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from the front door to the kitchen in the opposite corner of the wide-open warehouse, trying to look everywhere at once. Along the only wall without windows, an open set of stairs leads up to a loft. I can’t see what’s up there, but a storage area underneath holds a couple of old bikes, random sound equipment, and a speaker missing its cover.
    “Want a drink?” he asks. He gestures for me to sit on a stool behind the kitchen island’s tall bar.
    “Sure. Vodka, if you have it.”
    Tyler opens and closes cupboards and I glimpse a few liquor bottles. They’re not what I want, though they’ll do in a pinch. He looks in the freezer. “Lucky you. Someone left this behind.” He puts a glass on the concrete counter and pours a stingy shot.
    I shoot the ice-cold vodka and put my glass back in the same spot, gesturing to him to fill it up again. The first drink warms me and the second shot revives the buzz I’d been working on at the restaurant.
    If I’m not getting laid tonight, at least I can get tipsy.
    “Aren’t you going to join me?”
    Tyler shakes his head. “I’ll stick to beer.” He pulls a low-carb light beer out of his refrigerator and I can’t help snickering.
    “Seriously? You drink that? Or is that all that’s left after your last party?” I slip my notebook out of my purse and open it on the bar. These details are what fans crave and I scribble a few notes about what I’ve seen so far.
    “On the record or off, Stella?” The way he says my name snaps my head up and his eyes blaze with intensity.
    “On the record. I mean, you said you’d show me your practice space for the story. Right?” I’m uncertain what he wants off the record, other than the location of this warehouse.
    “Yes. I promised you that. And I’ll tell you the truth when you ask me a question. But maybe not the whole truth, not if it’s for a story.”
    I frown. “Fans want to know the little things. They want to know what kind of beer you drink and what your practice space looks like. That’s what makes the story real.”
    Tyler walks around the counter and eyes my scribbled notes. I fight my instinct to cover them up, letting him look so he’ll trust that I’m not going to hurt him with another story.
    I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—betray them again. But I also have to push him, make the story vivid so it doesn’t look like a sanitized press release.
    I feel his hot breath on the back of my neck and goosebumps rise on my arms.
    “Facts are real, Stella,” Tyler says, and I swivel on the stool to face him. His eyes travel across my bare shoulder, down the curve of my waist and land on my crossed legs, one knee on top of the other.
    He brushes one finger across my kneecap, close to where his hands held me when he climbed the stairs. I hold my breath to see what’s next.
    “Facts are real,” he repeats, “but stories are whatever you make of the facts. Stories are what we tell ourselves and each other.”
    I hear his breath hitch as he touches my knee, trailing his finger across the top of my thigh where it meets the hem of my dress.
    “A story might be true. It might not. You can have the same set of facts but two totally different stories. And stories can point to truth, or to lies. Don’t forget that.”
    Tyler’s fingertip lights a fire in the path it traces on my leg. I drag my eyes from watching the progress of his one long finger to meet his molten brown eyes.
    His pupils are dilated and I feel like he could devour me at any moment. I raise my hand, touching his chest through his thin T-shirt. I want to strengthen our connection and find out what his touch means.
    But my touch breaks the spell.

 
    SIX
     
     
    Tyler turns from me and takes a long pull on his beer, coughing slightly. “So, uh, I’m going to show you the practice space now. OK?”
    I swivel my stool back to the bar in disappointment, feeling cold without his presence. I down another vodka shot and it helps numb my throbbing feet. I’m