“Right now we haven’t even lived together a single day. Let’s talk when it’s been a year.”

“Two months.”

Kit snorted. “Eight.”

“Six.”

“Fine.”

He grinned. “What kind of pool do you want?”

Slanting him a glance, she said, “Shut up and run.”

He laughed and they ran, the night a starlit quiet around them. They passed one of the security guys, kept going with a nod of hello. It took four circuits around the property before Kit stopped at her front door. “Enough?” she said, her breath jagged and her hands on her knees.

“Yeah.” He usually ran for hours, but then he was usually alone. Running with Kit had been different—he didn’t know if he was tired enough to catch some shut-eye, but at least he no longer felt as twisted and black inside. “Let’s go in.”

He did sleep. Not much, but about the same amount he did after exhausting himself—or by fucking out his rage. Not that it had exactly been the latter when he screwed those random groupies. There was a twisted version of male pride involved too, but he didn’t have to think about his fucked-up psyche today. Because today when he woke, it wasn’t with the taste of disgust in his mouth but to the scent of coffee.

Wandering out of the bedroom without bothering to pull on jeans over the black of his boxer briefs—Kit had seen it all before anyway—he yawned as he stepped into the kitchen. “I thought you’d sleep in.”

She didn’t look away from the box she was reading. “Can’t. Body clock.”

“What’s that?” Leaning on the counter, he stole her coffee and took a deep gulp.

“Waffle mix.”

His stomach rumbled.

Glancing across the counter, her lips began to curve before her expression morphed into a scowl. “You look terrible.”

Kit was lying—Noah looked gorgeous. His hair was all rumpled, his shoulders golden and sleek with muscle, his upper body far too beautiful for her peace of mind.

And his eyes, those gray eyes, were full of light.

“Gee, thanks, Katie.”

“No waffles for you.”

“Hey, come on!” A grin that made him impossibly more beautiful. Putting down her coffee mug, he came around the counter, and damn it, he wasn’t wearing jeans. “I bet I can convince you otherwise.”

When he put his hands on her hips and tugged her forward, she slammed the box of waffle mix against his chest. “Stop right there, mister.” Her stomach was flipping, her skin hot.

He wrapped his arms around her instead and leaned in to press his forehead against hers. “Good morning.”

“I hate mornings,” she said, trying to keep her voice strong. It was difficult—she’d never seen Noah like this. In a good mood, yes, but never this good. He seemed to be smiling with his whole body. If this was what she got to wake up to every day, she might just come to like mornings.

“I’ll make the waffles from scratch,” he said, his cheeks creasing.

Her mouth fell open. “Since when can you cook?”

“I didn’t say I could cook. I said I could make waffles.” Moving one hand to her face, he cupped her cheek, that heartbreaker smile still on his face. “I had a job in a diner once, remember? Not long after the guys and I first came to LA. Anyway, the cook taught me.”

“Female cook?” she asked and saw the answer in his wicked smile. Affecting a scowl, she pushed at his shoulders, had to fight not to keep stroking the hot silk of his skin. “Let’s see these famous waffles.” She didn’t really want him to release her. Being close to Noah when he was like this… it made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.

He rubbed his thumb over her cheek before letting go. “Where’s your flour?”

“Same place as your pants,” she muttered and, when he threw back his head and laughed, couldn’t help her own smile. “Go put on clothes or you might burn something important.”

Still grinning, he returned to his bedroom and came back out wearing only a pair of jeans she recognized—hard not to when the denim had a tear just below his butt and threadbare patches all over. “Do you wear those outside?”

A shrug. “I wore them onstage during the tour.”

Jealousy bit into her with sharp little teeth. Stomach tensing, she shoved away the nasty, vicious emotion. Being jealous of all the women who wanted Noah—who’d been with him—would destroy the two of them before they ever had a shot. She had to let it go, but it was hard. So damn hard.

“Found it!” He held up her flour container with a triumphant look on his face.

Smiling, because how could she not with him here, looking at her that way, she helped gather the other ingredients. He was just finishing up the batter while the waffle iron heated when her cell phone rang.

Glancing at the screen, she saw it was her agent. “Harper?” she said, figuring it had to be bad news if the other woman was calling her at six thirty in the morning. “Hit me with it.”

“Esra Dali just called.” Harper’s voice was ebullient. “Wants you in for a screen test at ten.”

Kit gripped the edge of the counter. “You sure he wasn’t drunk?” she asked, trying to keep her heart from racing and failing spectacularly. “Pretty early for a call.”

“He keeps crazy hours. You make sure you get your butt down to the studios by ten, otherwise I’ll disavow all knowledge of you.”

“Where do I need to go?” Writing down the details, she hung up to see the gorgeous rocker in her kitchen pouring batter into the waffle iron.

It was as wonderfully surreal a sight as the words she spoke. “I have a screen test for Redemption.”

Noah’s face lit up. “Fuck yeah.”

An hour and a half later, after they’d polished off the waffles and she was in her garden, meditating to put herself into the right mind-set for the screen test, Harper called back. The normally cool and collected agent was beside herself.

Thanks to Kit’s suddenly red-hot profile, the cosmetics company had sent in a revised offer that extended her proposed contract to include all international markets. “I don’t see any nasty clauses this time,” Harper said, “though I’m flicking it to the legal eagles to check. You should be signing on the dotted line tomorrow if all goes well.”

Kit hung up to the knowledge that her financial problems were close to over and that, if all went well, her career was about to shoot into the stratosphere. She should’ve been as ecstatic as Harper, but…

Her eyes lingered on Noah where he sat against the cherry blossom tree, lazily strumming his guitar while she sat cross-legged on a yoga mat a short distance from him. The music didn’t bother her when she meditated—she liked it, liked him nearby. But even when physically close, it felt as if he stood an ocean apart from her.

It wasn’t the sex. She hungered for Noah until she couldn’t breathe, but if sex hurt him to the point that it had become a weapon he used to self-harm, then she’d find a way to deal. No, what caused her pain was that he didn’t trust her enough to tell her what had caused the still-bleeding wound on his soul.

Lifting his head, he met her gaze, and in his eyes she saw a future with a man who was her best friend, but a best friend who’d keep his secrets, keep part of his soul forever hidden from her.

Could she live with that?

Chapter 28

Noah put the top firmly on his convertible before he and Kit left for the screen test. He said it was to protect her hair, but Kit’s expression told him she knew that was a load of BS. Noah waited for her to argue, but his mind was made up: no way was he permitting the stalker to ruin a day that could mark a watershed moment in her career.