Chapter 20
twenty
. . .
Stella
By the time I make it back to Brandon's apartment, it's almost ten o'clock at night, and I'm emotionally drained from the day. Between the coffee shop this morning, work this afternoon, and then dinner with my mother, I'm exhausted.
I kick off my heels the moment I’m through the door and immediately collapse onto Brandon's couch with a dramatic sigh. “I love my mother, but I feel like I just performed a one-woman show for three hours straight.”
“She's thorough, I'll give her that,” Brandon says, settling beside me and reaching for the remote. “What do you want to watch? Something that doesn't require thinking?”
“Actually,” I say, curling my legs under me and turning to face him, “I was wondering if we could work on some things from my list tonight.”
He pauses with the remote halfway to the coffee table, and I catch something flicker across his expression that I can't quite read.
“Which things?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
“Well, trivia night is tomorrow.” I pull my hair over one shoulder, suddenly feeling nervous about bringing this up. “Maybe we could practice some of the flirting techniques you mentioned? Like, how do I let Mason know I'm attracted to him without literally saying, 'You're so hot'?”
“Oh, that's easy. Body language,” he says immediately. “We talked about it the other night. Eye contact, finding excuses to touch him casually.”
“Ohmygod, that's so easy! Why didn't I think of that?” I say, the sarcasm dripping from my lips.
“It really is, though.” Brandon shifts to face me on the couch. “You probably do a lot of it instinctively.”
“Okay, but I need you to spell it out for me. What are the big things I need to make sure I'm doing?”
“Eye contact first. When someone's talking to you, really look at them. Not just polite listening but like you're genuinely fascinated by what they're saying.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me the difference. Look at me like you're being polite. Then look at me like you're fascinated.”
He gives me a standard smile, the kind he probably uses with people he meets at work. Pleasant, friendly, but forgettable. Then something shifts in his expression. His eyes focus on mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter, like I'm the most interesting person he's ever encountered.
“Oh,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm. “Yeah, I can see the difference.”
“Good. Now you try it on me.”
I attempt to replicate what he just did, focusing on his eyes and trying to project genuine interest. It feels awkward at first, but his eyes dart off to the side, and I know I'm getting somewhere.
“Better,” he says, his voice rougher than it was a moment ago. “But don't overthink it. The key is to actually be interested, not to perform interest.”
I nod, filing that away. “Okay, so how do I find ways to touch him but not in a creepy way?”
“Just nothing obvious, small moments of contact that create connection.” He demonstrates by reaching over to brush an imaginary piece of lint off my shoulder. The brief contact sends electricity down my arm. “Or, if he says something funny, you might touch his arm while you laugh.”
His hand is still resting on my shoulder, and I'm suddenly very aware of the warmth of his palm through my sweater.
“Like this?” I reach over and place my hand on his forearm, letting my fingers linger just long enough to feel his muscles tense under my touch.
“Exactly like that,” he says, but his voice is softer.
We're sitting close enough that I can see his whiskey-colored eyes, can smell his cologne mixed with the faint scent of whatever soap he uses. For a second, I forget we're supposed to be practicing for Mason.
“What else?” I ask, not moving my hand.
“You could copy his body language,” he says, seeming to refocus. “If he leans in, you lean in. If he crosses his arms, you cross yours. It creates subconscious connection.”
“Does it work?”
“Try it.”
Brandon leans back against the couch cushions, and I mirror the movement. He tilts his head slightly to the right, and I do the same. There's something hypnotic about following his movements, like we're dancing without music.
“Huh, I've never even thought about doing that,” I admit.
“It works,” he says, and there's something in his voice that makes me look at him more carefully. “Your body language right now is telling me you're engaged, interested, maybe a little nervous but in a good way.”
“How so?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“You're leaning toward me instead of away. Your pupils are dilated. You're touching your hair, which usually means someone's feeling self-conscious but not uncomfortable.” His eyes drop to my lips for just a moment before meeting my gaze again. “It's all very attractive.”
The word hangs between us, and I feel heat creep up my neck. “So, this would work on Mason?”
“This would work on any man with a pulse,” he says quietly.
“Okay, let's talk about what I should wear.”
“Whatever you feel the most confident in.”
I have to think about that. “There was this dress I wore to Natalie's birthday party last year. Black, fitted, with this square neckline that showed just enough without being scandalous. I felt…powerful in it.”
“I remember that dress,” Brandon says immediately.
“You do?”
“Trust me, every guy at that party remembers that dress. You looked incredible.”
“Really?” I feel ridiculously pleased by this. “I thought maybe it was too much.”
“It was perfect. You walked in, and the entire room noticed. I watched at least three guys work up the courage to come talk to you.”
“I had no idea.”
“Oh, sunshine, if you could only see the effect you have on people.” There's something in his voice that makes me study his face more carefully. I'm suddenly aware of how close we're sitting, how his hand is still resting on the back of the couch near my shoulder.
“What else do you want to know?” Brandon says, breaking the spell.
“Right.” I clear my throat. “I guess tell me what I don't know.”
“Well, you know that being confident is key, but that confidence comes from knowing what you want and not being afraid to go after it.”
“What if I don't know what I want?”
“You do know.” His voice drops lower, more certain. “You're just scared to admit it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I watch you make decisions all day long. You know exactly what you want when it comes to your clients, your career, your life.” He adjusts his position, too, angling toward me until our knees are almost touching. “The only time you second-guess yourself is when it comes to this.”
“This?”
“Going after something that matters to you personally instead of professionally.”
The way he's looking at me makes my skin feel too warm. Like he can see something I'm not ready to acknowledge.
“The trick is learning to trust your instincts instead of overthinking everything,” he continues, his voice quieter now.
“My instincts?” The word comes out breathier than I intended.
“Like right now.” He leans forward slightly, closing the space between us by inches. “What are your instincts telling you to do?”
The question hangs in the air. I can smell his cologne, something clean and masculine that makes me want to lean closer. His eyes drop to my lips for just a fraction of a second before meeting mine again.
My heart is beating so hard that I'm sure he can hear it. The honest answer is that my instincts are screaming at me to close the remaining distance between us, to put my lips on his again and forget all about Mason and trivia night and everything except the way Brandon is looking at me right now.
“I should probably go get ready for bed,” I whisper instead.
“Probably,” he agrees, but his voice is rough around the edges now.
Neither of us moves. The space between us feels electric, charged with something I don't have words for. His hand is resting on the back of the couch, close enough that if I shifted just slightly, his fingers would brush my shoulder.
I force myself to stand, my legs unsteady. “Good night, Brandon.”
“Night, Stella.”
I can feel his eyes following me as I cross to his bedroom. When I reach the doorway, I risk a glance back and find him still watching me, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
In the bedroom, I close the door behind me and lean against it, my heart still racing. I head to the small section of his closet where I've hung a few clothes.
I pull out a few options, but my mind keeps drifting to the black dress with the square neckline.
The one that made Brandon notice me at Natalie's party.
The one that made him remember exactly how I looked, almost a year later.
I shake my head and focus. Trivia at a dive bar calls for something more casual.
But as I settle on dark jeans and a fitted emerald top that brings out my eyes, I can't help but wonder why Brandon's opinion suddenly seems to matter more than Mason's.