Fall (VIP 3)

John glances at me. Whatever he sees—perhaps, my oh hell no, don’t even think about it expression—has him smiling with fake enthusiasm and slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Can’t think of anyone I’d rather take with me.”

I grunt and dislodge the warm weight of his arm. Damn thing feels like silk and steel along the back of my neck. The second it’s gone, I miss his touch, which really annoys me.

“How do you two know each other?” I ask Richard, because I don’t want to pay attention to the smug rocker at my side.

“I was going to ask the same of you two,” John cuts in. His arm brushes against mine and the little hairs on my skin lift with a shiver. I want to press closer, ease that strange, unfulfilled awareness that he’s created by touching me. I remain steady, pretending I’m unmoved.

Richard’s lips quirk as he takes it all in, but when he speaks, his voice is as light and pleasant as always. “I am a great fan of Kill John.”

“And I am a great fan of anything Richard chooses to put on my plate,” John adds happily. “He also gave Rye and me cooking lessons a while back. And I can say with all honesty, I was the better student.”

“Humble too,” I mutter. Of course John had coveted lessons from Richard. I’m suddenly feeling a lot less unique.

Richard chuckles. “No, it is true. Rye was completely hopeless.”

John’s expression is bright with laughter. “He was afraid of the raw chicken. Had a total fit about it and kept trying to carve it without actually having to touch it.”

Both men dissolve into laughter.

“Richard Dubious,” exclaims a crisp feminine voice, cutting through their deep chuckles. “I thought that was you.”

John’s redhead has found us. She practically flings herself into Richard’s arms and gives him a hug. Richard kisses her cheeks. “Brenna, darling. You are a vision.”

I glance toward the front door with longing.

“Old flatterer,” she says with a swat to his shoulder.

Surprised that she used the same words as I had, I can only stare. She has the same innate confidence that Jax has and a sense of style I envy. She catches my eye and gives me a friendly smile. “I’m sorry. I completely interrupted.” Her catlike eyes narrow. “Have we met? You look familiar to me.”

John’s arm touches mine again. “Brenn, this is Stella Grey.”

As if she should know me.

Weirdly, she looks at me as though she does. “No shit? What a small world.”

I glance at John, confused as hell, but Brenna sticks out her hand. “I’m Brenna James. I work with Scottie and the boys.”

John snorts at the term “boys.”

I ignore that and shake Brenna’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

It’s almost true. Petty me still remembers the way she and John hung on each other. Are they a couple? If that’s the case, I feel sorry for her because John is definitely an indiscriminate flirt.

“Scottie had me send you the info packet,” she tells me.

“Are you responsible for the gift basket?” I ask her, warming.

She grins. “A girl’s gotta feel welcome, doesn’t she?”

Okay, I can’t hate her. She’s awesome, and I’m a bitter pill for being jealous over a guy I have vowed not to even like. I grin back at her. “Thank you so much. It was the nicest gift I’ve ever received.”

Which is the truth. Unexpected gifts are always the best ones.

John frowns, and I can’t tell if he thinks I’m being fractious or is just annoyed by me chatting with Brenna. Either way, I return his look. I’m not the ass-nugget in this relationship—or whatever this thing is between us.

It’s nothing. Nothing.

He catches my eyes again, and his expression clears into something oddly satisfied. I don’t get him at all. My confusion turns to alarm when he grabs my hand and clasps it with a firm grip.

“Excuse us for a second,” he tells Richard and Brenna, already pulling me away.

“What the hell?” I hiss, stumbling along behind him. I don’t tug free because, while my brain and mouth protest, my body has clearly not gotten the memo. Oh no, the foul betrayer is humming with a heady anticipation. My senses narrow down to the rough feel of his hand, how it’s also warm and strong and so large that it dwarfs my own. I catch a faint whiff of cologne or maybe body wash. I can’t tell—all I know is that it’s smoky and delicious, and I want to bury my nose into the crook of his neck to pull in more of that scent.

Madness.

He leads me to a back hall where the lights have been left low, and I tense. “Where the hell are we going?”

He glances over his shoulder, his lips tilting in a half smile. “Where snoops can’t overhear us.”

At the end of the hall, he tucks us in a corner, hemming me in between him and a table displaying an art piece that probably cost more than my annual salary but looks like a melting glass head.