But nothing ever happens for them, and the talent scout moves on to the next mall. They’re not scouting for models. They’re scouting for suckers who will pay for their flattery.
I never fell for that bullshit.
I knew being pretty was just the ante to get in the game, which is why I spent hours before and after school at voice and dance lessons. I knew I couldn’t just be the best in my school—that was easy—I had to be the best by far.
It was no surprise that I got into Manser Academy, the Bay Area’s answer to Juilliard. I felt like it was preordained. And fate brought a hot New York theater director to be our artist-in-residence my freshman year.
While the other girls drooled over his rakish good looks and charming affectations, I drove myself to shine so he’d cast me in a lead role and ignore the traditional pecking order that gives preference to upperclassmen.
He chose me. Of course he did. But he was cut from the same cloth as those mall talent scouts, trading flattery for favors.
And I didn’t realize it until it was too late.
Tyler clears his throat behind me and I jerk with surprise, immersed in reflection and the rhythm of folding and stacking clothes.
“Stella? You OK?” He grabs the top edge of the loft platform and hangs forward.
I’m sad. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long—month.” I drag my eyes away from his arms.
“Can I do anything to help you?”
Yes. You can hold me again. I shake my head. This answer is impossible. His shifting moods unnerve me, swinging from aroused Tyler to repelled Tyler, from concerned Tyler to indifferent Tyler.
Right now he’s in helpful mode, but how long that will last? And which mood will replace it?
“You’ve done enough already,” I say, then backtrack when it’s clear he misunderstands me. “I mean, I’m grateful for you giving me a place to stay for a little while. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can. I just don’t want it to be—awkward.”
I use that word to sum up the turbulent chemistry between us. I’ve fantasized about him every night since we met, even though our connection always ends with him pushing me away.
I’m a sucker for punishment.
“It’s no rush, you don’t have to go right away,” Tyler says. “I like having company. It makes this place feel less empty. I know there’s not much privacy,” he gestures to the fact that my bed can be seen from the rest of the warehouse, “but you’re welcome to stay until you find somewhere that works better.”
His expression is sweet and sad and I wonder if sometimes he feels as lonely as I do. Without thinking, I stand and wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my face against his chest the way I did on the bridge when I called him my hero.
I feel him tense with resistance, then relax into me.
“You keep rescuing me, you know that? First from the fence, and now from sudden homelessness.” I squeeze his middle in gratitude. Even though he doesn’t want me, he’s been damned nice to me.
“Don’t forget about rescuing you from those killer shoes the night we met.” I hear the smile in Tyler’s voice as he rests his chin on top of my head.
“And from my killer editor’s demand that I write a follow-up story on Tattoo Thief. That saved my job.” God, I sound pathetic. “I feel like a walking disaster when I’m around you, Tyler. I wish I could tell you I actually have my shit together, but circumstances would suggest otherwise.”
Tyler pulls back from me slightly and tips up my chin with a crooked finger, forcing my brown eyes to meet his. “You’re no disaster, Stella. You’re special. You’ve got moxie.”
I snort a laugh. “Moxie? That’s a weird old word.”
“Are you telling me you’re a shrinking violet posing as a kickass girl?”
“Kickass girl. I like that. But how would you know? As far as you’ve seen, I’m a second-string music reporter who got lucky with the fact that her best friend is dating a rock star. And then proceeded to throw that friend under the bus.” The last admission brings a fresh wave of self-loathing and I hide my face back against Tyler’s firm chest.
Which smells fantastic. But I digress.
Tyler’s quiet for a few minutes and I imagine he agrees with my self-assessment. But then he pushes me away from him and his look is serious.
“Stop it, Stella. This ends now. You apologized. It’s over.” I sniffle and an enormous rumble rips through my belly.
Tyler frowns, then bends down and hoists me from the waist, my head and upper body bent over his shoulder and hanging down his back.
“Tyler! Put me down!” I laugh and kick and pound on his back but he keeps walking, ignoring my pleas.
He dumps me on a kitchen barstool and I land with an oof. “What are you doing?”
“Feeding you.”
“It’s after midnight.”
“I heard your stomach. When was the last time you ate?”
I can’t answer immediately, and Tyler shoots me a told-you-so look.
“I need to eat pretty often. And I told you, I like the company. So what are we going to have?”
“Cereal?”
“Simple carbs. Not good enough. We need some protein.” Tyler opens the fridge and pulls out several wrapped packages and fruit. In minutes, he assembles a little picnic spread of cheese, salami, apples, grapes, crackers and nuts, and some weird jelly I’ve never seen before.
“It’s quince paste. Try it.” He spreads some on a cracker, topping it with a bit of sharp cheddar. The salty crystals in the cheese, buttery crisp cracker and tangy sweetness of the thick jelly melt together in one fantastic bite. “You see?”
“Mmff.” I chew and nod, trying to communicate just how much I appreciate this offering. No man has ever fed me before. When I lived with Blayde, he was a fend-for-yourself guy, content to live on Frosted Flakes and the pizza place around the corner.
Tyler and I eat in silence. I sit on a stool opposite him, while he bends his long torso over the kitchen counter. It becomes a game, like a stare-down, to see who will talk first. We communicate with little signs that say, You have the last piece of apple, and Here, I’ll break the last piece of cheese to share with you.
These tiny gestures affect me more than words and suddenly I’m overwhelmed by the kindness of it all. Tyler’s been nothing but kind to me—hot and cold, yes, but always kind—and it rocks me to my core.
I squeeze my eyes shut but it doesn’t hold back the tears, so I drop my head and just let them go, hoping he will be too busy putting the plate and knife and cutting board in the dishwasher to notice.
But of course he notices.
“Stella.” He comes around the kitchen island fast, his arms open, but before he reaches me, he hesitates as if I might burn him.
Once bitten, twice shy, I think bitterly.
“Are you OK?”
I shake my head but I can’t speak; my voice would break the dam and I’d dissolve into sobs. I feel stupid, crying so much in front of him.
And he’s been far too human in front of me. I wanted him to be an untouchable rock star. I wanted Tyler Walsh to be a hard-edged, devil-may-care bad boy, so that I could keep him at arm’s length and focus on what I needed—another story.
I refuse to look at his face, afraid his eyes will show me too much care. It’s like a drug, becoming accustomed to people caring about me, and when it vanishes I’ll be sucked into the withdrawal of despair.
I push myself off the barstool to avoid his touch and run to my space under his loft. Other than the bathroom, there’s not a shred of privacy in this warehouse, so I can’t even cry in peace. I sense Tyler observing me from the kitchen as I sit on the air mattress, pawing through clothes I don’t see, hoping desperately he won’t try to talk to me again.