Jenny.

Just like that, my thoughts go from bitter relief to…

Want.

I want that girl.

And yes, I’m well aware that she’s playing with me just as assuredly as I’m playing with her, but that doesn’t change the fact that all I really want to be doing right now is finding out if her legs are as smooth and toned as they look and if she’s as wet as I want her to be.

My guess is yes to both, and I quickly transition to thinking about my mean, ugly Aunt Shelley in an effort to keep my twitching cock from turning into an all-out boner in the middle of a crowded bar.

Finn snorts as he accepts the two beers from our waitress with a wink. “Knew it.”

“You knew nothing of the kind,” I say, taking the beer.

“Shit, dude, Jenny Dawson is living in your house.”

“Keep your voice down,” I snarl.

His eyebrows lift. “Seriously?”

I shrug, trying to hide the fierce and unexpected surge of protectiveness. “She made you sign that NDA. You could get sued.”

He studies me. “Which reminds me, you signed yours twice. Under two different names. She really hasn’t figured it out yet?”

I shrug. “She’s on some bullshit she calls an information diet. Trying to hide, to cut herself off from the media while she works on her next album.”

“If the girl can’t handle the shit people are saying, maybe she shouldn’t have fucked a married dude.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue that there were two parties involved. That Shawn whatever-his-name-is was there too, and nobody seems to be giving him more than an indulgent eye roll before smearing shame all over Jenny.

I keep quiet, but my face gives me away, and Finn lets out a knowing chuckle. “Ah, man. She’s got you.”

“Fuck you,” I mutter.

“That’s why you don’t care about this Yvonne bullshit. You’ve got your dick all tangled up with a hot pop star.”

I jerk my chin at the pool table. “We going to play, or what?”

“Nah, this is far more interesting,” Finn says, shifting his body so that he’s leaning against the high-top table as he studies me. “She as hot in bed as she looks?”

“She’s one of the richest girls in the country. You think she’s going to sully herself with the guy she thinks is the handyman?”

“Far as I can see, she sullies herself with just about anyone.”

My fist clenches, and for the first time since eleventh grade, when I wanted to beat Finn to a pulp for making out with the girl I had a crush on, I want to give him a bloody nose.

Finn’s smarter now than he was when he was sixteen, and immediately recognizes this, lifting his hands in surrender. “Hey, man. Easy. Didn’t know it was like that.”

“It’s not like anything, asswipe. I barely see her. We’re just…coexisting.”

“ ’Kay.” Finn shrugs. “So you haven’t gotten in her pants yet.”

“Nope.” Not yet.

“Kissed her?”

I remain silent.

Finn chuckles. “I fucking knew it.”

“Shut up, man.”

Jenny

When I asked Noah if I could make use of his TV, I was mostly trying to stall his departure, find out where he was going.

But after he leaves, I realize that I’m not in the mood to read, and my mind needs a little break from the constant melodies. It’s like that sometimes. This past week the music’s been nonstop, and I haven’t been able to write it down fast enough.

But I’ve hit a wall.

It’s almost like the backlog of the past year, when I wasn’t able to write even a single lyric¸ came rushing out all at once. I’ve got a couple of songs that feel solid. It’s just that they feel like old songs…songs that I thought up months ago and which are just now making it onto the page.

In other words, I’ve done the easy stuff, and now the harder stuff is lurking. The harder songs are always the last to come. The most painful.

And tonight I’m not in the mood.

Noah’s little cottage is nicer than I expect. I mean, it’s not luxury, not by a long shot, but it’s cozy. His bed is made, or at least there’s a dark navy comforter pulled up over it and pillowcases that look clean.

The rest of his furniture is sparse. A tiny kitchen table and ugly chairs I’m guessing are left over from the Eddingtons. A couple of old bookshelves, mostly empty. But the couch looks new, and I find out quickly it is very comfy.

I’m not much of a TV person. I’ve always been too busy to keep up with the latest shows, but I do love movies, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I love the Harry Potter series, which means I let out an actual squeal of delight when I see there’s a marathon happening.

By the time I tune in, the first two are over, which is a bummer since they’re my favorites, but The Prisoner of Azkaban definitely beats sitting alone in my bedroom.

The dogs have joined me.

Ranger tried to insist on sitting on Dolly, but that worked out not at all, so I’ve positioned myself in the middle, setting up a cozy little nest with a flannel blanket for Ranger on my right, and using one of Noah’s pristine-looking pillows for Dolly on my left.

He earned it after his parting words about his tongue doing naughty things.

But I’m not thinking about that. Nope.

The Goblet of Fire’s just getting started when Ranger takes a break from begging for my popcorn (unabashedly stolen from Finn’s stash) and starts to bark. A second later, the front door opens, and Noah’s standing there all big and brooding. He’s home earlier than I expected, and I have a quick debate with myself on how to play it.