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I have no idea why he wants to avoid that incredible display of talent. If I could do what he does, I’d be a musical hussy, performing on every damn street corner at all hours of the day and night. But I play along. “I liked it. Sam too.” I’d forgotten to ask Sam about the sandwiches. I’ll go back on my own later.
“He’s a great guy. Worked with a lot musicians over the years.”
Though his tone remains causal, he’s gone pale around the edge of his mouth, but his stride is missing its usual fluid grace.
We walk a little way in silence. It isn’t comfortable, but I’m not certain what’s wrong. Is he embarrassed? How can he be? He’s a rock star. It’s literally his job to perform. I’m usually much better at reading people and making them comfortable. For shit’s sake, I’m supposed to be a professional. But here I am unable to come up with a single word of meaningless chatter.
John nudges me with his arm. “Back to this Barry business.”
“Barry?” I frown. “Barry White? Barry Manilow?”
He chokes out a laugh. “Those are your first choices for Barry?”
“You think of anyone else when mentioning Barry and music in the same conversation?”
He shrugs. “I’d have gone with Barry Gibb or Barry Bonds.”
“I don’t know who those last two are.”
“A musician and a baseball player—and it hurts that you don’t know their names. But, no, I was not talking about any famous Barry. I meant your date. Barry. The wally who looked like he could be an actuary.”
“It’s Bradley, and he’s a forensic accountant.”
“Ha. I was close.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that when I introduce you as a bassist-playing choir singer one day.”
He nudges me again. “Salty Stella. And to think I walked through dirty water for you.”
My smile sneaks out, but I don’t say anything. I’m not that easy.
He grunts in clear annoyance. “Stop avoiding the question, Button.”
“Was there a question? I must have missed it in all the Barry excitement.”
“There was.”
“Really? All I heard was ‘Back to this Barry business.’”
I can feel him rolling his eyes, even though I keep mine on the street in front of us.
“Smartass,” he mutters before clearing his throat and talking to me in a crisp English accent that rivals Mr. Scott’s. “Ms. Grey, I have been meaning to inquire. What is the nature of your relationship with Bradley, the forensic accountant?”
I can’t help laughing. “You sound like a professor.”
His grin is a quick flash of teeth. “I was channeling my father, actually. Something I try to avoid when I can help it.” He tips his chin in my direction. “Well, then? Answer the question.”
“Yeah … No comment.”
John halts, his mouth dropping open in clear outrage. “You can’t say that!”
“Of course I can,” I toss over my shoulder. “It’s none of your business.”
He starts moving again, taking two long steps to reach me. “Come on. What gives, Stella? Bradley said you were worth every penny. And he isn’t the only old guy I’ve seen you with.”
It’s my turn to halt. “What? When? Are you following me?”
“See, that was three questions,” he says smugly. “And I bet you want them answered, don’t you?”
I step into his space and poke his chest. “Talk, you.”
John grabs my poking finger and deftly links his hand with mine, holding them close to his stomach. My knuckles brush against the hard wall of his abs, and heat dances up my inner thighs. Flushed, I yank away, but it doesn’t kill his smug smile. “Two days ago, Madison Square Park. You were eating at Shake Shack with some older, nervous dude, and you were doing most of the talking, I’ll add.”
He’d seen me with Todd? And I hadn’t noticed?
Uncomfortable heat washes over my face. “Jesus. You were spying on me. What the hell, John?”
His eyes narrow. “Hey, I was sitting two tables over, minding my business and drinking a coffee shake. You’re kind of loud, you know.”
“And what the hell were you doing there at the same time I was? At the same time today too? Suspect.”
“Oh, get over yourself.” He waves a lazy hand. “I admit we have a freakish timing thing going on. And believe me, I’m disturbed too, but I’m not following you. I’ve better things to do.”
“Like eat alone?” As soon as I say it, I’m sorry.
John barely reacts, which is worse. He shuts down, going blank. “Yeah, eating alone,” he responds thickly but without heat. His meaning is perfectly clear; eating by himself ranks higher than doing anything with me.
Inwardly, I wince, but I’d been shitty to him too. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, you did.” His tone is lighter, his mouth twitching as if fighting a smile. And I realize that John isn’t one to hold grudges. A lot of people claim that they let things go, but few do. Hell, I rarely do.
