Chapter 3
three
. . .
Stella
I hear the unmistakable sound of Brandon's boots echoing on the pavement just as I'm pulling my bag from the backseat of my car.
“You stalking me, Rhodes?” he calls across the garage.
I roll my eyes as we fall into step, both heading toward the elevator.
“Yes, Brandon. My entire schedule revolves around the hope that I'll catch you in your post-work glory, carrying…” I take a whiff of the bag he's holding and catch the delicious garlic scent.
“Italian food, like a knight with a plastic fork.”
He holds up the bag. “Extra garlic knots, as requested. And I talked them into extra marinara. We're living large tonight.”
“It smells incredible,” I groan.
The elevator dings, and we step inside. It's just the two of us, and I shift my bag higher on my shoulder as he hits the button for our floor.
“You hear about Jess's interview with that actress from Spiraling?” he asks, leaning casually against the wall.
Jess Lexington is a sharp-tongued entertainment reporter who built her career exposing powerful men in Hollywood.
She and Brandon have been close friends for years—which is actually how I met him in the first place.
She accidentally married Lucas Carmichael, a studio PR man who used to be her favorite on-record target.
They were rivals until they weren't, and when their fake marriage turned into something real, she gave up her apartment across from Brandon to move in with Lucas.
I inherited her lease and her neighbor, which turned out to be the deal of a lifetime.
“Did I?” I grin. “That clip's been everywhere. Blair said the studio's doing damage control because of what the actress said about the director.”
“I mean…Jess did bait her.”
“That's her job,” I say, amused. “She always asks the questions people want answers to.”
He nods. “You think she gets death threats?”
“Oh, definitely. Probably framed the first one.”
We both laugh, and it's just easy. This is what I love about Brandon: he lets me be me. No pressure. No pretending. Just this rhythm we've fallen into, like we've known each other forever.
The elevator dings as it reaches the first-floor lobby, and the doors slide open. Then I see him.
Mason Park.
The devastatingly handsome neighbor I've been quietly obsessing over for months while simultaneously avoiding any meaningful conversation because, apparently, proximity to him turns me into a socially incompetent disaster.
My stomach drops like I'm on a roller coaster that just hit the steepest part of the track.
He's standing there in joggers and a fitted tee that clings in all the right places, and I can't stop myself from cataloging every perfect detail.
Perfectly tousled blonde hair. Bright blue eyes that crinkle slightly at the corners.
A jawline sharp enough to cut glass. You know, the kind of classic good looks that belong in old Hollywood movies.
His tan skin has that effortless California glow, and the way his shirt fits across his chest and shoulders makes my mouth go dry.
Well, this is just fantastic.
I paste on my best pageant smile, the kind I perfected at sixteen back home in Georgia for cotillions and fundraising galas. Bright. Polite. Quiet.
“Hey, Stella,” he says like it's normal. “Hey, Brandon.”
Brandon gives him the kind of nod only guys understand. “What's up, man?”
I remain silent because, apparently, twenty-five years of being told that men prefer women who are agreeable and soft-spoken has left me completely incapable of normal conversation with attractive guys.
It's maddening. I can go toe-to-toe with studio executives and come out winning, but put me in an elevator with a cute guy, and suddenly, I'm back to practicing the art of being seen and not heard.
The elevator dings again as we reach our floor. Mason glances up, pockets his phone, and flashes me that smile that turns my brain to mush.
“You two have a good night,” he says as he exits through the open doors.
“You, too,” Brandon replies.
I make a sound that might be words, might be a sneeze, and then race in the opposite direction to my apartment before I finally let myself breathe.
Brandon follows me to my door and, with one brow raised, asks, “What. Was. That.”
“I panicked.”
“Was that a stroke? Should I call someone?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, fumbling my keys so badly I nearly drop them. He plucks them out of the air before they hit the ground and hands them back with maddening calm.
“I've never seen you malfunction like that. You froze so hard I almost threw a coat over you and declared it winter.”
“I have a crush, okay? A stupid, completely impractical, Mason-shaped crush.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that.” Brandon's grin is entirely too amused. “The statue impression was a dead giveaway.”
“It's not funny!”
“It's a little funny. You literally didn't say a single word the entire time.”
I slump against my doorframe. “It's pathetic.”
“So, why don't you just talk to him next time?”
“Because I'll probably say something mortifying and ruin any chance I might have had.”
“Chance at what? You want him to ask you out?”
“I mean…yeah. That would be nice. But it's probably better that he hasn't since I can't even string together a coherent sentence when he's around.”
“Well, you're in luck,” Brandon says, stepping inside like he owns the place. “Because these garlic knots don't care how weird you are.”
By the time I shut the door behind us, I'm still embarrassed, but then the smell of the food hits me, and just like that, my favorite Thursday tradition brings me to a happy place.
“You wanna change?” he asks over his shoulder as he starts setting the takeout on the coffee table. “I'll set it up.”
“I do. And I don't say this lightly… Thank you for rescuing me from both cooking and pants.”
“You're welcome. But please do put on some kind of pants.” His voice gets louder as I walk out of the room and down the hall. “You can pay me back with one of your homemade desserts.”
“Done!” I'm grinning as I disappear into the bedroom.
I swap my pencil skirt and blazer for soft shorts and a tank, twist my hair into a bun, and return to find Brandon's spread of plates, napkins, and utensils and arranged food.
He's sitting on his side of the sectional, already halfway through his garlic bread.
“Yours is the chicken parm,” he says, pointing with a fork. “I got us both the salad we like. And if you touch my cannoli without asking, I can't be held responsible for what might happen.”
“Noted.”
I slide onto the couch and pull my plate toward me. Without thinking, I reach over and steal some of his chicken marsala. He doesn't even blink. Two bites later, he's cutting off a piece of chicken parm from my plate.
“How do you do it?” I blurt out , then immediately regret how desperate it sounds. “I mean…how are you so sure of yourself with people?”
Brandon laughs, but not in a mean way. “You think I'm sure of myself? Stella, half the time I'm just winging it and hoping nobody notices.”
He takes another bite. “But here's the thing.
Even when I'm nervous or don't know what I'm doing, I act like I do.
Fake it till you make it actually works.
Your brain starts to believe what you're telling it. Also, turns out most people are too worried about their own stuff to judge you as harshly as you think they are.”
“I think my problem is I don't even know what confident looks like when it comes to dating. Like, what am I supposed to fake? Flirting? Being charming? I have no idea what I'm aiming for.” I slump back against the couch.
“You aim to be yourself. Your thoughts, your wants, your presence—they all matter. And any man worth your time will want to see all of that, not some watered-down version you think he'll approve of.”
I nod, but the swirl in my chest doesn't quiet. It's a mix of nerves and pressure and something else I don't know how to describe just yet.
Brandon stabs another piece of chicken off my plate without asking.
“If you wanted chicken parm, why didn't you get your own?”
He just smirks like he knows exactly what he's doing.
I shake my head and lean back, studying him for a beat. “You just make everything look easy.”
“That's because it is easy,” he says around another stolen bite.
“Not for me.” I swirl my glass in my hand, and the thought slips out before I can stop it. “Maybe one day you'll have to teach me how you do it.”
His grin tilts, lazy and amused. “Careful, Rhodes. You ask for lessons, I'm charging by the hour.”
I laugh and clink my glass against his, brushing it off like a joke. But somewhere in the back of my mind, the idea of Brandon actually teaching me doesn't sound like the worst thing.