which are?”

Shit. I don’t want to tell him. I don’t even want to admit it to myself. “She … It’s dangerous meeting up with strange men. She could get hurt.”

He snorts even louder than before. “Try again.”

“I’m a nosy bastard?” It comes out like a question, and I wince.

Scottie slides me a sidelong look. “Yes, but I don’t think that’s why.”

“Fine. I’m a prat, okay?”

He doesn’t disagree.

“Fix it, Jax.” He scowls at the trail before us. “I’m utterly serious. Stella Grey is a sweet girl …”

I snort. Loudly.

“Who deserves respect.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t get anywhere near her at the moment. She’s determined to tear my dick off and give it to Stevens as a toy.”

Scottie’s mouth curls. “I’d pay good money to see that.”

Some friend.

Chapter Nine

Stella

* * *

Sometimes I wonder if there are people who truly enjoy parties. I know there must be; people wouldn’t throw them otherwise. But at some point in every party I’ve been to, a sense of misery always seems to settle over it. As if everyone is trying desperately to convince everyone else that they’re having fun, while on the inside, they’re counting down the minutes until they can leave.

Maybe it’s the parties I go to in New York. Often, it’s for work, and they are an exercise in active voyeurism. I swear, people are more interested in watching than conversing. Which is why I prefer dinner parties where I can eat good food and talk.

Unfortunately, I’m stuck in a penthouse forty floors up and surrounded by people who look as though the lights are on but nobody’s home. And I’m struck by the feeling that we’re all actors on a stage.

“No wonder you asked me to be your date,” I murmur to Richard as we stop by a bar set up before a picture window. “I think you’d be half out of your mind if you had to circulate alone in this crowd.”

He chuckles and tucks me closer to his side. “You know me well, little rose.”

The Frenchman looks like an older, grayer version of Idris Elba and is one of the hottest chefs in Manhattan. He could get any woman he wants to accompany him, but soon after meeting him, I discovered that, outside of the kitchen, he is intensely shy and hates dating. But, like most people, that doesn’t mean he isn’t lonely. That’s where I come in. I can offer Richard companionship without the strings he finds stifling.

Sometimes Richard asks me to meet him at his place to watch TV or a movie. A simple thing that he doesn’t get to do very often but acutely needs in his life. Sometimes, I accompany him to functions he must attend to keep up appearances but doesn’t want to actually talk to many people. At this point, I consider him an actual friend, but Richard insists on paying me for my time regardless.

Even though he tells me it’s because it wouldn’t feel right to take advantage of my time, it chafes a little. I have numerous “friends” I’ve met through my job. But not a single one who is real.

Almost every damn day of my life I’m interacting with people, making them feel a little more loved, giving them a little happiness, and yet I suddenly feel like the loneliest person in New York.

Shaking myself out of it, I offer Richard a bright smile and accept the glass of champagne he offers. I ask, “Whose party is this?”

Richard sips his champagne, makes a face at the glass for some unknowable reason, then glances my way. “A music producer named Pete.” His French accent makes the name sound like “beet.” Richard gives me a lazy shrug. “No last name that I know of.”

I take a closer look around the room. The more I study the guests, the clearer it becomes—most of these people are famous. Models, actors, musicians. I’m pretty sure the guy in the corner is a rapper. And the woman with pale blue hair is definitely a pop star.

Fame. There’s a look to it. It isn’t always beautiful, but we’re attracted to it regardless, little moths to the flame.

I don’t want to be impressed. Fawning over the famous feels diminishing, as if I’m somehow saying that I’m less than they are. Except I am impressed. I admire talent and tenacity. But the idea of being at a party filled with famous people makes my indigo-blue consignment store sheath dress seem a little too shabby. It irritates me.

Without my permission, my mind drifts to John. I should really call him Jax. He’s the only truly famous person I’ve had any prolonged interaction with. And yes, I’m often irritated around him. But it’s different. He’s like a burr under my skin, making me feel too much. I think about him too much—when I wake, at odd moments throughout the day, when I go to sleep, right now.

Is it because of his fame? Maybe. Except, I usually forget he is the famous Jax Blackwood. He’s just … John. Annoying, funny, way too hot for his own good John.

John, who asked me if I was a whore. Bastard asshole dickbag. I don’t want to think about him anymore.

I accept a tart from a passing waitress. Richard inspects his own with another frown.

“Why are you glaring at all the food and drinks?” I ask him before popping the pastry into my mouth. An explosion of flavors assails my tongue. Tart, sweet, peppery, creamy, buttery. I’m hard pressed not to moan.

A gleam enters his eyes. “Good, no?”

“Oh, yes,” I tell him.

“Now the champagne,” he orders.

I comply and the flavors intensify, the champagne crisp and bubbly and refreshing.

“My staff is catering as a favor to Pete,” Richard says, almost smug. “Strawberry tart with pink peppercorn crème anglaise. It is best with champagne.”

“And you knew they’d be circulating these tarts now, didn’t you?” I wave down another waitress without shame. I’m never going to be model skinny and I’m not even going to try. “Freaking delicious.”

Richard chuckles at my enthusiasm. “Of course it is. This is my food.”

“When are you going to give me a cooking lesson?” I ask him, my mouth half full of strawberry goodness.

Ever the gentleman, Richard tucks my arm in his as we circulate. “Now, my dear Stella, I must warn you, I am an exceedingly difficult taskmaster.” He gives me a sly wink. “Are you certain you are ready for my lessons?”

I laugh lightly. “You honestly think I’d turn down lessons from the great Richard Dubious?”

In exchange for putting up with his insane work hours—not that I mind since I’m paid handsomely—he offered to teach me to cook. Something I really want to learn. I can do the basics, but cooking well is beyond my skill set.

His eyes gleam. “You’d be a fool if you did.”

“Don’t worry, I expect you to comply within two weeks’ time or face my wrath.”

Richard laughs, but whatever he says is lost on me because I’ve spotted the one man who manages to haunt me wherever I go.

Jax Blackwood stands in the center of a large group of people, all of whom are laughing and hanging on his every word. He looks every inch the rocker now. His clothes aren’t fancy—a black button-down and black jeans, but they fit his hard body to perfection and are clearly high end. A thick black leather cuff wraps around his left wrist and chunky silver rings adorn some of his long fingers.