I buzzed his apartment, then stepped back, shielding my eyes from the sun to look up at the top floor. He could be out, or maybe he hadn’t returned here at all when he left New York, but my gut told me he was here. After that fucking sad excuse for a reporter stuck the knife in, I’d wager Joz wanted to return somewhere familiar to lick his wounds.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the curtains twitch, but when I properly looked, I couldn’t see him. Seconds later, though, a buzzer sounded, and the door clicked open. I went inside, making sure to close it behind me. The internet had put paid to stars addresses being a secret, security a constant concern for those in the public eye. Even my family required the services of a bodyguard from time to time, although I’d never found the need for one myself. So far.
The elevator doors glided open, revealing a foyer. As I stepped out, the door opposite opened, and Joz stood there in a pair of ripped jeans, bare feet, and aMetallicaT-shirt.
Why were bare feet so sexy?
Strike that. Why were bare feet on Joz Raynor so sexy?
“Great band,” I said, pointing my chin at his shirt.
“What are you doing here?”
“Shouldn’t the question be what areyoudoing here?”
His nostrils flared, and for a second I thought he was going to tell me to fuck off and slam the door in my face. Then again, if that had been his intention, he could’ve just left me out on the sidewalk.
Spinning on his heel, he walked away, leaving the door open. I followed. Joz’s place was exactly the kind of apartment I’d buy if I needed a permanent residence in London, all exposed brick, vaulted ceilings, and picture windows offering a great view of the city. It was open plan and sparsely furnished, with a kitchen in one corner, a large L-shaped sofa opposite a TV, and a coffee table. I’d expected to see several guitars scattered about and Joz’s many awards lining the walls, but there wasn’t even a single picture.
“Do you live here permanently?”
“When I’m in the country, yeah. Why?” He ambled over to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and removed a bottle of water.
“It’s… minimalist.”
“It has what I need.”
He poured two glasses of water and brought them over to the couch, setting them on the table. “I don’t have any milk for coffee. Sorry. Unless you’re happy to take it black?”
“Water is fine.” I tried to perch on the edge of the couch, but it was one of those squishy affairs that automatically sucked you in, and you kind of ended up half lying down. Comfortable for watching a movie. Not so much for trying to conduct business.
Joz flopped at the other end from me, crossing his feet at the ankles. I found myself staring at them, until he cleared his throat, and I dragged my gaze to his face. For a man, he had great feet.
“Guess you’re here for an apology for what happened on Monday.”
“If I was looking for an apology, I’d be at that piece of shit Gary Tomlinson’s place, demanding one on your behalf.”
Joz’s eyebrows moved a fraction of an inch, his eyes softening a touch. “I shouldn’t have reacted. I gave him what he wanted.”
“I’d like to have given him what he deserved—a punch to the face.”
He scrubbed a hand over his scruff, his lips quirking up at the corners. “I’d pay good money to see that.”
“No payment required. I’d give away free tickets.”
He smiled, the tension that had weighed down his shoulders lifting like an early morning fog hit by the sun. “Still, I fucked up. It was unexpected, that’s all. Him mentioning Caroline, I mean.” He winced, as though even saying her name hurt. It probably did.
“Let’s draw a line under it, okay? Although, if you ever run out on me again, I will chop you into little pieces and feed you to the fishes.”
He saluted me. “Gotcha Don Corleone.”
I grinned. “The Godfather is one of my favorite movies.”
“You have good taste.”
“Yeah, I do.” Our eyes locked. “I signed you, didn’t I?”
“Bet you’re glad I insisted on three years now, huh?”
