Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

My insides do a tumble, and I swallow back a nervous laugh. Maybe Celia is right. Maybe I need to turn down the job and get my ass to LA.

Except I can't. I really do need the money. And I really don't want to leave Maia in charge until I'm sure she can handle it.

And, if I'm being really and truly honest, I don't want to leave Austin--or Stark Applied Technology. Not now.

Because maybe I secretly kinda, sorta want to be around him.

And that's true even if leaving would be better for my heart.

In California, Celia releases a long, loud sigh of resignation. "Okay, fine. But when Holt goes gaga over our stuff and wants to meet us in person, you're flying your ass out here."

"Damn right, I am."

"Okay, then. I'm going to go get some breakfast. Have a good weekend," she adds. "But not too good. You owe me new lyrics. We had a pact."

"I know, I know. Go. Let me work."

We'd agreed to get one new song ready every two months. Faster if we could. And I haven't sent her fresh lyrics in over three weeks. What can I say? Prepping for the Stark proposal ate up almost all of my spare time. And now that I have the job, the work is going to devour the rest of it.

I push back from the table. "She's right. I need to park myself in my room and finish up Starfall. What are you up to today?"

"Me and the guys are doing a whole slew of videos that Tanya can post during the tour." Tanya is the drummer's wife, and Seven Percent's social media manager.

Ares stands and starts to clear the table. "Before you disappear into your cave, tell me what's up."

"Up?"

"When Celia mentioned the rat bastard--you flinched."

"I did not." Shit. I probably did. "You're imaging things."

"I don't think so." He scrapes the pancakes into the trash, then drops the dishes into the sink with a clatter.

"It's just that we're going to be working together." That's true, of course, but it's not the whole truth. And I'm not ready to share how much Noah is messing with my head and my heart.

He studies me for a moment, and it's clear he doesn't believe me. But he holds up his hands in surrender. "Fine. You don't want to tell me, I'm not going to pry."

"There's nothing to tell," I say, as the doorbell rings. "Oh, hell. That's probably Mr. Fowler."

My neighbor is the epitome of a crotchety old man, and his biggest pleasure in life is calling me out when I forget to roll my trashcan to the backyard after trash day. Apparently, my oversight not only destroys the beauty and serenity of the neighborhood, but sucks the pleasure from life itself.

"Then he's more off his rocker than usual," Ares says. "I pulled it back on my way in last night."

"You did?" I pause at the door and turn back to him with a smile. "Thanks."

I'm already tugging the door open when I turn back, only to find Noah Carter standing once more on my doorstep.

"Noah!" His name slips from my lips, and I stand frozen like an idiot, my hand still on the knob.

He's dressed casually. Jeans with canvas loafers, paired with an open gray button down over a pale blue T-shirt. He's clean-shaven, and though I imagine he started the day with his hair combed, now it's ruffled. From his fingers, I'm sure, but it suggests a day at sea. And, frankly, it's undeniably sexy.

I give myself a quick mental kick in the ass, because that is not the direction my thoughts need to be going.

He's wearing aviator-style glasses, which means I can't see his eyes. He's probably looking me over, and right then I wish I was wearing anything other than Disney PJs under a fluffy robe covered with embroidered pink ducks.

I frown up at him, hoping my stern glare makes up for my ridiculous outfit.

Probably not my smartest move, though, because the moment he tugs the sunglasses off, I melt a little, caught up in the green fire of his gaze. My heart skips a beat, and the corner of his mouth curves up, as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking.