Chapter 16
sixteen
. . .
Brandon
I'm standing at my kitchen counter, staring into my coffee mug like it will either solve all my problems or give me a glimpse into the future. The caffeine isn't doing much to clear the fog of confusion that's been sitting in my chest since last night.
Stella didn't get a date. In fact, she spectacularly crashed and burned with that editor guy in what might have been the most entertaining train wreck I've witnessed in years.
I should feel bad for her because she was mortified and, as her friend and self-appointed confidence coach, her failure reflects poorly on my teaching abilities.
So, why do I feel relieved?
I take another sip of coffee and try to rationalize it.
Maybe I'm just protective of her. Maybe my instincts knew that the guy wasn't right for her.
But even as I'm running through perfectly reasonable explanations, I know they're bullshit.
The truth is, watching her attempt to flirt with someone else made me want to march over there and remind everyone in that room that she was there with me.
Which is insane because I'm supposed to be helping her succeed with other guys. But the relief I felt when he walked away wasn't the reaction of a good friend or a supportive teacher.
It was the reaction of a guy who didn't want to watch the woman he—
No. Not going there.
The sound of bare feet on hardwood pulls me from my spiral, and I look up to see Stella padding into the kitchen wearing one of my t-shirts and those tiny sleep shorts that have been driving me crazy for the past few days.
Her hair is messy from sleep, and she looks soft and rumpled—and so gorgeous it actually hurts.
“Morning,” she says, heading straight for the coffee pot with the single-minded determination of someone who doesn't function without caffeine.
“Morning. Sleep well?”
“Really well, actually.” She pours her coffee and leans against the counter across from me, and there's something different about her posture. More confident, maybe. Like last night's success gave her a boost.
“Are we meeting your mom today? Any boyfriend duties I need to prepare for?”
A light chuckle escapes as she brings the mug to her lips for a sip. “Nope, you're off the hook. We're doing a spa day, so we'll be there all afternoon.”
“That sounds relaxing.”
“We'll see. I'm sure there will be plenty of questions about you, so while you won't be there in person, your name will definitely come up.”
“I'm flattered to be spa conversation material.”
Her eyes crinkle with amusement over the rim of her mug. “Don't let it go to your head.” The smile fades into something more thoughtful. “But I've been thinking about what you said. About confidence being something you practice until it becomes real.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, watching you last night, seeing how easy it is for you to talk to people, especially those women who kept gravitating toward you.” She pauses, taking a sip of her coffee. “It made me realize that maybe some of my insecurities aren't just about confidence. Maybe they're about experience.”
I feel my stomach tighten. “What kind of experience?”
“That's what I want to talk to you about.” She sets down her mug and reaches for a notebook on the counter. “I made a list of things I'm curious about. Things I'd like your help with, if you're willing.”
She hands me the handwritten list, and I stare at it. Her careful cursive loops across the page look like something out of a finishing school manual, which makes the content even more jarring.
Stella’s Confidence List:
1. How to flirt without being obvious
2. Sexy but classy outfit choices
3. Body language that says "I'm interested"
4. What kind of bras/underwear men prefer
5. How to kiss in a way that makes him want more
6. Grooming preferences (down there???)
7. How to make the first move w/o seeming desperate
8. The art of the BJ – technique questions
9. How to tell if he's into kinky things
10. Positions and what guys actually want in bed
Jesus Christ. I run a hand through my hair and look up at Stella, who's still leaning against the counter like she's waiting for test results. Her cheeks are pink, but her chin is set in that determined way that means she's serious about this.
“Stella,” I say carefully, “some of these things—”
“Are too personal?” she finishes, her Southern accent creeping in. “I know it's awkward, but Brandon, you have six sisters. You know what women worry about. And you're…” She waves her hand vaguely in my direction. “You know. Experienced.”
“Experienced,” I repeat dryly.
“Don't make me spell it out. You date. A lot. Successfully.” She leans forward, her hands clasped. “I'm offering to return the favor, you know. Whatever you need help with. Work stuff, personal assistant tasks. I'll organize your entire life if you want.”
I suddenly feel the weight of everything I've been carrying. She waits, and something about her patience makes the words tumble out.
“You mentioned something about other career options for me. I'm wondering if—”
“Yes, I can totally help you with that!”
“This shoulder thing has me sidelined, and I'm starting to think about what comes next.” I walk over to the couch and hear her soft steps follow.
“The truth is, I have no idea what I'd do if I can't perform stunts anymore.
My dad keeps hinting about coming back to New York to work in the family business, but that feels like giving up on everything I've built here.”
Stella's expression shifts to what I recognize as her professional mode. “Are you kidding me? Brandon, you have so many options within the industry.”
“Like what? Once my body can't handle the physical demands anymore, I don't know what to do.”
“It doesn't mean your career in this field has to be over.” She sits on the couch next to me and pulls her legs up under her. “You don't just disappear when you age out of performing. Let me help you. This is what I do.”
I look at her, filled with skepticism…but maybe with a side of hope.
“Stunt coordination, choreography. You could develop safety protocols or train the next generation.” Her excitement is infectious.
“Brandon, you have over a decade of experience, relationships throughout the industry, and an understanding of both the creative and technical sides.
You wouldn't be starting over, either. It would be a natural evolution.”
The way she talks about it, with such clarity and confidence, makes something ease in my chest.
“You'd really help me explore that?”
“Of course. We can research opportunities, make connections, create a plan that keeps you in Hollywood but positions you for longevity.” She grins. “I'm very good at what I do.”
“Deal,” I say, meaning it. “And you have to promise me something.”
“What?”
“You don't tell anyone about the shoulder concerns. Not the girls, not anyone. I'm not ready for that conversation yet.”
She mimes zipping her lips. “Promise.”
I pick up her list again, feeling like we've shifted into more honest territory. “Some of this stuff…” I point to items eight through ten. “It's graduate-level material, and you're still in intro classes.”
She deflates slightly. “But what if—”
“Stella. Trust the process.” I give her a look.
She nods reluctantly.
“Alright, let's talk about what actually matters when you're trying to catch someone's attention.” I lean back against the couch, studying her face. “But first, can I ask you something?”
“Oh, we're starting this now?” She reaches for her notebook. “I thought we were going to ease into the lesson part.”
“No time like the present.” I shift closer, my voice dropping. “Why do you show up completely differently in your personal life than you do at work?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I've seen you walk into a conference room. You make eye contact with everyone, you choose the seat that gives you the best vantage point, you speak up, you tell stories.” I gesture toward her current position, curled up in the corner of the couch.
“But put you in a social setting, and suddenly, you're shrinking into corners, avoiding eye contact, waiting for someone else to start conversations.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and I catch her unconsciously straightening her posture.
“I've watched women work a room before. The ones who get noticed aren't necessarily the prettiest ones.
They're the ones who show up like they belong there.” I think about the women who've caught my attention over the years.
“There was this girl at a wrap party last month. She walked in and immediately scanned the room like she was assessing the landscape. Made eye contact, chose her spot strategically, joined conversations instead of waiting to be included. Every guy in the room gravitated toward her.”
“What did she do differently?”
“She showed up the same way you do in a boardroom. Confident, present, like she had every right to be there.” I lean forward. “Stella, you're beautiful. But more than that, you're smart and funny and competitive as hell. Why don't you let people see that version of you?”
Her breath catches slightly at the admission.
“That's what Mason, or that guy from last night, or any guy you like, needs to see. Not some shrinking-violet version of yourself, but the woman who negotiates million-dollar deals and isn't afraid to fight for what she wants.”
She looks up from her notebook. “Okay, but can we talk about the touching thing? I felt like those women were touching you all night. How do I know when it's okay to touch a guy?”
I have to take a sip of my coffee before answering because my brain immediately goes to all the times she's touched me without thinking about it. “Read his body language first. If he's standing close to you, if he seems relaxed and engaged.”
“Okay, but explain it specifically. What did you do to make those girls touch you?”
“Start small.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “When you're laughing at something he said, let your hand rest on his forearm for just a second. Not a grab, just a light touch.”
I demonstrate by brushing my fingers against her arm, and I feel her slight intake of breath.
“You do that sometimes,” I continue, pulling my hand back. “When you're excited about something or trying to make a point.” I clear my throat. “If we were actually dating, that would drive me completely insane.”
Her pen hovers over the notebook. “Good insane or bad insane?”
“Good. Definitely good.” I lean back, trying to create some distance. “Or when you bite your lip when you're concentrating. You probably don't even realize you do it, but it's distracting as hell.”
“I bite my lip?”
“All the time. During Love Island, when you're analyzing someone's body language. When you're reading contracts.” I take another sip of coffee. “Trust me, guys will notice.”
She's staring at me now with an expression I can't quite read, her notebook forgotten in her lap.
“The most important thing is to remember who you are,” I continue, forcing myself back on track. “Don't try to be someone else.”
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “I know this is probably weird, asking you to teach me how to touch other people.”
“It's not weird.” I lean forward, making sure she's looking at me. “You're just being strategic about something you want. That's very you.”
“But you probably think I should just be myself, and if a guy doesn't like it, then forget him.”
“I think you should absolutely be yourself. But there's nothing wrong with wanting to put your best foot forward.” I gesture at her notebook. “This is just confidence building. You already have everything you need, and we're just making sure you know how to use it.”