So I play my part and make a joke instead.
I snicker. “You’re an Englishman in New York.”
John’s expression turns blank as he stares at me, not understanding, but then he slowly smiles. “The Sting song, right?”
I nod. “Popped into my head just now.”
Gratitude flares bright in his green eyes, and then it’s gone. But his smile grows. “Whip quoted Sting the other day.” He pulls out a kettle and fills it. “You remind me of Whip.”
“Really? Why?”
We’re at opposite ends of the room and he’s turned away from me again, but when he grabs two teacups from the cabinet, I see a glimpse of his soft smile. “You’re both … kind.”
“Kind?” I don’t know why I’m repeating him. But “kind” feels like a pat on the head.
He glances over his shoulder. “Yep. Kind. The person you call when you’re sinking and need a hand to hold onto because you know they’ll show up.” With a shake of his head, he laughs. “I don’t know how else to describe it.”
Warmth spreads through my chest, but my gut clenches uncomfortably. No one has ever tried to explain me to me. I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to handle him.
I want to ask him more about his bandmates. Does he hang out with them when they aren’t working? Are they as easygoing as he is? Do they sit around and make music? Or maybe they’re just like other guys and watch sports while drinking beers and talking shit.
But to ask seems like prying and too fangirlish. I wish I were cooler about his fame, but it feels as though John is two people. The flirty, sometimes annoying, sometimes impish man who is my neighbor, and then he’s Jax, the superstar who is the object of endless fans’ lust and idolization.
When he talks about his bandmates, I can’t help but think of him as Jax and wonder what the hell he’s even doing here and why he’s making me tea. It doesn’t feel real.
The silence grows awkward, and John catches me stalling. “Your lips are blue.”
“I’m going, I’m going.”
I take a hot shower and put on my softest pajama pants and a long-sleeve shirt. I’m not trying to impress John. How utterly ridiculous—I totally am. The man is a bowlful of creamy sex with hot fudge on top. My body knows this even if my brain keeps reminding me of why he’s a disaster waiting to happen. Maybe if I didn’t have to live right next to him, or be reminded of hooking up after the sweat dried, I’d want him to want me.
Though, really, despite the fact that he’s a consummate flirt, I don’t think he sees me as a conquest. Guys like Jax Blackwood don’t hesitate. They go for what they want without fear. As much as it pains me to admit, I admire that about him.
I laugh at myself as I towel dry my hair and then head out to the living room. The only truth I need to know is that he’d backed away from me the other night as if I had a contagious disease. I’m in no danger of things going any further than they are now.
The thought is still with me, pulling a melancholy smile to my lips, when I join him in the main room. He has a pot of tea ready and a pile of toast with little pots of jams, honey, and butter arranged on a tray. It’s so very English it tugs at my heart.
“How do you take your tea?” he asks, and I’m struck by another weird sense that I must be dreaming: Jax Blackwood fixing me a cup of tea as solicitous and proper as a butler.
Was Mrs. Goldman right? Is he lonely? I want to ask but don’t have the nerve.
“A little milk. A spoonful of sugar.”
He pours my tea and then hands me the cup. “Killian has a dismal selection of tea on hand. I’m sorry to say, it shall be cheap, bagged Earl Grey for us.”
My fingers wrap around the warm ceramic. “I’m not a huge tea drinker. I don’t think I’d know the difference anyway.”
He gives me a mock expression of horror. “I’ll make a convert out of you yet, Button.”
John might be on to something because the tea is better than any I’ve had before. Strong but not bitter. Fragrant and milky with just a hint of sweetness. I take another soothing sip and sigh before helping myself to some buttered toast with honey. “Thanks,” I tell him between bites. “This is wonderful.”
He drinks his tea and somehow makes it look manly, the cup dainty in his big hands. “What happened back there?” he asks. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But you looked … lost, Stells. Are you okay now?”