Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
Brandon
I unlock my apartment door and step aside to let Stella pass, watching her as she paces a tight circle in my entryway like a caged animal.
“Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck,” she mutters, wrapping her arms around herself. “I just told my mother you're my boyfriend. My mother, Brandon.”
“Stella—”
“She's going to expect us to act like a couple. Like, a real couple.” She stops pacing and stares at me with wide, panicked eyes. “What have I done?”
The sight of normally composed, always-has-a-plan Stella completely losing her shit is, honestly, kind of endearing. I should be pissed. Any sane person would be pissed about being volunteered as someone's fake boyfriend without so much as a heads up.
But instead, I find myself wanting to laugh.
“She loves hotels. She's up to something. I think she's forcing us together because I said it was new and early and she's trying to make sure it turns into something!”
“Breathe,” I tell her, closing the door behind us. “It's not the end of the world.”
“Not the end of the—” She gapes at me. “Brandon, I just dragged you into the most ridiculous fake dating scheme in the history of fake dating schemes. You should be furious. You should be throwing me out of your apartment. You should be—”
“Making you some tea and figuring out how to pull this off without your mom realizing you're a terrible liar?”
She blinks. “You're not mad?”
I should be. I really should be. But the truth is, watching Stella panic is actually making me feel weirdly protective.
Plus, there's something about the way she looked when she asked for my help with the whole flirting-with-guys thing earlier—although it still irritates me that she thinks landing a decent guy is some kind of impossible mission she needs my expertise to complete.
“Look, you were cornered. Your mom ambushed you.” I head to the kitchen, mostly because I need something to do with my hands. “Besides, didn't you just ask me to help you get better at talking to guys? Consider this an intensive workshop.”
“An intensive workshop,” she repeats slowly.
“Sure. Think of it like stunt work. It's all about selling the illusion, right? Making something fake look completely real.” I ditch the tea and grab two beers from the fridge instead because this conversation definitely requires alcohol.
“I've taught actors how to throw convincing punches and fall down stairs without actually getting hurt. How hard can it be to teach someone to fake a relationship?”
She grabs the beer I offer her and immediately takes a long gulp. “You make it sound so simple.”
“Because it is simple. We just need to establish some ground rules so neither of us accidentally makes this weird.”
“Ground rules. Yes. I love ground rules.” She perches on my coffee table, facing me with the intensity of someone about to negotiate a million-dollar deal. “What kind of ground rules?”
“First, we're clear that this is purely business, right? We're friends helping each other out. Nothing more.” I take a sip of my beer, keeping my voice casual. “No catching feelings, no blurred lines. When this is over, we go back to exactly how things were before.”
“Absolutely,” she says quickly. “This is just temporary. A favor between friends.”
“Good. Second question. Exactly how much acting are we talking about here? How often do you think we'll be around your mom together?”
“Not that much, honestly. I have work, and you're on set most of the time anyway.” She nods, and I can see her confidence growing. “Maybe a meal or two with her. It's not like we'll be performing twenty-four-seven.”
I nod. “Okay, so when we are with your mom, what kind of touching is acceptable? Hand holding? Sitting close together?”
“Basic couple stuff. Nothing dramatic.” She waves her hand like she's shooing away my concerns. “Maybe you put your arm around me like you did tonight. We sit close together. Act like we actually like each other.”
“I do actually like you.”
“You know what I mean.” Her cheeks flush slightly. “Like we like each other in a couple way.”
“And what about kissing?”
The question just hangs there between us, and I watch her face cycle through about six different expressions before settling on determined.
“If the situation absolutely requires it,” she says finally. “But my mom's not going to expect us to make out in front of her. She's Southern.”
“But if she does expect it?”
“Then yes. If the situation absolutely requires it.” She meets my eyes directly. “Would that be okay?”
Any guy in his right mind would say yes to kissing Stella Rhodes, fake relationship or not.
She's gorgeous, obviously, but it's more than that.
She's… I don't know. Easy to be around. Comfortable.
The kind of person who makes you feel like you're the funniest, most interesting version of yourself, and all she's doing is paying attention to you.
Which is probably why I'm not nearly as bothered by this whole fake boyfriend thing as I should be.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual about it. “That's fine. Totally professional.”
“Professional,” she agrees, though something in her voice makes me think she's trying to convince herself as much as me.
“And we're both clear that whatever happens during this whole thing, it doesn't change our friendship. We don't let it get complicated.”
“Right. No complications. We're just two friends doing each other a favor.”
“Exactly.” I raise my beer. “To keeping it simple.”
“To keeping it simple,” she echoes, clinking her bottle against mine.
“You can take my bedroom,” I continue, standing up. “I'll sleep on the couch.”
“Brandon, no. This is your apartment. I can't kick you out of your own bed.”
“You're not kicking me out. I'm offering.” I head toward my bedroom to grab some pillows and blankets. “Besides, your mom would expect me to be a gentleman about sleeping arrangements.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Make yourself at home.”
I gather what I need for the couch and return to find Stella standing in my living room, looking uncertain again. “I didn't grab a nightgown. Or a toothbrush. Or—”
“Check the bathroom. I keep extra toothbrushes for when my sisters visit. And you can borrow one of my t-shirts to sleep in.”
“Thanks.” She gives me a soft smile that does weird things to my chest. “Really, Brandon. Thank you for this.”
“Don't mention it.”
I watch her disappear into my bedroom, and a few minutes later, I hear the shower turn on. The sound of running water shouldn't affect me, but knowing that Stella is naked less than twenty feet away makes my brain go to places it definitely shouldn't.
I try to focus on setting up my makeshift bed on the couch, fluffing pillows and arranging blankets with more attention than the task requires. But I can't stop thinking about her in my shower, using my soap, standing under the hot spray with water running down her naked body.
This is completely inappropriate. She's my friend. She's here because she trusts me to help her, not because she wants anything to happen between us. The fact that my dick is getting hard is just basic biology. Any man would have the same reaction to an attractive woman in such close proximity.
It doesn't mean anything.
A few minutes later, the sound of her moving around my bedroom filters through the wall. The soft pad of her bare feet across my hardwood floors. The rustle of fabric as she changes into whatever shirt she borrowed from my dresser.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing my body to calm down. This is about helping her achieve a goal, nothing more. I'll teach her what she wants to know about confidence and appeal, she'll get Mason or some other guy, and we'll all move on with our lives.
Simple. Clean. Professional.
So, why does the thought of teaching Stella how to be irresistible make my stomach twist into knots?
I lie on my couch, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of her settling into my bed. The rustle of sheets, the soft sigh as she gets comfortable, the gradual quiet that means she's falling asleep.
This is going to be a very long few days.