“Maybe this is just a surprise band reunion and you’re both on hidden camera.” She elbowed the stone-faced guard to her right. “Smile.”

“Lita,” James started in a warning tone, but when the drummer’s gaze turned hopeful, Sarge could all but feel the shift in his manager’s demeanor. “I…uh. Brought you some aspirin.”

Lita’s expression turned dumbfounded as James approached, producing a bottle of water and aspirin out of his deep coat pockets. When Lita only watched him with suspicion, he lifted her hand, placed the tiny white pills inside, and closed her fist around the medicine. “What are you doing?”

The sound of James clearing his throat bounced off the walls, making it sound louder. “I assume since you drank your weight in whiskey and attempted to scale the Chrysler Building last night, you likely have a headache.”

Trying not to be obvious, Sarge patted the air in the universal sign of take it down a notch, man. James showed no sign of acknowledgment, but he handed Lita the water bottle. The drummer stared down at it like a foreign object. “Wait. What’s going on here? You’re supposed to be listing every way I fail at life by now.”

James’s wince was almost imperceptible. “Yes, well. I’m not going to do that.” He took a deep breath and laid a hand on Lita’s shoulder, touching her for the first time that Sarge had ever witnessed. “I’m just…I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

And this is why you never give unsolicited advice, Sarge thought, as Lita tensed, moisture gathering in her widened eyes. James frowned down at the drummer, as baffled by her reaction as Sarge. Maybe four years wasn’t enough time to get to know someone, because he certainly didn’t expect Lita to haul back and throw the water bottle across the room, where it exploded against the cinder block. No sooner were her hands free than she shoved an unmovable James, backing toward the exit like a terrified cat.

“Look, thanks for bailing me out, but this is where we part ways.” Lita split a look between them. “It wasn’t a good day to try something new.”

James stepped forward, hands fisted at his sides. “Lita—”

“No.” She shook her head, warding him off with a hand. “I’m out of here. Stop following me. Stop checking up on me. I don’t need you.”

When the manager only fell into silence, Sarge made a last-ditch effort to calm the drummer by giving her a reassuring smile. “Hey. I hear the Spice Girls broke up fifteen years ago.”

“Too little, too late,” Lita called as the metal door slammed behind her.

The look James gave Sarge was pure murder as the manager stormed past and went after Lita, leaving Sarge alone in the waiting room with the escorting officer.

“Hey, man. Can I get a picture with you?”

On the upside, his hard-on was only a sweet memory. But something told him it would be back in full effect as soon as he breached the Lincoln Tunnel exit into New Jersey.

Jasmine sat on the factory roof, her sandwich forgotten on the cinder-block ledge beside her. From her vantage point, she could see Manhattan. And if she closed her eyes really tight and blocked out the mechanical hum from the factory beneath, she could feel the whir of yellow cabs soaring down Broadway. See the white steam curling out of crisscrossed grates midavenue. Hear the new wave of young city dwellers laughing, breathing hot air into their hands as they convened over paper coffee cups.

From the time her parents had moved their family from the Dominican Republic to Hook during high school, she’d pictured herself flitting across the electric backdrop of Manhattan. Reading the newspaper on her balcony, going on outrageous dates just to tell the tale the following morning. Getting a callback about her demo tape and being whisked away into a life of limousines, parties, and photo shoots.

If you don’t dream big, what’s the point of dreaming at all? She’d said those exact words countless times. Written them in yearbooks…and yeah, she’d even said them to Sarge. The problem with dreaming, though, was that when it came time to do? That’s when shit got real. That’s when rejection letters—or oftentimes no response at all—started popping the little dream balloons one by one, until the ground at her feet was littered with useless scraps of rubber. Jasmine could still hear the dial tone in her ear, feel her last hope slip away. Not marketable. Not current enough. Not now.

When it had come time to face facts, that her window of opportunity had closed and it was time to start behaving like an adult, Jasmine had bitten the bullet and applied for a position at the factory, much to the quiet disappointment of everyone with whom she’d attended high school. That first day on the assembly line had been a tough pill to swallow. But she’d put her head down, gotten to work…and hadn’t lifted it since.

The warning bell pealed, telling workers that lunchtime was ending in ten minutes. Realizing she hadn’t even taken a bite of her sandwich, Jasmine made a grab for it, but was distracted when her cell phone rang.

Los Angeles area code? It had to be Sarge. And oh Lord, some very important lady muscles went tight at the prospect of hearing that voice in her ear, right where it had been this morning. With a blown-out breath, she answered. “Hi.”

“Hey, Jas.” Instead of the gruff, seductive tone she’d been expecting, he sounded out of breath. Stressed. “You busy?”

“I’m on my break.” She set the sandwich back down. “Is everything okay?”

He hummed a noncommittal sound, but she could hear booted footsteps moving in the background. “Depends on your definition of okay, I guess.”

“I’m going to need you to stop being vague.”

His gust of rich laughter hit her ear, making her shiver. “Fair enough. I, uh…” Was he running? “I noticed you didn’t have any Christmas decorations up in the apartment, so I stopped on my way back from the city, thinking I’d grab some, right?” More pounding footsteps. “But it turns out someone filmed that little scuffle with your date at the Third Shift last night and it’s all over the Web. I’ve got a few photographers giving me a workout, trying to get a statement. Are you eating lunch?”

During the course of Sarge’s explanation, Jasmine had stood up, staring in the direction of Manhattan as if she could pinpoint his location. “You’re running away from paparazzi…and asking me about lunch?”

“You left without eating breakfast and I feel responsible.”

A hot flutter wound through Jasmine’s middle, a secret smile curling her lips. “Are you in need of some assistance, Naughty Prince?”

His growl crawled down the line. “You been looking me up, baby?”

Good God. How could be make her stomach dip with a single gruff question? “I’m not that far out of the loop,” Jasmine murmured. In a small town like Hook, people tended to talk about their homegrown hero. She’d always laughed it off, remembering the young man he’d been, not equating him with the rock god everyone described him as. Now everything about him was coming through a fresh perspective. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

When he spoke, his voice echoed, as if he’d entered a small space. “Listen, I don’t think I can get back on the same train.” His heavy sigh tugged something inside her chest. “If you can get out of work, I’m in a Dunkin’ Donuts bathroom just out of Newark.”

“You’re not serious.”

“There’s Christmas decorations in it for you,” he coaxed.

That gave her pause. He was only supposed to spend one night. Now he wanted to decorate with her? Bad idea. Bad. On cue, the end-of-lunch bell gave a deafening peal, forcing her to make a call. “I’ll tell the floor manager I’m feeling sick,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Funny.”