Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
Stella
“So, when did we start dating?” Brandon asks, adjusting his collar in the mirror by his front door. He's wearing dark jeans and a maroon button-down shirt that brings out his eyes, and I'm trying very hard not to notice how good he looks when he's dressed for a night out.
“Let's keep it as close to the truth as possible,” I say, smoothing down my light blue wrap dress for the third time. “We started hanging out when I moved in across the hall, and then one thing led to another.”
“One thing led to another,” he repeats, grinning. “Very romantic.”
“It doesn't have to be romantic. It just has to be believable.” I grab my purse and check my reflection one more time. “Ready to go convince my mother we're madly in love?”
“Are we madly in love? Because that seems like important information for the fake boyfriend to have.”
I pause at his front door. “Good question. How in love should we be at this point?”
“I don't know. You're the one who created this situation.” He steps closer, and suddenly, the space between us feels charged. “But if we're going to sell this, we should probably figure it out.”
“Right.” I can smell his cologne, something clean and masculine that makes me want to lean closer. “We're…smitten, head over heels, but not so crazy about each other that it would be devastating if things didn't work out.”
Something flickers across his face so quickly that I almost miss it. “Right. Can't make it too dramatic for when we eventually…” He trails off, his jaw tightening slightly.
“Break up,” I finish, and the words feel heavier than they should. “Exactly. We're in that honeymoon phase where everything feels new and exciting but still realistic enough that if we decide we're better as friends, it won't seem weird.”
“The honeymoon phase,” he says softly, his eyes dropping to my lips for just a moment. “Got it.”
The entry suddenly feels too small, too warm. I clear my throat and reach for the door handle. “We should get my mother.”
We cross the hall to my apartment, where I find my mother already waiting with her purse and a fresh coat of lipstick. She takes one look at us standing together and practically beams.
“Don't you two look lovely,” she says, kissing my cheek carefully to avoid smudging her makeup. “Brandon, that shirt brings out your eyes beautifully.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rhodes. You look stunning as always.”
She actually giggles. My fifty-two-year-old mother giggles like a teenager, and I realize Brandon's charm is going to be a much bigger problem than I anticipated.
The restaurant I chose is exactly the kind of place my mother loves, with white tablecloths, soft lighting, and a wine list with multiple pages.
It's upscale enough to impress her but not so fancy that we'll feel out of place.
Brandon holds doors, pulls out chairs, and orders wine with the confidence of someone who's done this a thousand times.
“So, tell me,” my mother says once we're settled, “how exactly did you two go from neighbors to something more?”
I stiffen at the question, but Brandon jumps in smoothly.
“It was gradual, really. Stella's one of those people who just draws you in without trying. Smart, funny, completely oblivious to how amazing she is.” He takes my hand, and his thumb brushes across my knuckles. “I was a goner pretty quickly.”
The casual way he touches me, like it's the most natural thing in the world, sends a zing through my stomach. His hand is warm and callused from stunt work, and when he strokes his thumb across my skin, I have to remind myself this is all an act.
“That's so sweet,” my mother coos. “And Stella, what drew you to Brandon?”
“He's…” I look at him, at the way he's watching me with those warm brown eyes, and for a moment, I forget I'm supposed to be acting.
“He's genuinely kind. Not performatively nice like a lot of people in this town, but actually good.
He drops everything to help a friend, remembers the little things that matter to you, and he's never once made me feel like I need to be someone else around him.”
I pause, surprised by how easily the words are coming. “And he's fearless in this quiet way. He throws himself off buildings for a living, but it's more than that. He's not afraid to be himself, to take up space, to care about people openly. He makes loyalty look effortless.”
Something shifts in Brandon's expression, like he's hearing these words for the first time. Which, I realize, he is.
“Plus,” I add, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy moment, “he makes me laugh until my stomach hurts, and he's the only person I know who takes reality TV as seriously as I do. And he's not hard to look at.”
When the waiter approaches, Brandon glances between both our menus. “The salmon's caught locally,” he says quietly, leaning closer and pointing to the listing on my menu. “And they do that lemon herb thing you like.”
“Perfect,” I say, closing my menu with a smile. “I assume you're getting the ribeye, medium rare, no sides because you're going to eat half my vegetables anyway?”
“You know me too well,” he says with a grin.
When the bread arrives, he automatically pushes the basket closer to me, knowing I always go for the warm rolls first.
“Tell me about your charity work,” Brandon says to my mother, and as she launches into a detailed explanation of the children's hospital fundraiser she's organizing, his hand comes to rest casually on the back of my chair, and his thumb traces lazy circles on my shoulder blade.
The touch is so light I'm not even sure he realizes he's doing it, but it's making it very difficult to concentrate on the conversation.
“Brandon, you simply must come to the fundraising gala with Stella next month,” my mother says as our entrées arrive. “It's always such a lovely event, and I know she'd love to have you there as her date.”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “Mama, we haven't even talked about—”
“Of course I'd love to be there,” Brandon says smoothly as his knee presses against mine under the table. “If Stella wants me there.”
“Of course she does,” my mother says with a knowing smile. “And Brandon, when you come home with Stella for Christmas—well, if you come home with her—you'll have to try my famous bourbon pecan pie.”
“When he comes home for Christmas?” I repeat, my voice pitched slightly higher than normal.
“If,” my mother corrects, though her tone suggests she's already planning the menu. “I'm just saying Brandon seems like the kind of man who'd fit right in with our family traditions.”
Brandon's hand finds mine on the table, and he tangles our fingers together. “I'd be honored to be included in any family traditions,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. What is he doing? There's no way I'll be ready to bring a boyfriend home for Christmas.
“Stella!” A familiar voice pulls me away from the conversation, and when I look up, I see Ava St. James approaching our table, elegant as always in a black pantsuit.
“Ava, hi!” I stand to give her a quick hug, my mind racing. “What a lovely surprise.”
Her eyes drift curiously to our table, and I realize she's waiting for an introduction.
“Ava, I'd like you to meet my mother, Caroline Rhodes, and this is Brandon Grimaldi.” I pause, then realize I forgot the most important part. “My boyfriend.”
Yeah, there, that wasn't awkward at all.
Brandon stands and extends his hand with that devastating smile. “Ms. St. James, it's a pleasure to meet you.”
“Oh, my goodness,” my mother breathes, clearly starstruck. “I'm such a fan of your work. I think I've seen every movie you've starred in.”
“You're very kind,” Ava says graciously, shaking hands with both of them. “I hope you're enjoying your evening.”
“We are, thank you,” Brandon says smoothly at the same time my mother says, “Very much so!”
“Wonderful. Well, I don't want to interrupt your dinner,” Ava replies with a warm smile. “I'll see you at Helena's premiere next week?”
“Yes, we'll all be there,” I say, feeling a little punchy that if Brandon feels good enough to invite himself to Christmas, he should be fine to attend a premiere with me next week.
After she leaves, I settle back in my chair. Something about the encounter makes me fidget with my napkin.
Brandon leans into me, and his hand covers mine. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I say, though I'm not entirely sure why the introduction made me feel so exposed. “Just mixing professional and personal, you know?”
His fingers squeeze mine gently, warm and reassuring. “I'm sure there's nothing to worry about.”
On our way out of the restaurant, my mother stops to use the restroom, leaving Brandon and me alone by the coat check. He's standing close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, can smell that cologne that's been driving me crazy all evening.
“You're really good at this,” I say quietly.
“Good at what?”
“The boyfriend thing. The touching, the sweet comments, making my mother fall in love with you.” I look up at him. “I almost believe it myself.”
“Stella, I—” He stops mid-sentence, his eyes focused on something over my shoulder. “Shit.”
“What?”
Before I can turn around, his hand cups my jaw, and he's kissing me. Not a sweet, performative kiss for my mother's benefit, but something deeper, more urgent. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush with his body as his mouth moves against mine.
Holy shit, I'm kissing Brandon. Brandon is kissing me. And, oh, my God, he's incredible at this. No wonder half the women in LA have his number saved in their phones. This is not the casual peck I was expecting.
I'm so surprised I don't react at first, but then my hands find his chest, and I'm kissing him back, completely lost in the heat of his mouth. My fingers curl into his shirt as I lean into his lips shamelessly.
When we break apart, I'm breathless and slightly dazed, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts. “What was that for?”
“Director from a project I turned down last month,” he says quietly, glancing over my shoulder. “Guy's been harassing me about it ever since, and he just spotted us. He was heading over here, but he won't interrupt what looks like an intimate moment with my girlfriend. Coast is clear now.”
Before I can process this information, my mother reappears, looking satisfied and ready to go.
“Well!” she says, fanning herself dramatically. “What'd I miss?”
“Just telling Stella how beautiful she looks tonight,” Brandon says smoothly, though I notice his voice is slightly rough around the edges.
“You two are just precious,” my mother coos, pulling out her phone. “I absolutely must get a picture. You look so perfect together.”
I'm still processing what just happened, the urgency of that kiss and the way my entire body responded to it, so I barely register Brandon pulling me against his side for the photo.
His hand settles on my hip, and when his fingers tighten slightly, I'm reminded of how solid and warm he felt pressed against me just moments ago.
“Beautiful,” my mother says, snapping several photos. “Oh, this one's perfect.”
She shows us the image, and through my daze, I can see that we do look good together. Natural. Like we actually belong in each other's arms.
“We should probably get you home, Mrs. Rhodes,” Brandon says, his voice carefully controlled. “It's getting late.”
But as we walk to his car, I catch him glancing at me when he thinks I'm not looking, and I wonder if he's feeling the same confusion I am. Because that kiss felt like a lot of things, but acting wasn't one of them.