“Don’t get me wrong, there are some major perks from being in the band. But things happened so fast in the last couple years that it’s hard to get used to everything. You know what I mean?”

I give Tyler a look and he reddens. Of course I don’t know what he means. I’m the one eating ramen noodles and scraping the bottom of my purse for laundry quarters. He could buy anything at any time, and he just rubbed it in.

“Shit. Stella. I didn’t mean it like that.” He moves to touch my arm but I skirt away from him, transferring my laundry from washer to dryer.

I keep my back to him, but I don’t want to rub it in, either. He didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, so during the dry cycle I talk to him—really talk—and I tell him how I grew up, wrapped in the upper-class privilege of dance and music lessons with no household chores to distract me.

Tyler describes how his mom raised him solo and put herself through college. His eyes shine with pride when he recalls how she bought a house for them when he was thirteen years old—their first permanent home after years in crappy apartments and Friday nights spent at the Laundromat. This house’s garage was the place where Tattoo Thief began.

The irony of these stories is not lost on us—his normal was working-class and now he’s leading a rich life, while my normal was rich and I’ve lived like a broke college student or journalist for the last four years.

We head back to Tyler’s loft with my clean laundry and I feel like we got away with some minor crime because nobody recognized him.

I make my ramen noodles while Tyler builds a heaping sandwich. He tells me it’s easier to go out in public because he’s not the front man. Fans recognize Gavin far more often than they spot the other guys.

It’s also a matter of context, Tyler says, because nobody expects to run into somebody famous at a Laundromat.

“You want to know my favorite disguise?” His eyes are bright with mischief and I nod, my mouth full of noodles. “UPS guy. The brown shorts and shirt. I got the set as my Halloween costume one year and now I can get away with going anywhere if I’m wearing it.”

I laugh and nearly snort noodles out my nose, imagining Tyler playing that role.

When we’re done with dinner, we’re both drenched with sweat and Tyler lets me take the first shower. He’s trying to get someone to come fix the air conditioner, but tonight’s going to suck.

Just before I get out of the shower, I flip the nozzle to cold. My nipples pucker as I force myself to endure the freezing downpour for a full minute before I shut the water off.

I skip underwear and throw on thin cotton pajama shorts and a tank top. Tyler takes his shower, and by the time he’s finished, I’m soaked in sweat again. The plastic air mattress is cloying, trapping heat and moisture against my skin.

“’Night, Stella.” The curtains surrounding my bed flutter as Tyler walks by but he doesn’t slow down.

My heart sinks with his casualness, but I can hardly expect warmth after being so cold to him last night. “Good night.”

I hear the boards above me creak as Tyler gets in his bed, and then I hear a whirring sound.

That bastard. He’s holding out on me.

SEVENTEEN

I seethe in silence. I know that sound—a fan. The privacy curtains make my space feel even more oppressive, without a hint of breeze.

“Tyler?” I ask quietly, unsure if he’s asleep.

“Yeah?”

“Is that a fan?”

“Yeah.”

This is so unfair. I decide to take matters into my own hands and I grab my pillow and blanket. Even sleeping on the floor under some breeze would be better than this.

I climb the stairs to his loft. “Are you decent?”

Tyler sits up and stares at me. He’s deliciously indecent—bare-chested, wearing nothing but boxers, the sheets and blankets on his bed shoved down to his feet. The fan on top of a dresser blows toward his bed.

My breath catches but I try to be businesslike. I march around his king-sized mattress and spread my blanket on the floor between the dresser and bed.

“What are you doing?” He looks utterly confused.

“It’s too hot. Since you only have one fan, I thought I could catch a little breeze up here. Is that OK?”

I flop my pillow on the floor and dare him to say no. Hair clings to my neck and my tank top is damp with sweat.

Tyler looks like he wants to say something, but he finally just mumbles OK. I lie down on the floor and shut my eyes, trying to get comfortable, but it’s really just plywood beneath my blanket. I should have brought up my yoga mat.

I hear Tyler tossing and turning too. His feet hit the floor near me and I jump.

“Stella. You can’t sleep there.”

I frown, hurt. Is he going to kick me back downstairs?

“Get up.” As soon as I’m sitting, he grabs my pillow and plops it on the bed. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

I balk. “You can’t. It’s your home, and the air from the fan barely reaches the floor. You’ll be miserable.”

Tyler looks stricken. “You’re miserable?”

“It’s better than being homeless,” I mutter.

“Sit here,” Tyler commands. I obey, perching on the edge of the bed. “You’re sleeping here tonight. The fan is just moving hot air, but at least the mattress is comfortable.”

I lie down on my pillow, carefully avoiding getting anywhere near the middle of the bed. Tyler lies back too, his eyes open and focused on the ceiling.

“See? It’s not much better.”

Dim light from the city filters through Tyler’s windows and sweat glistens on his skin. I’m still far too hot to sleep comfortably. “Thank you anyway.”

Suddenly, he sits up and a big grin lights his face. “I have an idea!” He gallops downstairs and I hear him opening cupboards and rattling something. When he returns to the bedroom, he has a wide, stainless steel bowl filled with ice.

“Swamp cooler,” Tyler tells me. “My mom and I didn’t have air conditioning in our apartment, so we rigged up a fan and ice and it worked pretty good.” He positions the ice in front of the fan and I might be imagining it, but the air seems cooler.

“Would you hand me an ice cube, please?” I ask. Even if the swamp cooler doesn’t do much, at least I can use the ice to cool off.

Tyler hands me one and takes one himself, rubbing it on the back of his neck and then stepping in front of the fan.

“I like the direct approach,” I say, skimming the ice cube down my arms and along my collarbone. “The swamp cooler is good, but this works better.”

Tyler sits on the bed as I rub the ice cube on my body. “I like the direct approach, too.” His voice is low, rasping. He mimics my movements on his own body and his melting ice cube sends little rivulets of water down his chest.

The energy in the room shifts in a tidal wave and I’m suddenly hyperaware of Tyler.

We sit on opposite sides of the bed in the faint light, watching each other as the ice cubes melt. We bathe in the fan’s breeze and I look at Tyler, cataloging every micro-expression, every small twitch on his face and curve of his lip.

I see the cowlick on his forehead that never lays down straight, his dark lashes fringing mahogany eyes, and the cords on his neck that connect to strong shoulders.

The intimacy of this is too much. We’re too close, yet we’re not touching. Is that what makes this connection OK with Tyler? Does he simply not want to touch me? He’s touched me before—my gross feet, my shredded knees. Maybe he can handle that touching because he doesn’t feel that way for me.

But Tyler’s expression suggests otherwise, his eyes hooded and his pupils nearly black. I want to believe I’m seeing desire, but I’m afraid to say a word. I just stare at his body and let him see mine.

My thin tank top is pale blue cotton and it soaks up too much water. It sticks to my skin and I’m sure Tyler can see my nipples through it. I pretend I don’t notice and I let him hand me another ice cube. I sit cross-legged, facing him as he skates the ice past his pierced nipple.

I gasp and Tyler’s gaze is immediately focused on me.

“Lie down, Stella.” I don’t even protest. I can’t overthink this simple command that is everything I want and need right now.

I lie back and close my eyes as Tyler picks up an ice cube. He starts with the inside of my wrist, holding my hand in his, palm side up. I yield to him, giving permission. Hell, I’d give him an all-access pass if he would just take it.

But he doesn’t. He won’t. Instead, he draws maddening circles and lines across my body with the ice. My neck, my shoulders, my collarbone, my cleavage. When I feel a small tug at my waist, I lean forward and let him pull the soaking tank top off of me.

But I still can’t look in his eyes.

Tyler lets the ice cube wander up and down my stomach, between my breasts but not touching them. I feel him shift his own body next to me, from sitting to lying on his side, and he traces lazy circles on my skin. He reaches low to my knee, then slides the ice cube up my thigh and down again, up and down, agonizingly slowly.

I let my knees fall open just enough and he continues, each stroke working the melting ice cube closer to my inner thigh.

My body is on fire as the ice sears my skin. I keep my eyes closed and lose myself to this sensation. Tyler is exploring and I’m dying a little with every stroke, dying for him to touch me, and dying because he can’t. Or won’t. Or some stupid excuse that makes no fucking sense right now.

My body throbs and I feel the moisture pool between my legs, every nerve aroused and attuned to him. I’m lost in this moment without sex or alcohol or any sensation except a single ice cube and Tyler’s presence.