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Stella Ramsey always says bad boys can’t break your heart.
They don’t call, don’t cuddle and don’t send flowers—but what do you expect?
For Stella, no strings means no regrets.
When the biggest story of her fledgling career as a music
journalist nearly ruins her relationship with her best friend, Stella has one
chance to redeem herself. Tyler Walsh could be that chance.
Stella promises the bassist for the rock band Tattoo Thief
anything in exchange for behind-the-scenes access. But Tyler doesn’t want
anything. He wants everything—and that’s more than Stella is prepared to give.
When Tyler’s explosive secret thrusts Stella into the media
spotlight, she must choose between the selling the story and telling the
truth—and exposing the truth about herself as well.
Tyler & Stella (Tattoo Thief #2) is a sizzling story of
lust, lies, and sacrifice, revealing how much love can forgive.
Setup: After selling a
story that nearly ruins her relationship with her best friend, Stella has to
make it right without risking her job as a music reporter. Tattoo Thief’s
bassist, Tyler, offers Stella that chance—an exclusive interview in his loft,
which doubles as the band’s practice space. But throughout the interview,
Tyler’s teasing touches are as confusing as they are enticing.
I can’t tell whether we’re in the Friend Zone or if it’s
something else. He keeps touching me, but it isn’t the lusty grope I’m
expecting. He’s just … touching, and as he massages my feet, I find myself more
and more attuned to his frequency.
I want him. I want to feel his hands on me beyond my
feet—oh, God, does he have a foot fetish? But then, would that mean he’s into
me?
My resolve to keep this journalist-to-musician interview
platonic has drowned in vodka and I’m sure I have enough notes to form a
cohesive story tomorrow.
I pull my feet from Tyler’s hands and scoot on my knees over
to where Tyler sits on the couch.
“That felt fantastic,” I purr, and I throw one knee across
his lap to straddle him. My dress stretches higher on my thighs and I plant my
hands on his shoulders. Tyler stills and I try to read his expression. “I don’t
want you to stop.”
I don’t just mean the foot rub. I stretch my neck forward to
bring my face close to his and I hear his breathing shallow. I know I have an
effect on him and I move even more slowly, savoring it.
But why isn’t he responding? Instead of running his hands up
the back of my thighs or grabbing my ass, his hands are still on the couch,
motionless on either side of my legs.
I ignore Tyler’s hesitation and bring my lips closer to his,
smelling a little beer and maybe basil from our dinner. The tip of my nose
touches his cheek and I pivot my mouth, reaching for his lips. They’re soft and
yielding.
I press deeper into him, my tongue teasing the corners of
his mouth, my breasts pressed to his chest. I hear a noise from his throat,
maybe a groan, but he hesitates. I buck my hips and that’s the last straw—his
hands are suddenly on me, sliding across my back and around my waist as he
pulls me into a breathless kiss.
His lips are hot and hard on mine and I want to drink him
in, devour him. But in the next moment, his hands have changed course and he’s
pulling me away from his mouth.
Wait—what?
“Stella. Hang on here.”
I can see Tyler fighting for control and I’m struggling to
breathe normally too. I’m in his lap, his arms were around me and I can feel his
erection pressing against my very damp panties.
He shouldn’t be pushing pause right now when every sign
points to play. Or fast forward! Even slow-mo, if that’s his style. But pause?
“Stop,” he commands. My hips are still moving against him of
their own free will.
Oh, God. Stop. That’s the kiss of death.
“Seriously? Stop?” My face is flaming with humiliation and I
climb off Tyler’s lap and grab my shoes, trying to shove them on my feet as
fast as possible. “Whatever you say, Tyler. At least you made up your mind.
You’ve been sending mixed signals all night.”
My voice says I’m angry with him, but I’m really just mad at
myself. First I decided to keep it professional, just do the story after he’d
offered me access. Then his touch lights me on fire and I throw that very sane
plan out the window. Then I have two or three more shots to further fuck with
my resolve.
And then, the foot rub. Tyler has a secret weapon.
So I’m angry because Tyler pushed me past my limits, even
though I was the one who climbed into his lap. I started that kiss and he ended
it. That should tell you everything you need to know, and it should tell me to
leave him the hell alone.
Tyler’s face darkens and he’s mad that I’m mad.
“Mixed signals? I was giving you what you wanted, your
story, so that you wouldn’t try to dig into Beryl and Gavin’s life and get
something else on them. Something ugly.”
Tyler’s statement hits me like a slap in the face. “Is that
what you think I’m about?” I hear my voice rise. “That I’m going to throw my
best friend under the bus again?”
Tyler’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “You said it
yourself: again. I did what I thought
I should do to protect Gavin.”
My jaw goes slack, realizing Tyler was playing me to give me
the story he wanted me to write, rather than the truth.
I stalk to the kitchen to grab my purse as angry tears slide
down my face. That asshole really had me going. I turn to look at Tyler, who’s
still seated on the couch, his hands buried in his hair.
“Have a nice life, Tyler,” I say, and I wish I could say
something more cutting to make up for how embarrassed I feel. “I’d say it’s
been fun, but I’d be lying.”
My trip down five flights of stairs is slow and painful as I
limp in my stupid shoes and cling to the handrail. I snort up the snot in my
nose from crying—I’m looking super
attractive right now with a night’s worth of mascara sliding down my cheeks.
Damn him. I’ve been in plenty of compromising situations
after getting frisky with a bad boy, but I can’t remember one quite so
humiliating. I can’t remember a time when a bad boy turned me down.
He played me.
That’s the thought that sticks in my brain. I always say, “A
bad boy can’t break your heart,” because with them, you’ve got no expectations.
You don’t expect roses. You don’t expect to be wooed or complimented or
spooned. You don’t expect to be called the next day or taken home to mother.
And that’s what kills me about Tyler. I assumed he was a bad
boy, with his tattoos and devil-may-care rocker attitude. But then, somewhere
along the line, I started to think he was good.
And it bit me in the ass.
Heidi Joy lives in Happy Valley off Sunnyside Road. She
swears she did not make that up.
Heidi’s obsessed with storytelling. Her career includes
marketing, journalism, and a delicious few years as a food columnist. Media
passes took her backstage with several rock bands, where she learned that
sometimes a wardrobe malfunction is exactly what the rock star intends.
You’ll most often find Heidi Joy with her husband and two
small kids cooking, fishing, exploring the Northwest, and building epic forts
in their living room.
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