Something dark and bitter burns within me. My words come out like hard punches. “Do you know how many actual friends I have? None. Not a fucking one. Nobody knows the real me. Nobody calls on my birthday, or to see how I’m doing when they haven’t heard from me in a while. No one turns to me for anything other than a fleeting laugh or paid companionship.”

It hurts to say. My vision blurs and I blink rapidly. “I have zero true friends. Just people who know the surface of me. Sometimes the loneliness of it hurts crushes my chest like a vise. And I sit here, alone, wondering what the fuck is so wrong with me that no one has bothered to try. That no one sticks.”

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he rasps, attempting to grasp my shoulders.

I evade him again. “But there has to be. There has to be a reason I have no friends, why no one stays. And that reason is me.” I suck in a shaking breath. “You just proved it. I thought we were becoming real friends—”

“We were.” He sounds almost desperate now, a wild look in his eyes as he leans close. “We are!”

“Come off it. You wanted to hire me just like all the others.”

John runs a hand through his hair, making the ends stick out in all directions. “I said that because I wanted to be close to you and am too emotionally stunted to man up to it. There isn’t anyone I want to be around more than you. You occupy my thoughts, haunt my dreams. I can no more stay away from you than I can try to keep my heart from beating.”

His words are everything I’ve always wanted to hear. But his actions tell a different story. And I can’t let myself feel that hope. Not right now. I want too badly to believe and can’t trust my judgment.

“If that were true,” I say through stiff lips, “you wouldn’t have tried to buy my friendship. I get what you’re saying about manning up. But your first inclination was to buy me. Which means some part of you sees me as a commodity, not a person.”

“Damn it.” He spreads his arms wide. “I see you, Stella. I want—”

“No. I really don’t care what you want right now. I need you to leave.”

His lips flatten. He clearly has no intention of obeying.

“Go.” I push at his chest, backing him up. I know he’s letting me move him. Good. At least he understands no means no. “I can’t handle you here.”

“Stella.” He’s still backing up, awkwardly bumbling toward the door as I herd him that way. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t. But it isn’t my job to coddle you. Right now, I’m going to lick my own wounds, and I don’t want you here.”

John’s gaze darts over my face. He looks so truly pained that, for a second, I consider relenting. But I always relent, smooth things over during uncomfortable situations. I’m always the one who fixes things. I won’t do it for him. If there is any hope for any type of relationship with this man, I can’t start it as Stella, the emotional sponge.

Perhaps he sees my resolve. He lets out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping. “Okay, Button. I’m going. I …” He frowns. “I’m sorry. Will you please come see me when you’re ready?”

His brows lift, green eyes imploring. My resistance crumbles like dry sand. I resent the hell out of him for that, and that I can’t stop myself from saying, “Fine.”

Before he can say anything else, I close the door on his too pretty face. And then I curl up and cry. I have no doubt John is sorry he hurt me. Doesn’t stop me from feeling utterly alone. I need a new profession, a new life. I need a release.

Picking up the phone, I call Hank.

“Can you put me on the book for tomorrow?” I ask when he answers.

I was just there today, and usually I don’t fly but once a week, but Hank doesn’t ask any questions. He never does when it comes to personal things. “Sure thing, kid. You need me to pick you up at the station?”

“Yes, please.” I hang up, a little more settled. Maybe I should go talk to John and accept his apology. But my throat is burning and so am I. Whether it’s from my cry-fest or being caught in the rain, suddenly I don’t feel well at all.

Chapter Twelve

John

* * *

A melody tickles the edges of my mind. A song is there, waiting for me. But I can’t seem to coax it out. Thrumming idle chords, I try to let it come.

Instead I find myself thinking of red-gold curls and little cinnamon freckles. I miss her voice. I don’t think I’ve ever missed a person’s voice before. I can’t say there’s anything exceptional or truly different about Stella’s voice, except that it’s hers.

This is not good. I’m growing attached to a woman who thinks I’m an asshole. Even if she didn’t, getting emotional with someone is a bad idea. I can’t even be trusted to take care of Killian’s pets—how the hell am I supposed to navigate a real relationship? Fuck, I can’t even touch a woman right now. Doesn’t matter that the antibiotics have run their course and I’m perfectly healthy. I feel infected. Tainted.

“Fuck it.” I play a few chords but the sound clashes with the furious buzzing of Killian’s front doorbell.

I glance toward my own door. Stella has company? Perfect. Probably another oddball dude who is paying to be her friend. And she lets them. Me? I get a “fuck off” in response.

I don’t care anymore. But I do. I was a total asshat for trying to finagle friendship out of Stella instead of simply telling her how I feel. Something I’d apologize for repeatedly if she’d let me. It’s been three days and not a word from her. I’ve texted a couple of times to no avail. Yesterday, I rang her doorbell and she didn’t answer. Okay, she might have been out, but not knowing sucks. Being cast into social Siberia sucks.

The buzzing keeps going.

My fingers stumble over the strings. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Maybe it isn’t a client. Maybe it’s a date. Someone as cute as Stella likely dates all the time. Is she going to bring him into her bed? Let him touch her? Touch him? Of course they’ll touch. If a guy has Stella in bed, he’s going to touch her. A lot. Everywhere.

The back of my neck grows hot and pinched. Not my business. Not my damn business.

The buzzer rings again. I set my guitar down and grit my teeth. Sweat trickles down my spine. All I see is Stella, her soft, freckle-dusted skin slowly being revealed as some wanker undoes her top—

“Mother fuck.” I stand and pace toward the door. To do what? Make a fool out of myself? Beg her to stop? Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. No way am I going to be That Guy.

I turn to walk away when some dude starts yelling.

“Hey? Hello in there? You don’t answer, you still owe me money!”

My muscles seize. Owes him money? Oh, hell no. What the ass is going on?

“Yo!” the irate guy in the hall shouts. “Hello?”

He leans on the buzzer again.

That’s it. I’m done.

A skinny, college-age kid flinches when I whip open my door, but he soon settles. “Hey, man. Sorry to disturb.” He glares at Killian’s door. “Your neighbor buzzed me in and then refused to open the door. Someone has to pay for this soup.”

He holds up a bag laden with takeout cartons as evidence.

For one instant, the relief is so strong I lean against my doorway to let it ride. Then concern takes its place because if Stella buzzed this guy up, she should be answering her door. I pull a few bills from my pocket, way more than the food likely costs. Slapping the money into his hand, I grab the bag and don’t give him another thought as I quickly punch in the code to Killian’s door.