Please tell me you’re as wound up as I am.

  It looks like he might be when we step into the elevator at The Extravagant.

  I step to the other side, as far away from him as I can be.

  We ride in silence, and it’s for the best.

  I know it is.

  And when I make it to my room without launching myself at him, I chalk this up as a victory.

  I unknot my tie, loosen it, tug it off.

  I strip off my shirt, my slacks, my leather shoes.

  I do the only thing I can think of. Hit the shower and release some tension that way.

  And when I step out and wrap a towel around my waist, my phone buzzes.

  I dive for it. I swear, no one has raced to his phone faster than I do in that moment.

  Grabbing it on the bed, I flip it over, hoping so damn hard. Maybe, just maybe, it’s Jackson saying he’s on the other side of the door. Asking if he can come in.

  I’d yank open that door so damn fast. I’d drag him to the bed and pounce on him.

  But when I see the name, I smile anyway.

  It’s Zane.

  “It’s about time. Way to leave a guy hanging,” I say.

  “Ha. I’ll do you one better than leaving you hanging. I’m downstairs. Can I come up?”

  This must be one hell of a guacamole situation.

  15

  Stone

  “What the hell are you doing in Vegas already?” I swing open the door and wrap my crazy-ass brother in a big hug. “I didn’t expect to see you for a few more days.”

  Zane wraps his arms around me as I give a quick hello to Cruz. “Hey, Cruz,” I say to the sturdy guy watching the door. “How’s it going?”

  “No complaints. Good to see family, isn’t it?”

  “Hell yes,” I say with a huge smile, bringing Zane in harder.

  When we let go, Zane knocks fists with Cruz. “How you doing? It’s been a while. How’s your little girl?”

  “Isabella’s four now. I can barely keep up with her when I’m home in LA,” Cruz says with a grin.

  “Show me pics soon?”

  “Absolutely,” he says, and I pull my brother into my suite.

  “How the hell are you?” I ask as the door closes.

  He lets out a long stream of air. “I had to get out of town. Hitched a ride early.”

  “You drove from San Fran?”

  “No. Grabbed a cheap flight. Got out of Dodge.”

  “Cheap flight? Like that explains you showing up early?” I lead him into the suite. “Spill the beans.”

  His green eyes, the same shade as mine, roam me up and down. “Want to put on some clothes?”

  I glance at my towel and do the only reasonable thing—rip it off and drop it on the floor. “You show up in my suite and tell me to put clothes on? Dude, do not make me hug you again.”

  He cringes, laughing, then covers his eyes. “Do not, under any circumstances, hug me now.”

  “Aww. Poor Zane. Can’t handle his big brother having a bigger dick.”

  “Can’t handle you showing me your dick,” he says, but he’s still laughing, and that’s a good sign for the situation.

  Crossing the room to the bureau, I grab a pair of boxer-briefs and tug them on. “Can’t handle the awesomeness of my dick, you mean.”

  I return to the living room, flop down on the couch, and cross my feet at the ankles up on the coffee table. I pat the cushion next to me. “Sit. Divulge.”

  Zane sinks into a heap, like the air’s leaked out of him.

  I scoot closer, squeezing his lanky shoulder. “What’s the story, morning glory?”

  “Dad. He’s going at me again. My last gig ended when the TV season ended,” he says, referring to the Webflix show he worked on recently.

  “Right. Sure.”

  “He gave me the ‘join the construction business’ talk again.”

  “Ah, yes. Word on the street is he needs an electrician,” I say wryly, because we’ve heard it all before.

  “He wants to retire,” Zane says, getting in on the act.

  “He’s pushing sixty-five, you know,” we both say in unison, and thank fuck we can laugh about it or my little brother might cry.

  “This time it’s different. I think he’s serious.” He slides a hand through his wavy hair. “I don’t know what to do. I’m in between gigs, and I hate turning him down.”

  I scoff. “You’re a licensed electrician because you work lights for stage shows and TV. But what you really are is a lighting designer.”

  “Right. But I’m not like you. I don’t make a regular living from it. How do I just say no?”

  That’s an excellent question.

  I noodle on it for a few minutes, then in a flash of brilliance, I see an out. A temporary one, but still an out, if he’ll agree to it. “Work with me.”

  He blinks. “What?”

  I sit up straighter, excitement blasting through my cells. “Work with me. My residency here is only two weeks long. I know you don’t want to ride on my coattails, but you’re in town already. We’ll get you a room here, and you can work the lights—we’ve got another week of rehearsal, so you can help prep. It’ll give you some breathing room, and while we’re here, we’ll get you introduced to anyone you need to know on the Strip. The Carmichaels are great—they’ve got contacts. Nadia owns the football team, and she knows peeps. Let’s have you do the show, and we will network the hell out of you.”

  He hums, as if he’s giving this some thought. But not for long. A huge grin spreads across his face seconds later. “You sure? I don’t want to mess things up for you again.”

  I make a pshaw sound. “You didn’t mess anything up. You fell for a girl, she fell for you, and it didn’t work out. Shit happens. We move on.”

  “Dude,” he says, his grin painted all over his face. “For real? I would love that.”

  “Yes, for real. Just make me a deal—no falling in love with the opening act. Zoe is off-limits. No falling in love with anyone who works with me.”

  He lifts his palm and straightens his spine. “I solemnly swear I will keep it locked up. My heart. Dick too. But you know me—my dick follows my heart.”

  I rap my knuckles against his sternum. “Your soft marshmallow heart.”

  Zane laughs, then throws his arms around me. “I love you like a brother.”

  I laugh. “Dude. Same.”

  “Also, you have a marshmallow heart too,” he says when we separate.

  “Maybe I do.”

  And maybe that soft heart seems to get a little mushier around a certain six-foot-four Adonis.

  That gives me an idea.

  A brilliant idea.

  The solution to my two-track brain. “I’ll take the plunge with you.” I raise my hand in a Scout’s honor oath as well. “Care to make a friendly wager?”

  “What’s the wager?”

  “Neither one of us gets involved from now till the show ends. A week of rehearsals and the two-week gig. Neither one of us falls in love. If either does, I owe you one of my Grammys.”

  “You think I want your Grammy?”

  I roll my eyes. “You can sell it on eBay, dickhead.”

  “I don’t want anything from you but respect. I want to prove to you that I won’t mess up your show.”

  “And I want to prove I have faith in you. So, I’m taking the no-love plunge.”

  “Brothers-in-arms,” he says, and we shake on it.

  This is what I need. Accountability. Someone I can make a promise to.

  Real stakes to resist Jackson.

  And a chance for my brother to wriggle away from a bad influence in the form of our dad.

  “You’re on. We will have our hearts in lockdown,” he says. Then he eyes my hair, flicking his fingers at it. “But what’s up with the hair? You’re growing it out?”

  I pat the back of my head. “It’s a little longer than the last time I saw you. I’m still fuck-hot.”

  “Remember the tour where you had your best reviews? Your hair was shorter.”

  I send a text to my assistant asking her to schedule a haircut for me tomorrow.

  Stat.

  As I lift my chai at lunch with Nadia the next day, I’m feeling pretty damn good. Zane is already working with the tech crew, the early run-through of my songs was flawless, and this second detox is definitely going to keep me in tip-top shape for the two-week run.

  I give my friend the basics. “Plus, I’m going to be focused AF. Last night, I even swore to Zane I wouldn’t fall in love.”

  She chuckles, then takes a sip of her coffee. “But that should be easy. You’ve never been in love, Stone.”

  “That is true. Stone by name, heart of stone by nature,” I say, then furrow my brow. “Was that too easy a promise to make? Should I have thrown down harder?”

  “You tell me. Was it?”

  I give a casual shrug. “Nah. It’s going to be a piece of cake.”

  But her dark eyes stay locked on mine, like she’s studying me. “Is there someone you’re going to miss for the next few weeks?”

  I haven’t told her about Jackson. Haven’t told anyone. Why would I? There’s nothing to tell. And I’m not a kisser and teller. Or a sucker and teller.

  I scoff. “Nope. I’m free as a bird.”

  And I feel that way until Jackson walks into my suite that afternoon for his shift, and seeing him reminds me that this—resisting him—is what’s truly hard. Because, hell, I just like the guy.

  That is becoming its own massive problem.

  16

  Jackson

  Six miles in the morning.

  Jujitsu after that.

  A check-in with Ryan for his job interviews.

  A bank transfer to the credit card company.

  I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, trying to erase the tension—the inevitable tension—that comes with that reminder.

  The balance is only a bit smaller.

  But still, it’s shrinking.

  Thanks to the job.

  My afternoon begins with advance scouting—checking out some of the press stops Stone will make during his residency—as well as a routine check of the theater in The Extravagant where he’ll perform.

  He played here the other month, so we know it well, but double-checking, then triple-checking, is the name of my game.

  I conduct the advance survey then write up a report for the rest of the personal security team and email that out to Cruz, Terrence, the backup guys, and the weekend bodyguards.

  Cruz replies in seconds via text.

  Cruz: Thanks for the info. Also, would you recommend pepperoni or sausage on a pizza?

  I roll my eyes. I swear he’s not ever going to let me live down the pizza comment from the night I left Stone’s room late. I have no idea if he knows what we were up to, but I’m not letting on, so I reply with a joke. But, like most jokes, it contains the truth.

  Jackson: I prefer sausage. Maybe you’d like a peach on yours.

  Cruz: Dude. That’d be donuts.

  I cringe. Not because of the donut comparison to a woman. But because . . .

  Jackson: Donuts on pizza sounds horrible.

  Cruz: No shit! But in any case, to each his own.

  He leaves it at that. And I’m grateful. Grateful he didn’t give me a hard time that night I left Stone’s room late. Grateful he’s giving me a hard time now. We’re buds, and that’s what we do.

  Since it’s only two, I head to the gym for an hour of weights while blasting a playlist of new jams compiled by Bethany.

  After I down a long drink of water, I fire off a text to my song purveyor.

  Jackson: Boom. Slayed my afternoon workout thanks to your playlist.

  Bethany: When do you not slay it?

  Jackson: Never.

  Bethany: So it wasn’t really my jams that did it?

  Jackson: Take the compliment, Bethany.

  Bethany: I took it, tucked it in my backpack for a rainy day. By the way, how’s everything going with the concert?

  I’m about to reply when Terrence strolls in. He’s off today, so another guy is filling in. Terrence tips his chin in a hello. “Did you hear the news?”

  Groaning, I slip my phone into the pocket of my shorts. “Nothing good ever starts with ‘Did you hear the news?’” I give him a “bring it on” curl of my fingers. “Go ahead. Serve it up, whatever it is.”

  The tour has been canceled. My job has ended. There’s a fire. Something.

  Terrence claps my shoulder. “Sorry to scare you, bro. It’s just that Stone’s brother showed up late last night.”

  I school my expression, like I know nothing about Zane. “Oh, he did?”

  But then I want to kick myself, because of course I can know about Stone’s brother. I was with Stone last night as part of my job when the text landed that Zane had a situation.

  I guess that situation means Zane is here.

  Terrence picks up a fifty-pound barbell and starts biceps curls. “He showed up late last night. Stone brought him on to do lighting. Veronica sent out a note a little while ago. Zane’s doing some extra effects with lights. Some cool new things he wants to try.”

  “So that’s . . . good?”

  Terrence smiles, big and wide, as he switches to the other arm without a grunt or a groan. “He’s a fun guy. He was with us a few years ago. He’s a lot like Stone.”

  I tilt my head to the side, curious to know everything about the rock star. “In what way?”

  Terrence taps his sternum. “Big, huge heart. A total softie.”

  I smile, turning my face away so it’s not completely obvious to Terrence how much that statement makes my own heart pound a little harder. “Yeah, sounds like Stone. Thanks for the update, man.”

  “Anytime. Also, if you don’t want your Hawks tix when it’s your turn, let me know,” he says.

  “You’re already angling to snag them?”

  He shoots me a serious stare. “I don’t joke about football. And I’ve been on the rotation longer. You should just give them to me.”

  “You wish,” I say, laughing. I plan to enjoy one of the perks of working for this rock star—his generosity in sharing his suite with his staff.

  “Can’t fault a man for trying,” Terrence says, then lowers his barbells, tucks his AirPods into his ears, and dives into his workout. As I leave the hotel gym, I grab my phone, spotting Bethany’s latest text.

  Bethany: Did you tell Stone your little sister has a crush on him?

  I stop in my tracks, cringing. That is such an awful thought for so many reasons. Actually, for one reason that trumps all others. We cannot be into the same guy.

  Jackson: You do not.

  Bethany: He’s hot. Like we talked about. Admit it. Haven’t you noticed this?

  I drag my hand over my chin and make my way down the hall to the stairwell. As I power up the steps, I write back.

  Jackson: He’s eighteen years older than you.

  Bethany: I’m not going to marry him. I’m not going to sleep with him. I’m simply admiring his looks, like everyone does. Also, he’s only four years older than you. And I know that he’s a switch-hitter.

  Jackson: Your math is terrific. And everyone knows he’s a switch-hitter.

  Bethany: So what do you think about that? Also, what is wrong with us? Why have we never discussed that your boss is a total hottie?

  Jackson: Because that’s why. He’s my boss. It doesn’t matter how he looks.

  Bethany: Do you have a crush on him?

  I swallow roughly.

  Crush? No. I’m a grown man.

  But my heart did just beat wildly when Terrence said nice things about him.

  My smile did just claim all the real estate on my face.

  Is that what happens when you have a crush?

  It’s hard to say, because the lust is so strong too.

  One week after our night together and my desire for Stone has not abated. It shows no signs of stopping. It has its own life force.

  As I round the corner of the next landing, I answer her with complete honesty.

  Jackson: I don’t have crushes.

  Bethany: Well, that is true. When you fall, you fall hard. There’s no crushing about it.

  Jackson: Thanks for the reminder. It’s more like I have devastations.

  Bethany: So no crush on Stone, then? No hope of a #Jackstone in our future?

  I groan as an anchor sinks in my chest. I hate lying to her. But I don’t want to tell her the truth either. Stone and I had a thing. It happened once. It’s not happening again. We are just a meme. A hashtag. Jackstone isn’t real.

  Jackson: I will admit, in all honesty, that he is handsome, talented, generous, and magnetic.

  Bethany: Oh my God! I’m dying to ask you a ton more questions, but I have rehearsal. You are not off the hook, mister.

  I sigh in relief at the reprieve from her sisterly inquisition. After I shower and dress for work, I head upstairs to the penthouse floor, say hello to the daytime bodyguard, chat with him quickly about the shift—it was a quiet one, he says—then thank him and rap on the door.

  “Jackson Pearce here.”

  Stone opens the door, inviting me in with a sweep of his arm and a twinkle in his eyes. When the door shuts, he drags a hand through his hair. “Brother, today is a hard day.”