Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Brandon
I let myself into Stella's apartment right at eight, bottle of wine in hand, trying to shut down the loop still playing in my head from earlier.
I can't clear you for physical activity right now. Your shoulder mobility is significantly compromised from where it was six months ago.
Dr. Cohen might as well have stapled the words to my forehead.
Inside, Stella's already padding across the hardwood floor in an oversized USC sweatshirt and a pair of cotton shorts, her blonde hair twisted up in one of those messy buns that look effortless.
She lights up when she sees the wine. “You brought Cakebread? You do love me!”
She grabs the food from the kitchen and heads to the couch. “I've got Love Island queued up. Tonight's the bombshell drop. I have so many theories.”
Her apartment smells faintly like eucalyptus and citrus from a diffuser that sits on the entry table, and her apartment has become a sense of familiar comfort over the past few months.
Her décor is inspired by her Southern roots, with clean lines, soft tones, and fresh flowers on the coffee table.
The windowsill, however, is a nod to LA.
It's lined with tiny crystals that she insists keep her energy grounded.
The couch is half-buried in throw pillows that defy physics and comfort, but somehow, this place always feels like a soft landing.
I drop into my usual spot on the right side of the sectional and settle with my head at one end and feet at the other while she plates our dinner.
We've been doing this Thursday night thing for, man, I guess around six months now. Ever since Jess moved out after accidentally marrying Lucas in Vegas and deciding to stay married.
Stella took over her lease, and that's how I ended up with a standing appointment to eat takeout on her couch and watch hot people in swimwear make terrible decisions.
“Okay, so, before we start,” she says, settling next to me with her legs tucked under her, “I need to tell you my prediction about what's going to happen with Coco and Warren.”
“You always have predictions,” I say, but I'm smiling. This is peak Stella, analyzing reality TV like it's Shakespeare.
She points her fork at me. “And I'm usually right. Remember when I called that Miles was going to choose Ellie over Maycie three episodes before it happened?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Intuition,” she corrects. “It's all about reading body language and understanding what people really want versus what they think they want.”
I study her face, genuinely curious about this disconnect I've always noticed. “So, you can read everyone else like a book, but when it comes to yourself…”
“I'm completely blind,” she finishes with a self-deprecating laugh. “When it's about other people, I can see everything clearly. But the second it involves me—what I want, what I'm good at, whether someone's actually interested—my brain just shuts down. All that intuition disappears.”
It's fascinating, really. Stella can walk into a room and immediately assess the power dynamics, figure out who's insecure, who's putting on an act, who's genuinely confident.
She can spot a fake smile from across a party.
But ask her to evaluate her own worth or recognize when someone's flirting with her, and she's completely lost.
Maybe it's because she's been told what she should want for so long that she's forgotten how to trust what she actually feels. Or maybe it's easier to analyze other people's lives because there's no risk involved. She can be more objective when her own heart isn't on the line.
She hits play and immediately pauses again when the first couple appears on screen. “See? Look at how he's standing. His feet are pointed toward the door, not toward her. Classic subconscious signal that he wants to escape.”
I try to focus on her commentary, but Dr. Cohen's voice keeps cutting through. Three months of physical therapy. Three months of hoping my shoulder decides to cooperate. Three months of pretending everything's fine while I watch other guys audition for jobs I should be going after.
“Brandon?” Stella's voice pulls me back. She's paused the show again and is looking at me with those blue eyes that miss nothing. “You're not even watching. What's going on?”
I consider brushing it off, making some joke about being distracted by her excellent analysis skills. But this is Stella. She's the one person I trust completely. If I can't tell her, who can I tell?
“I had my physical today,” I say, setting down my food.
“And?” She mutes the TV completely, giving me her full attention.
“And I didn't pass.” The words taste bitter. “My shoulder's not where it needs to be. Doc won't clear me for any new work and is making me return to physical therapy.”
Her face immediately softens. “Oh, Brandon.”
“Three months,” I continue because, if I stop talking, I might actually lose it.
“Three months of physical therapy, and then I can retest. But it means I can't go after the Marvel gig.
And if the production I'm on now finds out I'm not cleared…” I trail off, but we both know how this story ends.
They'll replace me faster than I can say “stunt double.”
Stella sets down her own food and turns to face me completely. “How are you feeling about it?”
Leave it to Stella to ask the real question instead of offering empty reassurances. It's one of the things I love about her, this ability to cut straight to the heart of things.
“Terrified,” I admit. “This is all I know how to do, Stella. I've been doing stunts for fourteen years. If my body can't handle it anymore…”
“Then you transition. There are a million other things you could do in this space,” she says simply. “You're one of the most talented stunt actors I've ever seen work, but you are so much more than that. Remember that fight scene you choreographed for Sophia's last film? It was incredible.”
“That's different.”
“Is it? You'd still be in the industry you love, still doing work that matters. Just because you're not the one getting thrown through windows doesn't mean you wouldn't be valuable.”
I want to believe her, but there's this voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my father, suggesting there's more to work. I'll admit, what he was suggesting sounded nice for a minute. Like maybe there is something more in life to want than just a career.
“What if coordinating isn't enough?” I ask. “What if my family's right and I should just join the family business, work at the hotels like everyone else?”
“Are you kidding me?” Stella's voice is sharp with disbelief. “Brandon, you've built an incredible career doing what you love. You don't have to quit what you love for the family business.”
“Will you keep this between us for now?” I ask. “I need time to figure out my next move.”
“Of course.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “But Brandon, I want to help. This is what I do for clients all the time. Career planning, positioning for transitions. Let me help you figure out your next steps.”
The relief that washes over me is immediate. This is why Stella's so good at her job. She doesn't just see what people are—she sees what they could become.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “Seriously, Stell. I don't know what I'd do without you.”
She smiles at me over her glass, then hesitates. “Okay, well…if you really want to return the favor…”
I raise an eyebrow. “Uh-oh.”
She laughs. “It's not a big deal. I know we've been joking about you giving me lessons, but…”
I wait.
“Look at how I act around Mason,” she says, picking at the edge of a napkin. “I keep freezing every time he talks to me. But it's not just him; it's every guy.”
A sly grin creeps across my face. “You want me to teach you to flirt?”
“I don't need to flirt,” she says a little too quickly. “Well, okay. Maybe I need to learn that, too. But all the stuff that comes after that. How can I get his attention and talk to him so he'll actually ask me out?”
“Stella, you don't need help with that,” I say carefully. “Trust me. Any guy would be lucky to get your attention.”
She waves off my compliment like she always does.
“You have to say that. You're my friend.
But clearly, I'm missing something. Look at these girls.” She gestures at the paused TV screen, where some reality show contestant is lounging by a pool in a bikini.
“They know how to get guys interested. They're confident, sexy, flirty.”
“You're all of those things.”
“No, I'm polite. There's a difference.” She grabs the remote and fast-forwards to a scene where one of the women is clearly trying to seduce someone. “See? Look at how she moves, how she talks to him. It's like she knows she's irresistible.”
I watch the screen, then look back at Stella, who's studying the interaction like she's preparing for a business presentation.
“You want to act like that?” I ask.
“Why not? If it works…” She stands suddenly and pulls her sweatshirt over her head, revealing a black sports bra underneath. “I do this, right? Because boobs. You have to see them. I know guys like that.”
What the fuck is happening right now?
Why is Stella taking off her shirt? She's completely comfortable, like this is the most natural thing in the world, and I'm trying very hard not to notice that she has a really great… Focus, Brandon.
“You're always saying confidence is sexy,” she continues, and before I can process what's happening, she's climbing onto the sectional, moving up from where my feet were to where I'm lying, settling between my legs with that analytical expression still on her face.
“So, something like this would be hot, right?”
I swallow hard. She's close enough that I can see the determination in her eyes, the way she's treating this like a business problem to solve. Which should not be as attractive as it is.
“You basically just narrate everything you're doing, right?” she says, her voice dropping to that purr again.
“Your chest is so hard and smooth.” Her palm slides up my t-shirt, and I feel my breath catch.
“And I love the way my fingers feel running through your hair.” Her fingertips graze my scalp, sending electricity straight down my spine. “And your lips.”
When her thumb brushes across my mouth, every coherent thought I've ever had evaporates. I grab her hand before I do something monumentally stupid.
“Okay, yes, I get the idea,” I manage, my voice rougher than it should be. “See? You don't need any help at all.”
She sits back on her heels, still between my legs, completely oblivious to the fact that she just short-circuited my brain and made me semi-hard.
“Yeah, but I wouldn't be that comfortable with anyone else,” she says matter-of-factly. “I can't even talk to guys without freezing up.”
I fucking love the idea that she's comfortable doing that with me, but I stare at her for a long moment, wondering if she has any idea what she just did to me.
The answer is clearly no because she's looking at me with those big blue eyes like I'm her favorite person in the world and she trusts me completely.
Which makes me the worst friend ever for the thoughts I'm currently having.
“Fine,” I say because apparently I'm a masochist. “I'll help you.”
What could possibly go wrong?