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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.
