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“I don’t scare easily,” Jules adds, but I don’t think anyone else is listening.
“I make no apologies for owning perfect pants. Or suits, for that matter.”
“He had a baby-barf stain on his lapel the other day,” John stage-whispers in my ear. “Very unseemly.”
Scottie’s eyes narrow on him. “Quiet, you.”
Whip scowls at Scottie. “And what’s all this proclivities nonsense? Since when did beating the meat or rubbing the bean become a deviant activity?”
“Beating the meat.” John snickers into his beer.
“Got a better one,” Whip counters with a brow waggle.
“Wanking the willy?”
“Charming the snake,” Sophie offers.
“Polishing the pearl,” Jules says.
“Tickling my treat,” Brenna adds.
“I’m becoming uncomfortably aroused,” Rye grumbles, which makes Brenna flush bright pink and hide her face behind the rim of her martini glass.
Scottie throws up his hands. “You all are pigs. Might we, just once, have a conversation about something normal, such as the unchecked state of our city’s potholes or, I don’t know, perhaps the stock market?”
The guys look at him as though he’s suggested they put on medieval garb and pillage local villages, but then Rye rubs the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “I hear beans are down a quarter.”
“Blue beans?” Whip asks solemnly.
Rye grins wide. “You know it.”
They high-five each other, and Scottie makes a noise of disgust.
“Oh, step off your pedestal, Scottie,” Whip protests, laughing lightly. “Everyone does the five-knuckle chuckle.” He looks around the table, his vivid blue eyes imploring. “Anyone going to deny it?”
It’s clear everyone here does indeed enjoy alone time, but no one says anything, leaving Whip to hang in the wind. And though I’m now completely on the Team John train, Whip’s exasperation is adorable.
I lean toward him. “I do it. All the time. Canoodle my kitty, I mean.”
There’s a beat of intense silence where the background noise of the restaurant swells to the fore, and all eyes are on me.
Then John bursts out with a short, happy laugh. “Oh God, you are perfect.” He cups my cheek and gives me a swift but softly melting kiss, his lips smiling as he pulls away. “Don’t ever change.”
I’m leaning into him, ready to climb onto his lap right here in front of his friends. My fingertips press into the firm muscle on his chest. “Keep kissing me like that and you have a deal.”
The glint in John’s eyes tells me we’re about five minutes from calling for the check and heading out. Soreness be damned; he can ice my boo-boos.
“Are you sure you’re settled on Jax?” Whip asks, breaking into our little bubble. “Clearly you and I are both fans of the one-hand band, not to mention I’m hotter and way more talented than this guy.”
John flips him off. “In your dreams. And from now on, keep your hands where we can see them, dude.”
“Amen to that,” Jules says.
Laughing with them, a warm glow of pure happiness flows through me. Happiness and contentment. I’ve never experienced it this way. I almost don’t know what to do with it. Maybe that’s why fate chose this moment to topple me.
A man slips into the space, somehow evading the guard outside. No one else seems to notice, but I do, and my entire world slows to a crawl. I know this man. I’ve dreamed about him, held conversations with him in my mind, waited for so long to have just one word of acknowledgment that my inner child fears he’s a mirage. Hardened and grown up me hopes he is.
Aside from being older, with a full beard instead of clean-shaven, he appears just the same. Wiry, hardened, faded red hair and cold blue eyes. He looks right at me, without remorse or hesitation, like it’s been a few minutes instead of years. It’s that cocksure attitude that kicks me right in the chest and has me sucking in a sharp gasp.
At my side, John turns to see what’s upset me. I feel him jerk.
“Shit,” he utters under his breath.
Across from us, Rye swivels and goes pale. “Ah, hell.”
Their words slowly sink through my numbness. Do they think a fan has broken in?
But then I’m rising, pushing past Brenna who sits at the end of the booth. My head throbs as I walk toward him.
My dad grins and opens his arms wide. “Stella, my darling.”
I’m one big pulse of pain, and I flinch away, wrapping my arms around myself. My back collides with something hard and warm. John. His hand settles on my shoulder and grips tight.
Dad slows, his smile in a tight holding pattern.
Vaguely, I’m aware of security hustling over, everyone looking on, and of John holding up a hand to warn them off. They stand down but don’t leave. And the whole time, I stare at my dad, stuck in this nightmare. Because other thoughts start filtering in. He’s here—where the band is, which means he knows exactly who I am with.
