Fall (VIP 3)

Whatever the case, aside from Killian and Libby, the people I love most in the world are here now. And so is Stella. While my dick is not a happy camper for being interrupted, and my balls ache something fierce, I’m glad Stella is meeting my mates.

Rye plops his ass down on the sofa. “I don’t smell any food.”

“I forgot to cook,” I confess with a wince. I’m notoriously forgetful and it pisses people off.

Whip slaps a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You had better things to do.” He nods in Stella’s direction. “I get it, man.”

I can’t even pretend that it wasn’t Stella distracting me. But the fact that she flushes cotton-candy pink has me elbowing Whip’s gut. “Knock it off.”

He takes the hit with a laugh and then heads for the kitchen. Brenna and Sophie follow, and the three of them start rummaging through the fridge, finding the two whole chickens I’d bought to roast.

“Let’s get this meal started,” Whip says, turning on the oven.

Sophie and Scottie look on with Felix as the rest of us make dinner. Stella and I stand by the sink peeling potatoes, our arms brushing now and then. Every time it happens, we slide each other a look, and Stella smiles shyly. It makes me want to kiss her. Every time.

I am so aware of this woman, it isn’t funny. And smitten. Ridiculously smitten. It’s worse, now that I know her taste, how she feels against my mouth, under my hands. She’s my new favorite song; I want to play her over and over.

With prep done, I take over the bulk of the cooking, mainly because I’m the best at it. Stella laughs as Rye and Whip tell stories about being on the road. And because they’re prats, most of the stories revolve around my more embarrassing moments.

“What about the first Rolling Stone interview?” Brenna interjects helpfully.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I raise a hand in defeat.

Stella’s gaze darts around the kitchen island, taking in everyone’s evil grins. “What happened?” She’s clearly relishing my pain. Little tart.

Brenna is practically giddy as she tells the story. “It was Kill John’s first Rolling Stone interview. Big time, right?”

Stella nods, rapt with anticipation.

“Jax and the reporter had been flirting the entire time,” Whip says as he chops some rosemary. “It was disgusting, really.”

“Only because she ignored you,” I feel obligated to say.

Without pause, he flips me off and continues his story. “We’re wrapping things up, and Mr. Smooth sidles over to get her number.”

I shake my head, my face hot.

Stella’s eyes are wide and deep blue. “He struck out?”

“It’s comforting to know you find the idea shocking, Button,” I deadpan. “But no.”

“No,” Whip agrees with a snicker. “Not exactly.”

Rye’s grinning wide, his eyes forming little blue triangles. “He’s standing there, all ‘So, babe,’ when suddenly he starts bobbing and weaving his head around, with this weird face …”

At that moment, everyone does the face, lips pinched, nostrils flaring as though they’re sniffing something off, and Stella starts laughing. They all do. I grimace at the memory.

Rye is still laughing as he talks. “And we’re like, what the fuck was that, dude? But Jax plays it off as if nothing happened and tries to talk to her again.”

“Only he starts bobbing around again,” Brenna says, doing a fair imitation of me.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, the echoes of that long-ago embarrassment humming along my skin.

“What was going on?” Stella asks, looking from me to my friends.

I don’t get to answer. Whip beats me to it.

“He opens his mouth one last time to speak when he suddenly sputters and coughs, just fucking gagging.”

Rye is practically weeping with glee. “And the reporter is backing up, looking really regretful she bothered talking to this wingnut, but she asks him if he’s okay.” Rye wipes his eyes. “And Jax says …”

As one, my traitorous friends all shout out as one, “I … swallowed … a … bug.”

Everyone laughs. And I do too, grudgingly. It had sucked, but it was funny. “Fucking gnat had it out for me. It was stalking me the entire interview.”

Snickering, Stella rests a hand on my forearm, her smile bright even though it’s clear she’s fighting not to laugh. “Poor baby.”

Everything in me warms, my attention homing in on where she’s touching me. Two hours ago, I thought she wouldn’t want to see me again. I’d been sucked down in a vortex of dark, taunting thoughts. She’d yanked me right back into the light.

I want to bend down, fit her lips to mine. I want to haul her into the bedroom and learn the topography of her curvy body. I want my friends to get the hell out of here. I want a lot. Want, want, want.

Not that my loudmouth friends notice.

Rye is still talking. “The reporter looks at him like she thinks he’s trying to be funny and is failing miserably. But she clearly wants to give him a chance. And she says, ‘Was that an Overboard quote? It’s my favorite movie!’”