“Fine,” I grumble. “Then there’s no point pretending I’m not as hungry as a horse.” I tuck my phone into my front pocket.

  He adopts a surprised look. “Oh, sorry. Were you actually pretending you weren’t hungry? Because it didn’t seem that way to me. It was pretty blatant.”

  “Whose side are you on, man?”

  “The side of rational thought. Along those lines, are horses that hungry? Like, in the scope of animals that have big appetites, are horses truly the hungriest? More than elephants? More than sharks?”

  “I bet lions are hungrier than horses.”

  “And probably hungry for horses,” he says, surveying the scene, his eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. I just finished my rehearsal. It’s nearly six o’clock. The show opens tomorrow night, and I am ready. The last several days have been hard, but I’ve battled through them like the fighter I am. I have not touched Jackson, have not tasted, have not licked. I’m like a goddamn warrior.

  Just need to get some vittles. “Fine. So I’m as hungry as a lion for a horse.” I pat my belly. “Owning it. Want dinner? Like, now?”

  “You’re not going to wait for Zane?”

  I shake my head as my stomach growls again. “Lions can’t wait. I’ll tell Zane we’re getting sushi. The avocado rolls are the best.”

  I grab my phone and text my brother that I’m heading to Konu. As we walk, my phone pings with his reply.

  Zane: This is going to take me longer than I thought. Start without me? Just tell me where to meet you in forty-five minutes.

  Stone: But I’ll be missing you the whole time.

  Except that’s not entirely true. Because the best parts of my days lately start and end at four and midnight, and I’m still in that delicious window of time.

  Putting my phone in my pocket, I clap Jackson on the shoulder and say, “You are my dinner date.”

  Jackson barely cracks a smile as I indicate the path to the sushi joint.

  But a bright idea lands a few seconds later. I stop in my tracks, and he halts alongside me.

  “Wait.” I meet his eyes and tip my head toward the other end of the long hallway. “Since you’re my date, let’s do Italian.”

  And the smile he barely cracked? It splits wide open.

  After fifteen minutes and a text to Zane with the new location, we’re in a quiet corner of Rosa’s, all the way in the back, far from crowds. Not quite a private room, but definitely a nook that’s out of the way of prying eyes.

  Jackson orders chicken parmigiana, and I opt for the penne pasta and a glass of red wine.

  We thank the waiter, and when he leaves, I run a hand across the back of my neck, still getting used to the absence of hair there. The haircut this week was the best trim of my life. And it had nothing to do with the way I look and everything to do with the man across from me.

  From the way he looked at me in the mirror.

  How his fingers slid through mine.

  And from his offer to cut my hair if I need it.

  I need to get it together. Need to focus on reality, not on my runaway imagination.

  Jackson’s hazel eyes follow my hands. “How are you managing with the new look?”

  I drag my palm along the back of my head. “I think I’m used to it now. She was good with the scissors.”

  He clears his throat. “She was good with talking too. I have been meaning to ask. You and Lola . . .”

  I fill in the gap with a question. “Are you jealous?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Man, why don’t you let me compliment you?”

  I set my chin in my hand and bat my eyes. “Oh, I’m all ears. I had no idea you were heading down Compliment Road. Do continue.” I cup my hand around my ear.

  He shakes his head in amusement. “I was going to say you were great with her. You have a real ease with talking to people. I hope you don’t mind that I heard most of your conversation.”

  “Not at all. You were right there just a few feet away.”

  Jackson scrubs a hand across his neatly shaved jaw, taking his time with his words. “You’re very attuned to people,” he says, and there’s vulnerability in his tone, a sound that I like a lot from him.

  I take the compliment and save it in a special place. “I’ve always tried to be. Thanks for noticing. Means a lot to me that you did.”

  He exhales deeply, like he’s processing all this. “I don’t think I realized it at first. How connected you are with people.”

  “At first? What do you mean?”

  “Early on, when I started with you.”

  “That I try to listen? To pay attention?”

  He lifts his water glass, takes a drink, and sets it down, like he needs the liquid courage to say the next thing. “I didn’t . . . see it at first.”

  “Maybe you didn’t want to realize it?” I offer that up gently. There’s no gotcha in my tone.

  Though I have a damn good feeling why he didn’t want to see that side of me. But I’d rather hear it from him. So I stay quiet, letting him lead this conversation around the next bend, since he’s the one taking it out for a stroll. I’m simply the guy enjoying the walk.

  Jackson strokes his chin, like he’s considering my statement. “That sounds about right.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He heaves a sigh. “It was easier, to be honest. Easier not to realize that about you.”

  I pin my gaze to his because I don’t want to let this topic go. I want to parachute off this cliff, see where we land. “Easier to see me as self-centered?”

  “It was a lot easier for me.” He doesn’t look away, and the intensity in his eyes speaks volumes.

  But so do words. “Why? Why was it easier, J?” The question comes out a little breathy. Hell, I feel a little breathy right now. A little warm, as we jump.

  “It’s not easy being attracted to your boss,” he says heavily. “At all, or even this much.”

  And I’m warmer now.

  Yes, I know he’s attracted to me.

  But it doesn’t get old hearing it.

  Fact is, hearing it gets better every damn time. I lean closer. “You want to know how it was for me?”

  He nods, his eyes practically screaming Yes, tell me.

  “I couldn’t let myself be attracted to you at first. Sure, I have eyes. And I knew empirically that you were a stone-cold fox.” He dips his head and smiles, and I go on. “But I didn’t let myself think about you in that way. At all. Wouldn’t. You were off-limits, even in my head, until the night you told me. In the hall, remember?”

  He laughs, leaning back in his chair, rolling his eyes. “You think I forgot that night?”

  I shrug sheepishly. “Maybe I’m just glad you didn’t.”

  He scoots in closer, setting his elbows on the table, hooking his gaze with mine again. “I didn’t forget a single detail.”

  The hair on my arms stands on end. My skin tingles as the delicious memory whips past me. “I didn’t either. I definitely haven’t forgotten how shocked I was.”

  The corner of his lips curves up in a grin. “You had no inkling? No radar? No idea?”

  Laughing, I hold out my hands in admission. “I thought you were straight as an arrow.”

  Jackson laughs too, smirking. “More like gay as a . . .” His brow furrows. “Gay as a guy who loves sucking cock?”

  I crack up, then raise my wineglass, tipping it against his water glass in a toast to that simple and perfect analogy. “Yes. That gay.”

  “That’s pretty gay,” he says, his eyes sparking with laughter.

  “It is. That’s my kind of gay.”

  His lips part as he sweeps his gaze over my face, my chest, my arms. Then back to my eyes. His are glimmering with desire. His voice drops to a low register, lower than usual and full of smoke. “And it’s one of my favorite things to do.”

  I groan recklessly, loving the image. I stare at his lips, so lush and full. Lips that would look fantastic wrapped around me. Take me out of the oven. I am cooked. Roasted. Charred probably. “Aren’t you just a dirty little flirt?”

  One eyebrow climbs. “You mean . . . big flirt?”

  “The biggest.” I take a beat then ask another question. “So when you started working for me, it was easier to see me as a cocky, self-centered guy?”

  “I had to,” he says, so matter-of-fact as we slide back to the topic. “It was the only way to get through eight hours a day on the job being attracted to you. Arm’s length and all.”

  Not going to lie. I sizzle all over, learning that his attraction has been simmering for that long. Learning that he felt that way about me from the start. And I can’t resist. I have to go fishing. “Did you like anything about me?”

  “You were entertaining. You were always wildly entertaining.”

  I wiggle my brows. “Damn right. Still am.”

  He lifts his glass, takes a drink, but doesn’t downshift the mood. “But the truth is, even though it was hard being attracted to you, and even though thinking you were self-centered was easier, I do like knowing that people matter to you. And now, I can see more sides of you. You have this ability to connect with people, whether through your music or how you talk to them. I see it in you. I saw it with Lola. I see it with me. It’s empathy, and you just have it.”

  My heart glows from the praise. I swear it’s shining in my chest, making me feel far too good. “I try to listen, to pay attention. I care about the people in my life. The people who make my life possible too.”

  And since we’re stripping ourselves bare right now, putting things on the table, this seems as good a time as any to ask something I’ve been curious about. “What about you, J? You said stuff on the plane about risk. Stuff about the past. Did someone break your heart?”

  The man across from me draws a deep breath, leans back in his chair, and looks around, never truly off the job. Then he returns his eyes to mine. “I was with someone. It was . . . serious.”

  “Were you married?” In the few seconds before he answers, I try to figure out how I would feel if he had been. Whether it would bother me, the idea that he’d lived so much, that he’d loved that hard.

  Would it deter me?

  But then, deter me from what?

  I’m not pursuing him. I can’t pursue him. We drew our lines.

  Jackson answers quickly enough, shaking his head. “No, but we lived together for a couple of years. We were together. Committed partners.”

  But now that I know, the intel doesn’t bother me. It kind of impresses me, knowing that he has it in him to live a life of devotion. So many of the pieces of Jackson are coming together. They’re making sense. The picture of him colors in, and I like what I see.

  “What went wrong, J?” I ask softly, wishing I could touch him, run a hand along his arm.

  But then, why can’t I?

  I’m a toucher. That’s how I’m wired. I need it, and I can sense this man does too. I stretch out my right hand, sliding it along his wrist.

  For a second, he shivers, and it’s both sexy and tender.

  Then he swallows. Pain flashes across his eyes as he meets my gaze. “He was killed doing a motorcycle stunt. A triple jump for prize money.” He shakes his head, huffing. “He was a YouTube daredevil. Did stunts for social media. He died about two years ago.”

  “Shit, man. I’m sorry. Does it still hurt?”

  Pursing his lips, he takes his time answering. “I’m fine. I appreciate you asking. But truly, I’m okay.”

  The way he says “okay” lingers in the air, like each letter hovers in its own space. It doesn’t sound like a half-baked okay. It sounds like an okay in the good sense of the word. The kind you aspire to.

  Especially when he adds, “I’m definitely a lot better now.”

  I swear he holds my gaze with import, with intensity. And that intensity does something to my insides. Makes them flip.

  This is a brand-new sensation. One I haven’t felt before.

  Maybe I’m reading into his answer in a way I shouldn’t.

  Or maybe my mind is running ahead of me.

  I don’t entirely understand why my pulse is skittering. I just know that it is.

  “What about you?” Jackson asks. “Have you ever been serious with anyone?”

  Letting go of his arm, I scratch my chin, considering the question. “I’ve dated. I’ve had girlfriends. I’ve had boyfriends. But nothing that ever amounted to much. Nothing that ever felt serious. If anything, when I was with someone, it felt more like casual dating for a while. If that makes sense. Someone I’d go to events with. Someone I’d see at galas and premieres, at restaurants and such. That probably sounds silly to you,” I say, since it sounds shallow to me now that I give it voice.

  He shakes his head. “No judgment. You live how you live. You love how you love.”

  “I don’t know that it was love. Not like what you had. Were you going to marry him?”

  “Probably. But that wasn’t in the cards.”

  One more puzzle piece snaps into place. “In the limo. That night. You said it had been a while for you,” I say, taking my time with the details, trying to understand why they’re making my pulse spike even harder. “You haven’t been with anyone since him?”

  “That is true. No one till you,” he adds, like he needs to clarify that point, or maybe just bring it up front and into the open, like I did with my question.

  And, hell, I like that I’m the first guy he’s been with.

  But why?

  Makes no sense why I’d dig that nugget of info.

  I’m a player. Always have been. Probably always will be.

  “Interesting.” I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know why my throat is dry, why my head is spinning with wild ideas, why my skin is prickling with something like anticipation.

  I can’t be anticipating anything, because nothing is going to happen with this guy and me.

  Except dinner. Hopefully really soon, because I am hungry.

  “And you? You like to play the field?” Jackson asks, but there’s no judgment in his tone. Only curiosity, only interest.

  But I don’t answer, because the waiter swings by with our food, and we tuck in. As I take a bite, moaning about how delicious the lion chow is, I answer in my head.

  I like to play the field because the field is awesome. Because I love sex, I love contact, I love closeness.

  I also like to play the field because it’s all I’ve known from a life lived on the road.

  A life where falling in love was never an option.

  A life where moving, doing, acting, singing, living, and playing was all I knew.

  “I’ve liked playing the field,” I say, answering him at last. “But it also fit with the last ten years of my life, you know? Being on the road. Tours. Concerts. Press junkets. Never settling down. Know what I mean?”

  “I do. I get you. It fits you,” he says.

  “And do you like being serious?”

  He slices a piece of chicken. “It feels more like my natural state. My last job was also local in Los Angeles, so I had a whole daily life there with . . . Fabian.”

  My chest twists.

  A strange piercing sensation winds through me now that I know the name of his partner. Sounds Brazilian. Now that I’m picturing him, he could have been a hot guy from Rio de Janeiro maybe. Handsome as a movie star to have nabbed Jackson.

  A few seconds ago, Jackson’s dead partner was just a guy.

  Now he has a name.

  And he had the key to Jackson’s heart, but he broke it with a choice.

  That piercing in me turns black, hard. Borderline angry. Because I’m pissed at that guy for hurting Jackson.

  For causing him all that pain.

  But then, life happens.

  It plays out the way it does, and here he is.

  Across from me.

  Is it selfish that I like where he is now? That I like him here with me? On the road with me? Having dinner with me?

  He eats the slice of chicken, chews, then finishes the thought. “I’ve always gravitated toward relationships. I guess it’s just the kind of person I am.”

  “You really don’t do hookups ever?” I ask, then take a bite of my pasta.

  “No, I haven’t. I guess until that one time with you.”

  Ah, hell.

  This delights me.

  It shouldn’t.

  But it absolutely delights me to no end, even though I know nothing is going to happen between us. Except my stupid heart is dancing some kind of crazy jig. Because he bent for me.

  I let go of the jealousy I feel for his past, and I slide my boot under the table, rubbing the toe against his shoe. “Call me crazy, but I think that’s sexy.”

  He laughs. “Why on earth would you think that’s sexy?”

  “You tell me, Jackson. All I can figure is I think everything about you is sexy,” I say, and lest the moment become too heavy, I lighten it. “And now that I know you’re as gay as a guy who likes sucking cock, I am allowed to think how sexy you are all the time.”

  I set down my fork with a flourish, wiggle a brow, and lick my lips salaciously.

  Because this is me—easy, free, playing the field.

  He laughs. “And how’s that working out for you? Is it driving you crazy knowing nothing is gonna happen?”

  “So damn crazy,” I mutter.

  I’m crazier, too, when my brother joins us a few minutes later and it’s no longer a date.

  But I have to remind myself it was never one.

  Should be easy, since Jackson is great with him. “The setup you were running through earlier—it looks great,” Jackson says to Zane after he orders.

  “Thanks. I’m glad we could put it all together so quickly,” my brother replies.

  “I’m impressed. Can’t wait for the show to open tomorrow night.”

  Zane glances at me, then back at Jackson, and asks, “So, you like Stone’s music?”

  Then my brother smiles at my bodyguard, like he can’t wait for the answer.

  I can’t either. I don’t know what he’ll say, but I want Jackson’s yes so damn badly. Why the hell do I want him to like my music when millions do? When my shows sell out? I don’t need one man’s approval.