I don’t think he finds my attempt at humor funny right now. But his stiffness eases. “Any time you’re doing yoga naked, let me know, and I’ll hop over that wall in a hurry.”

Despite the tightness in my chest, I laugh a little. “I’ll put that at the top of my to-do list.”

A shiver wracks my body, and he gestures toward the bedroom with a tilt of his head. “Go get dry. I’ll make you some tea.”

“You’ll make tea?”

His lip quirks as he heads for the kitchen. “Perhaps you don’t know this but, at heart, I am an Englishman. Learning how to make a proper cuppa is a one of life’s first lessons.”

I remember then that John is from an extremely wealthy English family. “Your accent is faint, and comes out at odd times.”

Maybe it’s because he divided his childhood between New York and England. But John’s reaction tells me otherwise.

His grimace is so slight I almost miss it. “When we started the band, I tried my hardest to lose the accent. Perhaps I was a bit too successful at that.”

“But why?” When it peeks out, his accent is lovely.

John heads toward Killian’s kitchen, giving his back to me. When he finally answers, his tone is dull. “For the British, your accent defines you. The instant you open your mouth to speak, people know where you come from. My parents are elitist snobs. They hated everything about what I was doing and who I was trying to become.”

He stops at the kitchen counter and stares absently at the cabinets. Tension runs along his shoulders, making the muscles beneath his shirt bunch tight. But then he looks back at me, and the smile he tosses my way is careless and just a bit cocky. “Since they were doing their best to erase me from the family, I thought I’d return the favor.”

Jesus. Hurt for him presses on my chest and urges me to give him a hug. I know all about being abandoned and the defiant rage that follows. I could tell him about that, give him a piece of my own pain. But I also know body language, and his is fairly screaming, “Back off, please.” Besides, we’re not supposed to do heavy and real. He made that clear when he sprinted out of the party. This confession must be an aberration—a slip brought on by my nosiness.

So I play my part and make a joke instead.

I snicker. “You’re an Englishman in New York.”

John’s expression turns blank as he stares at me, not understanding, but then he slowly smiles. “The Sting song, right?”

I nod. “Popped into my head just now.”

Gratitude flares bright in his green eyes, and then it’s gone. But his smile grows. “Whip quoted Sting the other day.” He pulls out a kettle and fills it. “You remind me of Whip.”

“Really? Why?”

We’re at opposite ends of the room and he’s turned away from me again, but when he grabs two teacups from the cabinet, I see a glimpse of his soft smile. “You’re both … kind.”

“Kind?” I don’t know why I’m repeating him. But “kind” feels like a pat on the head.

He glances over his shoulder. “Yep. Kind. The person you call when you’re sinking and need a hand to hold onto because you know they’ll show up.” With a shake of his head, he laughs. “I don’t know how else to describe it.”

Warmth spreads through my chest, but my gut clenches uncomfortably. No one has ever tried to explain me to me. I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to handle him.

I want to ask him more about his bandmates. Does he hang out with them when they aren’t working? Are they as easygoing as he is? Do they sit around and make music? Or maybe they’re just like other guys and watch sports while drinking beers and talking shit.

But to ask seems like prying and too fangirlish. I wish I were cooler about his fame, but it feels as though John is two people. The flirty, sometimes annoying, sometimes impish man who is my neighbor, and then he’s Jax, the superstar who is the object of endless fans’ lust and idolization.

When he talks about his bandmates, I can’t help but think of him as Jax and wonder what the hell he’s even doing here and why he’s making me tea. It doesn’t feel real.

The silence grows awkward, and John catches me stalling. “Your lips are blue.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

I take a hot shower and put on my softest pajama pants and a long-sleeve shirt. I’m not trying to impress John. How utterly ridiculous—I totally am. The man is a bowlful of creamy sex with hot fudge on top. My body knows this even if my brain keeps reminding me of why he’s a disaster waiting to happen. Maybe if I didn’t have to live right next to him, or be reminded of hooking up after the sweat dried, I’d want him to want me.

Though, really, despite the fact that he’s a consummate flirt, I don’t think he sees me as a conquest. Guys like Jax Blackwood don’t hesitate. They go for what they want without fear. As much as it pains me to admit, I admire that about him.

I laugh at myself as I towel dry my hair and then head out to the living room. The only truth I need to know is that he’d backed away from me the other night as if I had a contagious disease. I’m in no danger of things going any further than they are now.

The thought is still with me, pulling a melancholy smile to my lips, when I join him in the main room. He has a pot of tea ready and a pile of toast with little pots of jams, honey, and butter arranged on a tray. It’s so very English it tugs at my heart.

“How do you take your tea?” he asks, and I’m struck by another weird sense that I must be dreaming: Jax Blackwood fixing me a cup of tea as solicitous and proper as a butler.

Was Mrs. Goldman right? Is he lonely? I want to ask but don’t have the nerve.

“A little milk. A spoonful of sugar.”

He pours my tea and then hands me the cup. “Killian has a dismal selection of tea on hand. I’m sorry to say, it shall be cheap, bagged Earl Grey for us.”

My fingers wrap around the warm ceramic. “I’m not a huge tea drinker. I don’t think I’d know the difference anyway.”

He gives me a mock expression of horror. “I’ll make a convert out of you yet, Button.”

John might be on to something because the tea is better than any I’ve had before. Strong but not bitter. Fragrant and milky with just a hint of sweetness. I take another soothing sip and sigh before helping myself to some buttered toast with honey. “Thanks,” I tell him between bites. “This is wonderful.”

He drinks his tea and somehow makes it look manly, the cup dainty in his big hands. “What happened back there?” he asks. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But you looked … lost, Stells. Are you okay now?”

My throat thickens as I nod. “I’m okay. It’s …” I sip my tea to give myself a reprieve. “Sometimes numbers kind of flip in my brain.”

His brilliant green eyes are steady on me. “You’re dyslexic?”

“No, that’s words. It’s numbers for me. A mild case of dyscalculia.” I let out a breath. “It only happens when I’m stressed or overtired. Then it’s like something in my brain just stalls or the numbers will flip. When I try to force it, the situation gets worse. Like today. I was tired and cold and angry at myself and …” I shrug, gripping my cup tighter.