Sweet Temptation: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 3)

his wife, telling Jessa what happened. He’d probably called Jude, too, either last night or this morning. And by now, everyone was talking about what happened.
It all felt so unreal.
And yet, it was vividly real.
I looked over at the curtains over the glass doors that led out to my balcony. They were closed. And the thought of a man—Blair—creeping out there made my skin crawl.
I threw off the covers and got out of bed. I went straight into the shower, dove under the spray of hot water and just stood there for a long while. Part of me wanted to stay underwater for a few long days until this whole thing just washed away.
Another part of me wanted to get dressed, head downstairs, and check on my houseguest. Offer him fresh towels for the guest bathroom so he could shower. Offer him breakfast and coffee or tea with half a bowl of sugar, the way he evidently liked it.
I couldn’t help that part. It was second nature. They didn’t exactly call me the party queen for nothing.
Yes, I threw incredible parties. I was a natural born hostess. And the thought of someone in my house, possibly hungry and lacking the comforts of home, made me incredibly uncomfortable.
He probably didn’t have a change of clothes for today. And he definitely didn’t have a proper bed to sleep in last night, because I didn’t offer him a guest bed. If he was anyone else, I’d be waking him up with music, the smell of a latte frothing and a smile.
But I stayed right where I was.
He’s not your houseguest. He’s security.
The thought made me extremely uneasy.
The fact that bodyguards shadowed my famous friends around was… entertaining. For me. They were always impressively fit, and sure, they provided some eye candy. Sometimes they were even fun to flirt with, just to see if I could. To see if they’d break form, flirt back.
Some did.
Some did not.
But having one right in my home? In my personal space?
Lurking while I played gigs and hovering at my house parties?
No. Fucking. Thanks.
DJ Summer parties were all about freedom. Dancing, drinking, drugging—if you were into that—and of course, getting laid. Making connections. Celebrating life, for fuck’s sake.
And feeling good about all of the above.
Without judgment.
Nothing would kill the mood at my parties like a bodyguard with a stick up his ass—standing guard over me, staring down my friends with his sour-assed Judgey Judgerson face and refusing to join in the fun.
Granted, it wasn’t Ronan’s fault I didn’t want him here.
He seemed extremely professional, and I knew Brody would never have left him here overnight if he wasn’t totally qualified. And to be honest, he wasn’t all that sour faced, just kind of… stony faced. The man had the look of a Secret Service agent or something. With forearm tattoos. Tough as hell, and definitely alpha. He’d brought this certain energy into the room that just told you he wasn’t to be fucked with.
That was energy I needed last night.
And obviously, I’d noticed how handsome he was. The man was eye candy extraordinaire.
But I was in shock, probably.
In a way, I’d barely seen him.
I was only vaguely aware of the light-brown eyes, the lush mouth and broad shoulders, the stoic features etched with concern. His dominating presence, which I might’ve normally found distracting—alluring—was stabilizing. I felt secure in it, despite the fact that he was a stranger, despite the fact that barely half an hour before he’d arrived I’d been terrified to be here, in my own home.
We were alone, me and this security professional… a stranger whose name I couldn’t even remember, the house around us starkly silent when what felt like only moments before it had been swarming with cops. And not long before that, a man had climbed the wall of my house to get to the balcony off my bedroom.
Why?
I felt the chill up my spine despite the heat of the shower washing over me, and I shivered.
I closed my eyes and tried to picture him.
Ronan.
He’d laid a relaxed hand on the bar while we spoke, the cuff of his black button-up shirt rolled and pushed up halfway to his elbow. I’d found myself staring at his fingers. At the wide, smooth nails, neatly trimmed. At the cords of muscle that ran up his forearm beneath the slightly tanned skin, and the hint of a tattoo that disappeared beneath his sleeve. He wore a nice watch and a single ring, but no wedding ring.
There was something incredibly grounding, comforting about the strength in that hand, and his naked, clean skin.
Every time I’d looked up, his eyes were still locked on mine with the same assessing look.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d offered him food, yet I couldn’t even fathom eating.
A man had tried to break into my house.
Possibly worse, it was a man I knew. Sort of.
I took a deep, deep breath and blew it out.
It wasn’t a random break-in, no matter what Ronan had said to try to make me feel better about it. I knew that. Maybe I was kind of in shock about the whole thing, but by the time Brody arrived and started calling it a random break-in, I knew.
It wasn’t random. It was targeted.
And I was the target.
Or… maybe something that Blair knew I owned was the target? Something of value?
Something in the music room or the studio, or my car?
But if that was the case… why try to come in through my bedroom window in the middle of the night?
I shuddered with discomfort and had to shut down that line of thought before I could take it any further.
Yet I kept replaying the events of last night, over and over, in my head…
I kept seeing Blair out my sunroom windows. How he’d stumbled, twisting away from the police dog as it lunged, tackling him right up against the wall.
He’s lucky the dog caught his leather jacket. When they grab on, they don’t let go.
That’s what the police officer