Chapter 22
twenty-two
. . .
Stella
I can hear the TV playing softly through Brandon's door as I fish my key out of my purse.
When I let myself in, I find him sprawled on his couch in sweatpants and a t-shirt, with a half-empty beer on the coffee table and what looks like takeout containers from some burger place scattered around him.
“Hey,” he says, muting the TV and sitting up when he sees me. “How did it go? You're back earlier than I expected.”
“It was fine,” I say, dropping my purse by the door and settling onto the couch beside him.
The smell of fries and whatever burger he ordered makes my stomach rumble, reminding me that I barely touched the appetizers at trivia.
Without thinking, I reach over and steal a handful of fries from his container.
“Just fine?” He watches as I chew, and amusement flickers across his face. “That doesn't sound like the ringing endorsement I was expecting.”
With a shrug, I reach for more fries. “It was good. I didn't embarrass myself, which feels like a win. Mason was nice. His coworkers were friendly. I actually had fun once I stopped overthinking everything.”
“But?” There's something in his tone that suggests he's picking up on my less-than-enthusiastic summary.
“But nothing. It was exactly what it was supposed to be.” I pause, then remember why I was so eager to get back here. “Oh, before we get into all that, I have something for you.”
I reach for my laptop bag and pull out both my computer and a folder thick with printed pages. “I was hoping to show you this before I left, but you were still on set when I had to go.”
Brandon's eyebrows lift with curiosity as I open my laptop and start spreading papers across his coffee table, pushing aside his food to make room. “You've been busy,” he says.
“I told you I'd help with your career transition, and I meant it.” I open the folder and spread out several sheets of paper on his coffee table. “I've been researching, and Brandon, there are so many opportunities for someone with your experience.”
He settles in next to me, close enough that I catch his familiar scent.
“Look at this,” I say, pointing to a printed article.
“Second-unit directors often come from stunt backgrounds.
And here, Netflix just announced three new action series that'll need stunt coordinators.
Plus, there's this whole emerging field of virtual production, where they need people who understand both physical action and digital environments.”
As I walk him through my research, I feel that familiar spark I get when I'm really in my element. This is what I love about my job: finding the perfect path forward, seeing possibilities that others might miss.
“You could start transitioning gradually,” I continue, pulling up a spreadsheet I've created. “Take on more coordination responsibilities while you're still performing. Build relationships with directors and producers. I even found a mentorship program through the stunt coordinators' guild.”
Brandon looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. “Stella, this is incredible. How long did you spend on this?”
“It was a slow day at work. It was nothing.” I shrug. “Oh, that reminds me. We should go to Helena Voss's premiere tomorrow. Ava has a cameo role in it, so I can get us passes easily. Helena just sold a racing series, and it would be good for you to meet her.”
“This isn't nothing,” he says, digging through all the info I've gathered like it's Christmas. “This is fucking incredible.”
Something warm spreads through my chest at the admiration in his voice. “It's really nothing. I actually love doing stuff like this.”
“I can tell. You get this look when you talk about work, like you're exactly where you're supposed to be.”
I smile at that. “It's funny because having my mother here this week has been interesting.” I pause, trying to find the right words.
“She sees my career as something I'm doing until I find my real purpose.
Every conversation somehow circles back to marriage and babies, like all of this is just a phase I'll outgrow.”
Brandon nods slowly. “I get that. My family loves me, supports me completely, but they've never really understood why I'd choose this over joining the family business. They keep waiting for me to come to my senses and take my rightful place running hotels.”
“Exactly!” I lean forward, feeling understood in a way I rarely do. “It's not that they don't want me to be happy. They just have a very specific blueprint for what happiness should look like.”
“And they genuinely believe their way is better,” he says with a knowing look. “Not malicious, just convinced they know what's best.”
“Yes! And you feel guilty for wanting something different because you know how much they love you, how much they've given you.” I shake my head. “It's hard to argue with people who want good things for you, even when their expectations don't quite fit.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and I realize this is the most honest conversation I've had about my family in a long time. There's something about Brandon that makes me feel safe enough to admit things I don't usually say out loud.
“Speaking of expectations,” I say, closing my laptop and turning to face him fully, “Can I get your thoughts on what goes through a guy's head on a first date?”
Brandon's eyes snap to mine. “Are you going on a date?”
“Well, Mason mentioned maybe playing tennis.”
“Good for you!” Brandon shifts on the couch, reaching to pick up the papers I had spread out on the table. It feels like he's trying to avoid the question.
“So, what do guys want? What do they expect?”
Brandon is quiet for a moment.
“Those are two very different things,” he says finally.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what guys should expect versus what they'll probably want.” He leans back into the couch and brings his knee up, turning to face me more fully.
“What he should expect is for you to be yourself. To respect your boundaries. To treat you like the intelligent, accomplished woman you are. To pay for dinner because he asked you out. To walk you to your door. To not assume anything beyond that.”
“And what he'll want?”
There's a shift in his eyes as his gaze moves across my face. “He'll want to know if you're as soft as you look. He'll want to know what you taste like, what sounds you make when someone touches you the right way.”
My breath catches somewhere between my throat and my lungs.
The rational part of my brain knows this is supposed to be educational, but the way he's looking at me right now doesn't feel like a lesson.
It feels like a confession. Heat pools low in my belly, and I realize I'm leaning forward without meaning to, drawn by something magnetic in his voice.
“Oh.” It's barely a whisper, but it's all I can manage.
“He'll want to know if you're the kind of woman who kisses on the first date,” he continues, his voice dropping to that rough register that makes my skin feel too tight.
His hand moves from the back of the couch, and his fingers brush against my cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
The contact sends electricity shooting down my spine.
“If you're the kind of woman who lets a man take his time exploring every inch of your skin or the kind who takes control and shows him exactly what you want.”
His touch lingers at my temple, and his thumb traces the shell of my ear.
I can feel my pulse hammering against my throat and hear the slight change in his breathing.
The space between us has shrunk to almost nothing, and I'm hyperaware of everything—the warmth radiating from his chest, the way his eyes have gone dark, the faint hint of beer on his breath when he speaks.
My lips part slightly, and I watch his gaze drop to my mouth for just a heartbeat before meeting my eyes again. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to close the remaining distance between us.
“What kind of woman do you think I am?” I whisper.
The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning I'm not sure either of us is ready to acknowledge. Brandon's eyes are dark now, focused on me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight.
“I think,” he says slowly, sliding his hand down my neck and resting on my shoulder, “that you're the kind of woman who surprises people. Who's stronger and braver and more passionate than anyone gives her credit for, including yourself.”
His fingers trace my arm, and I can't suppress the small shiver that runs through me.
“I think you're the kind of woman who could drive a man completely out of his mind,” he whispers.
We've somehow moved so close to each other that I can feel his breath against my lips. All it would take is the slightest movement, and our lips would be touching. My heart is beating so fast that I'm sure he can hear it.
“And how would I know you were interested in me that way?” I ask, the sound barely a whisper.
“Well, if I were interested in you—really interested—I'd make sure you knew I was thinking about you specifically.” He slides one of my legs over his, moving us closer, facing one another. “I'd compliment you.”
“Such as?”
His eyes travel over my face, taking in details like he's memorizing them. “Like how that green color of your shirt complements your skin. Or how your eyes get this little crinkle at the corners when you're really amused by something.”
My cheeks warm under his attention. “What else?”
“I'd find excuses to touch you. Little touches that seem casual but aren't really casual at all.”
His hand comes up to my face, and his thumb traces my cheek like he's wiping away something that isn't there. The contact sends heat shooting through me, and I have to remind myself that this is supposed to be educational.
“And then what?” I manage.
“Then I'd test the waters. See if you were receptive.” His hand slides into my hair, and his fingers tangle gently in the strands. “If you didn't pull away, if you maybe leaned into the touch…”
I realize my body has shifted and I am leaning into his touch, my face tilting slightly up toward his. “Then what?”
“Then I'd know you were interested, too.” His thumb traces my jawline, and I feel my breath catch. “And maybe I'd take it a step further.”
He shifts even closer, his hand slides to cup the back of my neck, and suddenly, we're much closer than we were a moment ago. The smell of his aftershave mixed with warm skin makes my head spin.
“How much further?” I whisper.
Instead of answering, he closes the distance between us and kisses me.
It starts soft, tentative, like he's giving me time to pull away. But when I kiss him back instead, something ignites between us. His mouth moves against mine with growing hunger, and I can taste the desperation in it, like he's been wanting this for longer than I realize.
My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his t-shirt. When he makes a low sound in his throat, I move closer, climbing into his lap without breaking the kiss.
His hands grab my hips, pulling me flush against him, and I feel the unmistakable evidence of his growing interest pressing against me.
The realization that he wants me this much sends a rush of heat through my entire body.
His heart races against my palm as he leans in, and his tongue touches mine.
We're completely lost in each other when his hand slides under the hem of my sweater, his palm warm against the bare skin of my back. I arch into the touch, and he takes it as encouragement. His hand moves higher until his thumb brushes the edge of my bra.
“Stella,” he breathes against my lips, and there's something desperate in the way he says my name.
I'm about to respond when his hand moves to cup my breast through the thin lace, and all coherent thought leaves my brain. I gasp against his mouth, and he takes advantage, kissing me deeper while his thumb traces my nipple through the fabric.
The sensation sends heat shooting straight through me, and I rock against him instinctively, using his hardness to ease the ache where I'm straddling him. He groans, and his other hand tangles in my hair to hold me exactly where he wants me.
My phone buzzes loudly on the coffee table, and the screen lights up with a notification.
We break apart, both breathing hard, staring at each other like we're not quite sure what just happened. His hand is still under my sweater, gripping my waist, my fingers are still fisted in his shirt, and the air between us is charged with electricity.
My phone buzzes again; the noise feels insistent.
“You should…” Brandon says, his voice rough, as he glances at the phone.
I reach for it with shaking hands, and we both see Mason's name on the screen. I swipe to read the message.
Mason
Great to see you tonight.
You up for some tennis this weekend?
The words feel like a splash of cold water. Reality crashes back in, reminding me why we were doing this in the first place.
“That was…” I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
“Really good practice,” Brandon says quietly, though his eyes are saying something entirely different.
I slide off his lap, immediately missing the warmth of his body against mine. “Thank you. For the lesson, I mean.”
“Anytime,” he says, his voice rough around the edges.
I stand on unsteady legs and smooth down my sweater, trying to process what just happened. “I should probably get some sleep.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
But neither of us moves for a moment. We just look at each other like we're trying to memorize this feeling. Whatever just happened between us felt like a lot of things, but a lesson wasn't one of them.
“Goodnight, Brandon.”
“Goodnight, sunshine.”
As I walk to his bedroom, I can feel his eyes on me until I disappear through the door. I should respond to Mason, but instead, I plug in my phone and crawl into Brandon's bed, trying to figure out what kind of lesson that was.