6. Luna

6

"Nope, there's nothing here from the weirdo." Luis put down the last gift bag. "But have you seen this? Someone sent you a showerhead."

"A showerhead?"

"It has six different settings."

"I live in a rented apartment."

Venus studied the box. "If you don't want it, could I have it? My boyfriend keeps promising to refit the bathroom, and this might be the push he needs."

"Sure, take it." I picked up a pair of silky pants. What was "performance inactivewear"? "Take whatever you want."

The only things I wanted to keep were a stationery set, the pretty pens, and the letters. Jubilee always used to write my fans back, usually with a promo photo and a note she had me sign, but the letters had gone unanswered for months. I couldn't reply to all of them, but I'd at least try to write to the kids—slowly, so the words were legible—especially the ones who sent me hand-drawn pictures.

Hurriedly, I stuffed everything into a tote bag while Paul finished changing. I'd apologised to him again, and then he'd apologised to me because he'd also been having a bad day. One of the third-graders Rufus taught had come to school with bruises on Friday, and now Child Protective Services was involved, which was stressful for everyone, including Rufus. He'd spent Friday evening being questioned on everything he knew about the situation.

Our heart-to-heart was a reminder that I wasn't the only person having a tough time, and it also demonstrated the importance of communication.

Communication.

I thought of the call I'd made to Ryder and died inside. I'd left him a long-winded and nonsensical voicemail, and he'd still cared enough to send a colleague to check on me. The guy had shown up at six a.m., caught me half-asleep, not to mention mortified, and I hadn't been too polite. Maybe I should apologise to him too? Send some kind of gift to the Blackwood office?

A bunch of flowers walked toward me. Fifty shades of pink, my favourite. Okay, there had to be a person carrying the bouquet, but I couldn't see them.

"These are from my father," a disembodied voice said.

I stepped to the side and peered around the blooms. "Oh? Who is your father?"

The tall, dark, and objectively-handsome-but-slightly-too-slick stranger found a spot for the vase on the nearest table and held out a hand.

"I'm Romeo Serafini."

This was Frank's son? Last week, Frank had mentioned he was in Italy, overseeing renovations to their vacation home there.

"Romeo? Like Romeo and Juliet?"

"Except I'm not sixteen or suicidal." He straightened the lapels on his jacket. Rather than putzing around in baggy slacks and a golf shirt like his dad, Romeo wore a slim-fitting black suit, but his dress shirt was open at the collar in an attempt to look casual. He sucked at it. "You were great out there tonight."

"Uh, thanks?"

"Papa wanted to watch the end of the show, but he had to deal with an issue in the casino. You have any place you need to be tonight?"

Why did he want to know?

"Yes, my bed."

Romeo cracked a smile, a glimmer of light in a dark aura. His whole persona seemed…grey.

"If you change your mind, feel free to join us in the Pyramid Bar."

I wouldn't change my mind. Romeo Serafini's gaze lingered on me a little too long, and I finally gave in and stepped back. Right onto Paul's foot.

"Sorry!" I squeaked.

"What are a few bruises between friends? Ready to go?"

"I'm ready."

More than ready.

"Did you give any more thought to calling the police?" he asked as we headed along the hallway to the car.

"About the linguine? The whole world already believes I'm a drama queen, so I'm not sure they'd even do anything."

"It's good to have these things on record."

"If Mark sends me any more weird stuff, then I'll call, okay? Maybe it was a one-off?"

"Two-off. Don't forget the earrings."

"But there was nothing today."

He sighed. "It's your decision."

When the car pulled up outside my apartment, he climbed out instead of just watching me walk to the door.

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure you get safely into your apartment."

"There's no need. The outer door is locked, and only residents have pass cards."

"You think the building's secure?" He strode past me and pushed a bunch of intercom buttons. "We'll see."

"Is that my pizza?" a guy asked through the speaker. "I'll buzz you up."

"Yeah, got your pie right here."

A second later, the door clicked, and Paul pulled it open.

"After you."

My blood ran cold. It was that easy to get in? I'd thought the building, my home, was secure.

"Thanks, now I'm more nervous than I was before."

"I didn't mean to scare you; I just want you to stay alert." The elevator doors opened, and we climbed on board. "Everyone wants you to stay safe. Do you carry pepper spray?"

"Where would I even get that?"

He fished through his bag. "Here, take mine. I have more at home."

"You carry pepper spray?"

"Not everybody likes gay men."

Wow. I'd never thought that he and Luis might feel unsafe. They were both so strong.

"That sucks. I hate the?—"

I stopped dead as I stepped out of the elevator and saw a man sitting on the floor outside my apartment door, a ball cap pulled low over his eyes. There was a box beside him, and he rose as I approached. Turned toward me. My pulse went into overdrive, and my lungs seized as I fumbled for the button on the pepper spray. Had Mark Antony decided to pay a personal visit with his gift tonight? My hands were shaking so much that I dropped the can, and it rolled across the floor until Ryder stopped it with his foot.

Ryder.

Holy heck, Ryder was standing outside my apartment.

Why was Ryder standing outside my apartment?

"What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to check you were okay."

"I told the goon you sent to check up on me that I was fine."

"He said you didn't tell him very much at all, and you weren't fine when you left me a voicemail about linguine last night."

"You know this guy?" Paul asked.

Ryder narrowed his eyes at him. "Who are you?"

"I'm Luna's friend. Who the hell are you?"

"Her bodyguard. I would have waited outside, but there were photographers hanging around."

"Ex-bodyguard." I pressed my palms to their chests to keep the two men apart. I was beyond grateful to Paul for stepping up to defend me, but if he laid a hand on Ryder, he'd end up with broken bones. And we had a show tomorrow. "Paul is one of my backup dancers. Don't maim him. He was just seeing me safely home."

"Good. I can take it from here."

"Excuse me? You're not taking anything anywhere. I fired you."

"Technically, you didn't. You locked yourself in the bathroom, and I left to give you space."

Okay, so that was true, but couldn't he get the message?

"Fine, then I'm firing you now. You're fired. F-I-E-R-D."

"The R comes before the E," Paul whispered.

"Whatever."

Ryder folded his arms. "The contract ended in April, so that won't work."

"Then you have no reason to be here, do you?"

"Yeah, moon, I do. Some sick motherfucker sent pasta to your apartment, and you don't have security."

"I have locks and pepper spray."

"You mean this pepper spray?" Ryder nudged the can with his foot, then did a couple of fancy steps and flicked it up into his hand. "And your locks are shit. I could have picked them in a hot minute if I'd felt so inclined."

"Really?"

"Really. What happened to the pasta? Did you call the police?"

"No, I ate it. I was hungry, okay?"

Ryder facepalmed. "You ate the evidence?"

"It wasn't evidence; he ordered it from Carlo's."

"Then how do you know it was from him?"

"Because his name was on the receipt."

"Did you keep the receipt?" Ryder asked.

"It's in the trash."

"I need it."

"What? No, you don't. Just hop on a plane back to Virginia and leave me alone."

"No."

"No?"

Ryder smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm on vacation. Always wanted to visit Vegas."

"You have to be kidding me."

Our gazes locked, a battle of wills I knew I was going to lose. I realised that all the qualities that had made me feel so safe in Ryder's company also had the power to drive me crazy. His strength, his tenacity, his absolute determination to protect me at all costs.

Rats.

Paul's head had been swivelling between us like a spectator's at a tennis match. "Uh, do you want me to stay? Or should I call someone? Someone else, I mean?"

Who would he call? Emmy? Would she rein in Ryder if I asked? Probably not if he was here on his own time. And did I really want Paul to bear witness to me sniping at Ryder while he deflected my barbs like Captain America?

"I'm okay."

"If you don't feel safe here, you can stay at my place," he offered, and a muscle ticced in Ryder's jaw. "I don't have a spare room, only a couch, but…"

Paul trailed off, probably because of Ryder's death-laser glare. If looks could kill, Paul would have been clutching his chest.

"Relax, Paul's gay. Like, actually gay, not just pretending because it's convenient."

Now Paul's stare rivalled Ryder's. "You did that?"

"It's not something I'm proud of. It started out as a joke and ended up?—"

"You think cultural appropriation is a joke?"

"I made a mistake, and I'm sorry for that."

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing that spiralled," I explained, then gave myself a mental slap. Why was I defending Ryder? "Anyhow, he's a liar and he's straight; those are the important takeaways."

"And an asshole."

"Yes."

An asshole who'd given me the confidence to stand up for myself. An asshole who'd sat with me on the beach every night when I couldn't sleep, who hadn't made fun of my songwriting when everyone else told me it was stupid and "not commercial" and would never take me anywhere. An asshole who'd shared a bed with me—platonically—when I didn't want to be alone.

I sighed and looked down. At the…microwave?

"Why do you have a microwave?" I asked him.

"You said yours was broken."

"You can't buy my forgiveness with household appliances," I said, but I was lying because the ice around my heart was already starting to melt. Ryder had hurt me, but he'd only been able to do that so badly because I'd liked him so much. Over the six weeks we'd spent together, he'd gone from the pesky thug who followed me around to a friend. And secretly, I'd kind of wished he was straight.

Not that I'd ever admit that. I didn't do relationships. Men couldn't be trusted, and Ryder had proven that yet again with his "I have a boyfriend" stunt.

"I'm not trying to buy your forgiveness; I just don't want you to be hungry. Unless you've taken cooking lessons since I last saw?—"

He stopped mid-sentence as the intercom buzzed inside my apartment, and I froze.

"Are you expecting anyone?" he asked.

"No." It came out as a whisper.

Ryder held out his hand. "Key."

I fished it out of my purse and passed it over. My hand trembled as I did so. When Ryder walked into my sanctuary, whoever was outside leaned on the button again, and the loud bzzzzzzz grated on my last nerve.

"Yeah?" Ryder said.

The guy began singing.

Yum yum, here we come, with noodles and some spice

Our mission's clear, we're spreading cheer, we're doing it with rice

Wontons, dumplings, crispy duck, to your door we'll drive

Get ready to feast, we aim to please, let your tastebuds come alive!

The delivery was flat, the performance out of tune and lacklustre. This wasn't a man who loved his job. And right now, I wasn't enjoying his job either. Why did this keep happening? I mean, free food was good, but having it gifted to me by a stalker took the shine off.

"We didn't order anything, buddy," Ryder said.

"This is 502 Cromer Place?"

"It is."

"Well, that's what the ticket says. I'm gonna leave the food here on the doorstep. You don't want to eat it? That's your problem."

"Service with a fuckin' smile," Ryder muttered.

I wouldn't be smiling either if I couldn't hold a note. "Are we just going to leave the food outside?"

"No, I'll go get it. I want to see if there's another note." He turned to Paul and swept an arm toward the elevator. "After you."

But Paul didn't leave. Instead, he studied me. "You want me to stick around?"

My relationship with Ryder— No, wait, we didn't have a relationship. We had a…a mess. And the last thing I wanted was a witness judging my inadequacy at dealing with it. The whole freaking world had seen clips of my meltdown at the restaurant in San Gallicano, and I desperately wanted the uncomfortable parts of my life to stay private from now on. I was so, so sick of having my every move dissected online. Not that I thought Paul would talk, but we were standing in the hallway between thin walls and neighbours, and I didn't need any more people in my business.

A part of me wanted to give Ryder the finger and sleep on Paul's couch, but a bigger part of me knew that if Ryder had decided we were going to talk, he wouldn't be leaving Las Vegas until we did so.

Might as well get it over with.

"Ryder isn't a danger." Not to my body, anyway. Only to my heart. "He's just really annoying."

Paul didn't look totally convinced, but he did take a step toward the elevator.

"You too, moon," Ryder said.

"I can wait in my apartment."

"And drag a chest of drawers in front of the door?"

Hmm, I hadn't thought of that. Would it work? Was I strong enough to move the drawers? If I was, then Ryder would be strong enough to move them out of the way, so it would be a waste of time. And besides, I was curious to see what Mark A had sent me this time. Creepy note aside, last night's dinner had been delicious.

What? Don't judge me. Weirdos sent me stuff all the time. Usually, their offerings were horrible, so why not take advantage of the good stuff?

Ryder gave me space in the elevator but followed close behind as I trailed Paul to the front door. A bag was sitting on the other side of the glass. I hugged Paul goodbye as Ryder picked up the latest gift.

"See you tomorrow," Paul said. "If that douche causes trouble, just call me. Even if it's late, I'll come back."

He was so freaking sweet that my eyes prickled. "Thanks, but I'll be okay. Don't worry about me."

"That douche" checked the bag of food, glanced both ways along the street, and then hustled me back into the building.

This was going to be a looooooong night.