“Don’t forget about rescuing you from those killer shoes the night we met.” I hear the smile in Tyler’s voice as he rests his chin on top of my head.

“And from my killer editor’s demand that I write a follow-up story on Tattoo Thief. That saved my job.” God, I sound pathetic. “I feel like a walking disaster when I’m around you, Tyler. I wish I could tell you I actually have my shit together, but circumstances would suggest otherwise.”

Tyler pulls back from me slightly and tips up my chin with a crooked finger, forcing my brown eyes to meet his. “You’re no disaster, Stella. You’re special. You’ve got moxie.”

I snort a laugh. “Moxie? That’s a weird old word.”

“Are you telling me you’re a shrinking violet posing as a kickass girl?”

“Kickass girl. I like that. But how would you know? As far as you’ve seen, I’m a second-string music reporter who got lucky with the fact that her best friend is dating a rock star. And then proceeded to throw that friend under the bus.” The last admission brings a fresh wave of self-loathing and I hide my face back against Tyler’s firm chest.

Which smells fantastic. But I digress.

Tyler’s quiet for a few minutes and I imagine he agrees with my self-assessment. But then he pushes me away from him and his look is serious.

“Stop it, Stella. This ends now. You apologized. It’s over.” I sniffle and an enormous rumble rips through my belly.

Tyler frowns, then bends down and hoists me from the waist, my head and upper body bent over his shoulder and hanging down his back.

“Tyler! Put me down!” I laugh and kick and pound on his back but he keeps walking, ignoring my pleas.

He dumps me on a kitchen barstool and I land with an oof. “What are you doing?”

“Feeding you.”

“It’s after midnight.”

“I heard your stomach. When was the last time you ate?”

I can’t answer immediately, and Tyler shoots me a told-you-so look.

“I need to eat pretty often. And I told you, I like the company. So what are we going to have?”

“Cereal?”

“Simple carbs. Not good enough. We need some protein.” Tyler opens the fridge and pulls out several wrapped packages and fruit. In minutes, he assembles a little picnic spread of cheese, salami, apples, grapes, crackers and nuts, and some weird jelly I’ve never seen before.

“It’s quince paste. Try it.” He spreads some on a cracker, topping it with a bit of sharp cheddar. The salty crystals in the cheese, buttery crisp cracker and tangy sweetness of the thick jelly melt together in one fantastic bite. “You see?”

“Mmff.” I chew and nod, trying to communicate just how much I appreciate this offering. No man has ever fed me before. When I lived with Blayde, he was a fend-for-yourself guy, content to live on Frosted Flakes and the pizza place around the corner.

Tyler and I eat in silence. I sit on a stool opposite him, while he bends his long torso over the kitchen counter. It becomes a game, like a stare-down, to see who will talk first. We communicate with little signs that say, You have the last piece of apple, and Here, I’ll break the last piece of cheese to share with you.

These tiny gestures affect me more than words and suddenly I’m overwhelmed by the kindness of it all. Tyler’s been nothing but kind to me—hot and cold, yes, but always kind—and it rocks me to my core.

I squeeze my eyes shut but it doesn’t hold back the tears, so I drop my head and just let them go, hoping he will be too busy putting the plate and knife and cutting board in the dishwasher to notice.

But of course he notices.

“Stella.” He comes around the kitchen island fast, his arms open, but before he reaches me, he hesitates as if I might burn him.

Once bitten, twice shy, I think bitterly.

“Are you OK?”

I shake my head but I can’t speak; my voice would break the dam and I’d dissolve into sobs. I feel stupid, crying so much in front of him.

And he’s been far too human in front of me. I wanted him to be an untouchable rock star. I wanted Tyler Walsh to be a hard-edged, devil-may-care bad boy, so that I could keep him at arm’s length and focus on what I needed—another story.

I refuse to look at his face, afraid his eyes will show me too much care. It’s like a drug, becoming accustomed to people caring about me, and when it vanishes I’ll be sucked into the withdrawal of despair.

I push myself off the barstool to avoid his touch and run to my space under his loft. Other than the bathroom, there’s not a shred of privacy in this warehouse, so I can’t even cry in peace. I sense Tyler observing me from the kitchen as I sit on the air mattress, pawing through clothes I don’t see, hoping desperately he won’t try to talk to me again.

I need space. I need room to think but I feel like I’m in prison under a guard’s surveillance. I try to rein in my feelings and suppress the sobs in my chest.

I’m sad and I’m lonely and I feel so fucking vulnerable that one gentle word will break me. How is it possible I can handle every other form of rejection from a bad boy—every fake see you around or even, Can I call you?—but when Tyler rejects me, it stings like salt ground deep in my wounds?

My blood boils with passion from wanting him and anger from wanting him to want me back. It’s a lost cause. He has his pick of thousands of fans who throw themselves at Tattoo Thief, so it’s no surprise he doesn’t want me.

“Stella, do you want—?”

Tyler’s voice startles me and I whirl around, my last angry thought exploding from my mouth.

“I just want some fucking privacy!” I storm past him to the bathroom, where I slam the door like a petulant child.

I turn the sink tap to freezing cold and plunge my head under it. The cold makes my scalp tingle and throb. Brain freeze.

I count to fifty, and then to a hundred. Stop. I have to stop but it’s some sick game to get me past the horror of what I’ve just done. I have no right to treat him like this, yet each drop of Tyler’s kindness is like water torture.

One more drop and I break.

One more drop and he breaks me.

I shut off the water and pull my head out from under the tap, rubbing my hair fiercely with a towel. My eyeliner swerves drunkenly down my face in wide tracks and I look like a zombie as I emerge from the bathroom.

Tyler’s absent and the lights are off. There’s a small lamp on the shelf by my bed that wasn’t there before. Its off-white shade casts enough light to guide me back to my bed. I listen but I don’t hear Tyler.

Did he go out? Or just go to bed? I can’t see up into his bedroom loft. I need to apologize but I’m too chickenshit to do it tonight.

Instead, I gulp three shots of vodka to silence the ugly voices in my head. I slip out of my clothes and into an old T-shirt, climb on the air mattress and feel it shift beneath my body.

Shame and sadness flood me, but sleep wins.

FIFTEEN

I try to be quiet as I let myself back into Tyler’s loft, but there’s a rhythmic thunk-chink, thunk-chink sound and it takes me a moment to process what I’m seeing.

Morning sunshine illuminates long swaths of orange fabric hanging from the edges of the wooden loft platform. There’s movement behind the fabric and another thunk-chink.

“What are you doing?” I stand by the front door stupidly, holding a bag of pastries. I can’t see Tyler, but I hear his voice from the other side of the rippling orange fabric.

“What does it look like?” His voice is neutral and I can’t tell if he’s still mad at me.

“It looks like a lot of orange.”

Tyler’s head pops from between two sheets of fabric and his brow furrows. “I thought orange was your favorite color?”

I shake my head. “It is. But what are you doing to the loft? I mean, why?”

Tyler steps between the fabric pieces and gestures grandly to them. “I made you curtains.”

I nearly drop my peace offering, I’m so gutted by this gesture. Tyler has every right to kick me out for being an ungrateful bitch. At what point did I get so bitter that I’d lash out at a guy who’s been nothing but good to me?

No wonder he’s not that into me.

I’m not that into me, either.

“Seriously? When did you, I mean, how did you even think to make this happen? I wasn’t even gone an hour.”

Tyler grins. “I told you I have neighbors who are fashion designers. Maren downstairs is a total cloth-hoarder, so I went down after you left and bribed her for a bolt of fabric and the use of her staple gun. She even helped me cut it.”

I’m stunned but I can’t fall apart again. Can’t. Won’t. I feel small for my petty outburst last night, and even smaller that he turned my tantrum into yet another chance to be nice to me.

I am officially crossing Tyler off my bad-boys list and adding him to a very dangerous list of good guys.

A list of one. One perfect guy who I could never deserve in a million years. Fuck.

I hold up a brown bag with a weak smile. “I tried to come up with a good apology, but there aren’t enough bakeries in Manhattan to top what you’ve done. Thank you,” I add in a small voice. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Shut it, Stella.” Tyler takes the bag dotted with tempting, buttery splotches and makes a beeline for the kitchen. “Don’t talk to me about what you deserve. We never get what we deserve. Only what we earn. And some grace, and some luck.”

We spread the pastries on the kitchen bar and Tyler sits next to me on a bar stool, leaving plenty of room between us. In silent agreement, we adopt the try-everything strategy for this breakfast and I make a little piggy of myself after Tyler rips each pastry in half.