“I’m glad I was there to let you in, then.” And that is the end of it. No pity. No asking questions I don’t have answers to.

John spreads currant jam on his toast, and we eat in silence for a few minutes. It isn’t strained exactly—I’m definitely feeling warm and cared for—but there’s a certain tension tugging between us. I have the feeling that John is bracing himself for something. He keeps shooting me hesitant looks before taking big bites of toast and munching on it as though his life depends on it.

Everybody messes up. I know this. I know he’s as human as the rest of us, even though it sometimes seems he lives above the rest of the world. I settle more comfortably into the couch, drink my tea, and eat my toast. He’ll talk when he’s ready. John isn’t the type to keep silent for long.

I’m proved right when he takes a long sip of his tea and then sets it down. He presses his shoulders into the couch pillows, bracing himself. “I’m sorry I walked away like that at the party.”

Not something I really want to talk about. Words that come to mind start with “embarrassing” and end with “rejection.”

“You bolted so fast, for a moment, I thought they were having the walls and ceiling removed,” I quip. I don’t know if I sound as carefree as I want. Probably not. I told him what I do for a living and he ran—right after he’d been smiling and leaning in as if he wanted to devour my mouth with his. Clearly, being a professional friend is a turnoff for him.

A wrinkle forms between his brows before smoothing. “A Megamind joke?” He smiles. “God, you’re adorable.”

“Like a wiggly puppy,” I say under my breath, then shake my head, pushing a bright expression.

But he hears me perfectly well and frowns. “It was rude of me. I don’t know how to explain other than I had a bout of temporary insanity.”

I find myself slipping back into old habits, wanting to smooth over our awkward patch. “No need to apologize. I had to get back to Richard anyway.”

He doesn’t appear convinced. “Had I known you were working, I wouldn’t have pulled you away. Getting you in trouble with a client is the last thing I’d want.”

I narrow my eyes at him because I can’t tell if he’s being genuine or giving me shade. He’s too tight and fidgety for me to get a good read on him. “Richard didn’t mind.”

He rests his feet on the coffee table. “What do you do with these friends? And I’m not hinting about sex, I swear to God,” he adds in a rush.

I husk out a laugh. “I didn’t think you were.” I run a hand through my damp hair. “We do anything they want. The only rules for me is that it isn’t something illegal and there is no sexual contact. Strictly platonic.”

He nods, intent and encouraging me to go on.

“And it isn’t only men who I go out with. I have plenty of women clients as well. You just happened to keep seeing me with the guys.” I shake my head ruefully. “As for what we do, I’ve gone shopping, out to eat, movies, attended weddings as pretend dates. Even a funeral once.”

His brows lift. “A funeral?”

“Yeah. A woman didn’t want to go to her mom’s funeral alone. She had no one close to her left and needed someone to hold her hand.”

His expression softens. “Stells, you really do kill me sometimes.”

“Why?” I ask in a weak voice. The memory of poor Mari’s pain lingers with the telling of it.

“You helped a total stranger get through one of the shittiest days of her life. Not many people would do that.”

“Don’t make it noble.” I glance away. “I didn’t want to be there. I hated every minute of it.”

“But you did it.”

“Only because I know how it feels to be alone. I couldn’t say no to her request.”

“And that,” he says, leaning forward, putting him in my line of sight, “makes all the difference. You did it anyway.”

“You trying to butter me up, Blackwood?”

He gives me a sidelong look. “Maybe.”

Okay, didn’t expect that. I curl my legs under me. “Why?”

His foot starts tapping. “Been thinking …”

I really don’t like the way he looks at me, hesitant and yet determined. “Thinking, what?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I would like to hire you. To be a friend for a while,” he clarifies in the face of my silence.

I try to say something. Really, I do. But my throat constricts. A telltale prickle grows behind my lids. I’m going to cry, and I’m not a crier.

Pay me to be his friend? He might as well have pulled out a scythe and cut the legs out from under me. I’ve dealt with this before, getting close to someone who ends up seeing me not as a true friend but as something less than. Honestly, I’ve dealt with this enough times that I have the standard, “Yeah, sure. Let’s schedule something” answer down pat.

And, after all, he is offering to pay. Some people—a lot of people—want me to be the friend on call, the friend who acts like a paid companion, who they expect to give them benign answers and pleasant smiles, but they don’t want to pay. They expect me to act that way for free.

Maybe I should be thankful.

John stares at me with an earnest expression, clearly oblivious that he just mentally gut-punched me. All I have to do is be polite and get him out of my apartment as quickly as possible. But I can’t make my mouth move.

Clearly impatient, he edges forward. “I’ll pay you extremely well. Enough that you don’t have to see other clients. Just me.”

My face begins to tingle. “You want to pay me to hang out exclusively with you?”

Satisfaction lights his face. His big, stupid face. “Yes.”

I start my deep yoga breathing.

“Well then?” he asks, hands clenched into fists. “What do you think?”

“You need to leave.” I stand, nearly knocking into the coffee table. “Now, please.”

John lurches to his feet as well, his brows winging up. “Leave? Why?”

I can’t look at him. “Because I asked you to.” Turning my back to him, I pick up the teacups.

“What the hell? What did I do wrong?”

You offered to pay me for what I would have done for free. “Nothing.”

A wrinkle forms between his brows. “Then why are you kicking me out?”

So I can cry alone. “I’m tired.”

“Bullocks.” His English accent, rises up, crisp as new paper. “You look as though I’ve sucker-punched you. Is it really so distasteful to hang out with me, then?”

Distasteful? I want to scream. I just might.

John’s color deepens as he takes a step closer, his long, lean body looming over me. “Answer me, damn it.”

When he moves to cup my elbow, I swing my arm away. “Because you did sucker-punch me, you jerk.”

He gapes at me in shock. “How?”

Of all the … My disappointment bubbles up and turns to rage. “How can you not know? Are you seriously that clueless?”

His mouth snaps shut on a glare. “Apparently so. Enlighten me, then.”

“Because it hurts, okay?” When he frowns, I advance on him. “You think because I’m good old Stella, everyone’s friend, that I don’t feel that …” I wave a helpless hand. “Black hole of pain? That utter fucking emptiness? People pay me to be their friend. I make people smile and laugh so they can say, ‘There’s Stella, isn’t she good fun’?”