Page 7 of Rockstar Next Door Neighbor

But even as I think it, I remember the way his fingers brushed mine when he helped with the boxes, how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and how he seemed to find reasons to be wherever I was all morning...

No. No, no. I can’t go down that road. Luke’s my neighbor now, and if I’m going to survive living next door to him, I need to keep things strictly friendly. Professional, even. I can cook for him sometimes, chat about the weather, and be a normal neighbor—not some star-struck groupie.

Yeah, I can totally do this.

Then I hear him start playing his keyboard through the wall, a melody so beautiful it makes my heart flutter, and I realize I’m in way over my head.

I’m stirring the French coq au vin when I hear Luke’s keyboard go quiet next door. The recipe is one of my favorites: chicken braised in wine with mushrooms and pearl onions, served over creamy mashed potatoes. It’s simple but elegant—not that I’m trying to impress him or anything.

The knock at my door makes my heart jump, even though I’m expecting it. When I open it, Luke is standing there in dark jeans and a snug black t-shirt that should be illegal, as it shows off his chiseled chest and biceps.

“Something smells amazing,” he says, stepping inside.

“Just a simple French dish,” I explain, trying to sound casual as I lead him to the dining area, where the table is already set for two. I’m glad I didn’t go overboard and light candles. “I hope you like chicken.”

“I like anything that smells this good.” He leans against the counter, watching me plate the food. “Can I help?”

“Almost done,” I say, trying to ignore how domestic this feels. “There’s wine if you want some.”

I pour him a glass of wine, and as I hand it to him, I state, “Why don’t you have a seat on the couch? Dinner should be ready in a few minutes.”

As I turn back to the stove, I have to sternly remind myself that cooking is my way of communicating—a way of creating comfort and connection. But tonight, it feels different. Tonight, Luke is sitting in my living room, waiting for dinner.

I still can’t quite believe it. Luke Sterling, keyboard player forthe Wild Band, is inmyhome. His presence is impossible to ignore, even from the kitchen. Every movement I make feels amplified, and I’m hyperaware of how I look and sound.

“Need any help in there?” Luke’s deep voice calls out, cutting through the quiet.

“I’ve got it!” I reply, hoping my voice doesn’t betray how much his offer makes my heart flutter. “Just a few more minutes.”

He steps into the doorway anyway, leaning against the frame with a casual ease that makes my pulse quicken. “Smells amazing. Are you sure I can’t do something? Stir a pot or chop a carrot?”

I laugh, shaking my head as I brush my hair away from my face. “Trust me, you’d be bored. The hard part’s done.”

His grin is slow and disarming. “You’d be surprised. I can be useful.”

Turning, I hold up the finished platter. “Dinner’s ready.”

We settle around the table, and I give each of us a serving. Making sure Luke’s portion is generous.

He takes a deep, appreciative breath. I watch as he takes his first bite. “This tastes amazing. What did you call it again?”

“Coq au vin,” I say with a smile.

“Fancy.”

“It only sounds fancy,” I admit with a grimace. “It means rooster in wine.” Then I laugh at his expression.

Luke continues to compliment the food, trying to put me at ease. It’s working as I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders.

We’re almost finished eating when I finally get brave enough to ask him a personal question. “So, how do you like performing in the Wild Band?”

Before he can respond, we hear the distinctive purr of a high-performance engine pulling into the driveway. Luke’sexpression changes slightly—something flickers across his face too quickly for me to read.

The sound of heels clicking on the wooden porch precedes a sharp knock on Luke’s front door. Through the main window, I catch sight of her—tall and willowy. Her dark hair is sleek and straight, framing sharp cheekbones that make her look like she’s just stepped off a Milan runway. Even from here, I can tell her makeup is flawless.

“That’s Crystal,” Luke says, setting down his wine glass. His voice is carefully neutral. “I should probably...”

“Of course,” I say quickly, even as my stomach sinks. “Go ahead.”

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