She laughed. “You’re also sweaty.”

Her hands landed on his bare skin, his T-shirt now the property of whoever it was who’d caught it when he’d thrown it out into the crowd. The intimate contact burned, sending a shock of sexual need through his body.

He pulled back with a jerk that had Kit’s eyes going wide before she blinded him with a Kathleen Devigny smile. “The cameras are still on,” she said without ever losing that smile. “Take my hand if you can’t stand for me to touch anything else.”

She could’ve kicked him and done less damage. Grabbing her hand, he squeezed. “It’s not what you think.”

Her smile remained high-voltage, but her eyes, they were hard and hurt at the same time. “You’ve been very clear, Noah. Don’t worry, I’m not getting the wrong idea. I know you don’t want me.”

He almost laughed because wanting Kit was so much a part of him, there was no Noah without it. But his laughter twisted inside him. Holding Kit’s hand tight, he said, “We’re all having pizza together. I just need to quickly shower off the sweat.”

Kit nodded and they walked to the bus. Soon as he pulled the door shut behind them, she released his hand—or tried to.

He held on. “Don’t.”

She shook her head. “It’s fine.” A tight smile. “I really am not getting any ideas.” Sliding out her phone, she waved it at him. “Van messaged. We dated last year, remember? He’s asking if you and I are serious.”

Noah winced as his fantasy shattered. Kit wasn’t his. He had no right to stop her seeing other men. Releasing her hand, he said, “What’re you going to tell him?”

“Nothing.” She looked down at her phone, fingers moving across the screen. “You and I are officially a couple, and I have to keep up the fiction or this is all for nothing.” A quick look up, a quicker smile. “Won’t be forever.”

Noah’s body grew rigid. “Two minutes,” he said and ducked into the shower.

Kit braced a trembling hand against the counter of the kitchenette, trying to breathe past the pain in the center of her chest, an agony of knives stabbing at her from the inside out, stabbing so hard they were punching through rib and muscle to make her bleed.

Every time she thought Noah couldn’t hurt her any more, he did it again.

She swallowed convulsively, squeezing her eyes shut to hold back the tears that threatened to choke off her air. She could hear the shower turning on, knew it wouldn’t last long. Noah had to be starving after that show.

Breathing through her nose, she forced down all the emotions tearing at her, as she’d learned to do while filming the traumatic scenes in Last Flight. Her character had undergone torture, loss, agonizing emotional suffering, and sometimes the crushing power of living those emotions had threatened to take Kit under. She’d had to learn to compartmentalize, to shift from a wrenching scene to a joyful one, the shooting schedule not always cohesive or chronological.

Now she used every skill she had to bring herself back under control.

Hearing the shower cut off, she released a quiet, deep breath, was waiting with a slight smile on her face when Noah stepped out… and almost doubled over from the punch to the stomach that was his damp body. He’d wrapped a white towel around his hips, but water trickled from his hair down his pectoral muscles to kiss its way over his ribs and past his ridged abs to disappear into the softness of the towel.

When he turned to head into the bedroom, she saw the phoenix, stunning because it was on the masculine architecture of Noah’s body.

Wrenching away her gaze with a harsh reminder that he couldn’t bear her touch, she slid her phone out of her pocket and skimmed through her e-mails. There were a couple from Harper telling her there was no news on Redemption, but that no one else—namely Abigail—had been signed either. The race was still on.

Right then a message popped in from Thea’s intern, copied to Noah and Thea. It was a roundup of all of Kit’s and Noah’s media mentions today. The efficient young woman had included a file of clippings of the main articles, even screenshots of tweets and other posts online.

#NoKat was trending worldwide, thanks to the “money shot” Noah had engineered.

Kit knew she shouldn’t; she’d been in the business too long not to know the Internet could wound, but she couldn’t stop herself from doing a search on that hashtag. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t what she got.

Did you see that?! I TOLD you he was into her! #NoKat #Forever

OMG, so romantic! Why can’t my boyfriend look at me that way? #NoKat #Romance #SCFans

Okay, I was bummed when Noah hooked up with her, but yeah, he looks happy, so #NoKat, I’m on board.

Even my cold and bitter heart is melted. #NoKat #SCFans

That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen. #NoKat #Happy #Staytogetherforeverplease

The sentiments were repeated over and over and over again. A lot of women were crushed that Noah was taken, but most found it romantic that the bad boy had apparently reformed for his girl. Meanwhile, the band’s male fans were chest-poundingly proud that “their” Noah had hooked up with such a “hottie.”

Kit wanted to scream and laugh at the same time. Yeah, she was hot. So hot that Noah was physically repulsed by the idea of any sexual contact with her.

“Hey.” Noah stepped out of the bedroom. “Just let me pull on my boots.”

She watched him do exactly that. He’d changed into a fresh pair of black jeans that were just as disreputable as the ones he’d been wearing earlier and a plain black T-shirt. As far as she could see, he’d just run his hands through his hair after rubbing it dry with a towel and left it at that. And he was flat-out gorgeous.

Noah put his arm around Kit’s shoulders after they left the bus. She didn’t resist, sliding her own arm around his waist and acting the smitten girlfriend, but he was conscious of her tension. No one else would be able to tell, but he could sense it through his skin, feel it in his gut. He’d hurt Kit because he couldn’t handle his own reaction to her, and he didn’t know how to fix that.

How could he tell her about his fucked-up psyche without betraying everything?

He couldn’t.

All he could do was try to be the best friend he could be in his own messed-up way. Putting his lips to her ear, he said, “I’m sorry,” then took a breath and slit open a vein. “I’m so damn happy you’re here, with me.”

Fuck, it was hard to just lay himself out there. “I like having you in my space, near me.” Loved the smell of her soft skin and hair, the way she felt against him, her smile. “I don’t want to push you away, but there’s stuff inside me that”—another harsh breath—“that just screws me up sometimes.”

Her hand clenched on his T-shirt. He wondered if she remembered she’d given him this tee. It was plain, but it had a tiny guitar stitched at the bottom on the right. The guitar was in black, hardly visible, but he’d always liked that tiny, secret detail.

She didn’t say anything in answer, but her hand opened and she kind of… petted his side. It was just a small motion, but it spoke louder than any words she could’ve said. Unable to fight the need, he took advantage of the situation to cuddle her closer.

If it could always be this way, if he never had to think about sex, if he could fix his brain so it didn’t hunger for the same thing that destroyed him, he’d beg her forgiveness on his hands and knees and find a way to put a ring on her finger that would never ever come off.

Only that was such an impossible dream that he might as well wish for wings.