Hank grunts. “Bring any air sickness bags?”

Across from me, John bites back a smile. He knows he’s being baited.

“Actually,” I say, “I think I might have created a convert.”

John nods. “You have. Shocked the shi—heck out of me, though. I had no idea Stella could do that,” he explains to Corinne mostly, since Hank still hasn’t stopped giving John the gimlet eye, as though he expects John to steal the silverware.

Logic tells me it’s because he saw John and I mauling each other, but he’s not exactly parental toward me, so I don’t know why he seems to dislike John.

“Stella’s a great pilot,” Hank says, all squinty-eyed. “Precise, clear-headed, but able to think outside the box when needed.”

It’s the most Hank has ever complimented me, and I find myself wanting to sink under the table to hide my blush.

“’Course, when she was sixteen, she just wanted to hurtle through ground school so she could get up there and do endless loops in the sky.” Hank snorts. “If she had her way, she would have looped herself across the Atlantic.”

I grin. “What a way to go, though.”

John chuckles. “What was Stella like as a teen?”

“Shorter.” Hank winks at me.

“Skinnier,” I say ruefully.

Corinne touches my shoulder. “She was skin and bones.” A shadow passes over her eyes as her lips tighten a fraction, before her expression eases. “But we put some good meat back on those bones.”

I realize she’s thinking about my dad’s distinct lack of parenting, which included forgetting about providing meals, and how I often came here starving for whatever food she’d give me. My dinner sits heavy in my belly and everything tightens. Am I shoving food in my mouth now because I’m truly hungry, or out of habit?

Setting my fork down, I push a smile. “Corinne makes the best pies. Please tell me there’s pie for dessert.”

“Lemon meringue.” She laughs softly when I do a little fist pump.

John watches, clearly amused. “I can picture teen Stella now. You should come out here more often, Button.”

I know I should. I know this every time I visit. But when I leave, it’s easier to stay away and not be reminded that I don’t have a real family of my own. I shrug lightly. “It’s hard to do without a car. But I’ve been saving up for one.”

Hank helps himself to more of everything. “You should move out here. Save yourself time and money, instead of living in that noisy, overpriced city.”

“Hank,” Corinne says in her low way, “what young woman wants to leave the excitement of Manhattan to come out here?”

Hank grunts and shovels a forkful of roasted carrots into his mouth.

I sit back and rest my hands on my belly. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about it.”

John stills, his dark brows lowering in a frown, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“My apartment went condo, and I’m thinking of a career change.” I don’t know why I’m spilling this to Corinne and Hank. But it feels good to talk to people who know what that apartment meant to me. Maybe I view them as parental influences more than I’d realized. Either way, I’ve opened my mouth, and I have to continue. “I’m not saying I’ve decided anything, but moving closer to the airport has crossed my mind.”

“Good,” Hank says, setting down his fork. “You want a job at the school, you know it’s yours. As soon as you get an instructor certificate,” he adds, as if I didn’t know.

“Thanks, Hank.”

“You love the city,” John says quietly. There’s a look in his eyes, disappointed and a little bit pissed off, but he’s trying not to show it. “I thought you loved your job too.”

I poke at a carrot with my fork. “I think my time as a professional friend is coming to a close.”

“Ridiculous job,” Hank mutters under his breath.

“Hank,” Corinne chides, slapping at his arm.

Again, I fight the urge to slip under the table. Why, oh, why did I bring this up? Big mouth strikes again. I clear my throat. “The fact is, I’ll soon need a place to call home. Killian isn’t going to be gone forever.”

John blinks like he forgot I’m not really his neighbor but just a pet sitter who will soon leave him. The groove between his brows grows, but he doesn’t say a word. A heavy silence descends over the table, and I don’t miss the look that passes between Hank and Corinne.

Corinne puts on a bright smile and turns to John. “Are you working on a new album?”

John starts, his fork halting halfway to his mouth. “You know who I am?”

“Jax Blackwood,” Corinne says in her matter-of-fact way. “Hank here is a big fan.”

“Corinne!” Hank hisses. His expression is mortified. I snicker, which earns me a hard glare.

“Well, it’s true,” Corinne insists, completely unfazed. “He has all your albums.”

I swear the table rattles as though kicked.

John, smartly, does not smile. “We’re between albums at the moment.” There isn’t an ounce of smugness in his tone, but I know he’s laughing on the inside. I can feel it humming along his skin. “I’ve been working on a few songs, but they aren’t ready for recording.”

Hank stares at his plate for a long moment before straightening and meeting John’s eyes. “Saw you at Madison Square Garden last summer. I could have done without the gyrating, but your voice has improved.”

A glint lights John’s eyes. “Oh, has it?”

“Mmm.” Hank cuts a piece of roast. “More soulful now, less showy.”

John blinks, and I can’t help it—I finally lose it and laugh.

“Sorry,” I say between snorts, “but Hank’s a fan. I’m dying.”

“Shut it, you,” Hank says without much heat. His lips twitch. “I like all sorts of music.”

John’s lips twitch as well. “I cannot lie. That was pretty much the shock of my year.”

After that, Hank drops his grumpy curmudgeon act and starts grilling John on music, which he happily rambles on about. We eat, and Corinne serves up pie, and John is the perfect guest. But I don’t miss the way he glances at me when he thinks I’m not looking. He’s upset and trying not to show it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

John

* * *

It’s three in the morning and the rain pelts the big picture window in Hank and Corinne’s den. I focus on this instead of the big-ass bar running under the mattress of the pull-out couch that’s digging into my back. I’ve slept on couches before—wasted and passed out, and sometimes waking up with a woman or two draped over me. This experience is so far removed from any of that, my old self would have never believed it. Old me would have left Stella with Hank and Corinne, and driven back to Manhattan in the rain.

Old me was a prat. Old me would have missed out on Stella entirely. I know I wouldn’t have bothered to notice all that she is.

No. Don’t think about Stella right now.

Better to watch water run in rivulets down the glass than imagine Stella all soft and tucked up in her bed somewhere upstairs.

I’m horny as hell. Even though it’s uncomfortable, I can get past horny. Horny can be dealt with by Mr. Helping Hand. My hand hasn’t been taking care of business this much since my youth when it felt as though I walked around with a stiffy all day long.