I halt, spoon crammed in my mouth, and promptly start coughing.
“Holy shit,” I sputter around icy mint chip. “Oh, my god.”
It can’t be. I’m making things up in my head.
“No way,” I exclaim to a perplexed Stevens. “It couldn’t have been.”
My mind races, going over every second of my bizarre encounter with the man I’m beginning to suspect was Jax Blackwood, singer and guitarist for Kill John. Isn’t his real name John? Isn’t Kill John a weird inside joke among the band? A play on John and bandmate, Killian’s, names?
I shudder. The irony hurts now. Jax Blackwood tried to commit suicide a little over two years ago. It had been very public. Ugly pictures of it splashed all over the media, of Jax on the floor, nearly dead of an overdose. Kill John disbanded for a year in the wake of the near-tragedy.
Everyone had been talking about it, a juicy scandal they couldn’t get enough of. Jax’s very private life served as fodder for water coolers everywhere. I personally found it sad. The level of pain Jax felt must have been enormous. The public should have left him alone. But the world loved him. They wanted him well. They wanted their fallen star to rise again. And he had. Jax Blackwood had been on tour with Kill John last summer. They sold out the New York City show within five minutes.
“Jax Blackwood,” I say around another spoonful of ice cream.
But why would Jax Blackwood, legendary singer and guitarist for the biggest band in the world, be shopping for groceries before a blizzard?
Because this is Manhattan and anything can happen, even a world-famous rock star shopping for mint chocolate chip ice cream. Right, that’s where he’d be, getting ice cream. Not sunning it up on a beach somewhere with gorgeous women hanging on his arms.
I don’t know much about Jax Blackwood, but I do know he’s an infamous womanizer. Most of the pictures I’ve seen of him are with unearthly beautiful women at his side. Famous women. Actresses, models, singers. That much has never changed about him.
But God, now that I really think about it, my guy looked exactly like Jax. Same smarmy, I’m going to rock your world and leave your panties wet before walking out on you smile. Same gorgeous, green bedroom eyes. I had a neighbor who used to declare that Jax was the star of her personal diddle dreams. Then again, she’d claimed every member of Kill John for that honor.
The last picture I’d seen of Jax, his hair had been past his shoulders and he’d been sporting a beard. The guy in the store—John—had been clean-shaven with shorter hair, a shaggy mess.
“He could have gotten a haircut,” I ponder aloud.
Stevens mewls in agreement.
Rattled, I stare at my ice cream, the memory of his lips against mine making my cheeks flush. Had I really kissed Jax Blackwood?
“Maybe he just looks a lot like Jax,” I tell Stevens. But what about his voice? That hot fudge and cookies voice had been pure sex and sin. Just like Jax’s.
He’d wanted to know my name. And I’d walked out on him.
Pressing my hands to my hot cheeks, I laugh a little. “Holy hell. Leave it to me to kiss a rock legend and not even fully appreciate the fact until afterward.”
Steven just meows.
“Maybe,” I amend. “I think... No … He couldn’t have been Jax.”
Chapter Four
Stella
* * *
The sole bonus of a blizzard in spring is that the weather turns warm sooner than later. I hole up in my Penthouse of Awesome with Stevens purring away on my lap for a week. If you’re going to be trapped inside for a week, being in a kickass penthouse is definitely the way to go. I’ve had enough long soaks in the tub that my skin has a pink tinge to it now. And whoever lives in this condo is a music junkie. The sound system is killer, and I’m pretty sure they have every song ever recorded stored on a computer that appears to be just for that use. The movie collection is fantastic as well.
Between that, my e-reader, and my mint chip, I could have happily stayed in for longer. Okay, sure, eating the ice cream hadn’t lived up to its usual bliss. Certain … feelings had gotten in the way. But I ate those feelings right up, numbing everything with my ill-gotten gains.
By the time the world thaws enough to go out, I’m in desperate need of some exercise. Bidding sweet Stevens and bubbly Hawn adieu, I grab my yoga mat and head for the great outdoors. I’m pretty sure I’m the worst yoga practitioner on the planet, my ability to hold a pose being somewhere between ten to thirty seconds before I either fall or something pops. But it beats running. I loathe running. Burning lungs and aching shins is a hell I’m not willing to endure.