Chapter 43 - Stella
Stella
Me: I don’t know. He's cozying up to some PR bimbo because one of the JV kids couldn’t keep his fists to himself.
Sugar Plague: So why’s he the one stuck at home? Shouldn’t the kid be kissing ass, not Donovan?
Blythe: Probably because the PR rep wants to show a united coaching staff, not a divided front.
Sugar Plague: Or maybe she just knows you turn into a cranky little cactus when you’re not getting your regular dose of vitamin D.
Blythe: Please tell me you mean sunlight.
Sugar Plague: … Do I?
Me: I hate you both.
Ansel is right; I am just mad because I don’t get to see Donovan for two additional weeks. I don’t actually think the PR bimbo is going to try to cozy up to my husband. Maybe I should send her a polite reminder that I own a casket company. And a crematorium.
At least my house isn’t totally empty. With Blythe leaving Sinclair the way she did, I offered her a fresh start and a place to land. She’s set up in the guest bedroom down the hall. She’s close enough that I can hear her soft footsteps at night, a reminder I’m not alone in this too-big house.
She’s still finding her footing. The move was sudden; there was no time for a plan. She left in the middle of the night after things with Sinclair turned ugly. The kind of ugly that sticks to your skin.
I don’t push for details, but I’ve caught enough glimpses: the way her hands shake some mornings, the way she stares a little too long at her untouched breakfast. We’ve both been adjusting to our new lives in our own ways.
For now, she’s helping out at Carrington Caskets. Okay, I might have invented a job for her, but she’s holding her own. Still, her dream is to get back into a nail salon, and so far, Agave Hills’s beauty gatekeepers aren’t letting outsiders in.
We’ll figure it out. Worst case, I bankroll the whole thing and have Bennett handle the renovations. He still owes me a favor from high school, which means I’ll get it done for a fraction of his usual ransom.
It was my junior year, and Bennett thought it would be a brilliant idea to sneak into the art room after hours to “borrow” a set of professional brushes for a mural he was painting under the bleachers.
The problem? He tripped the alarm, and campus security had him cornered before he could make it out the side door.
I just happened to be in the studio finishing a project, so I slid the brushes into my own bag, walked out first, and told the guard that Bennett was just there to help me carry supplies to my car.
He’s been in my debt ever since. And I have no problem cashing it in for Blythe.
I decide I should probably talk to Donovan about the nail salon before I mention it to anyone else.
After a few hours, I’m restless. There’s only so much sorting through my parents’ things I can do—and I’m not ready to step foot in their bedroom.
Blythe and I head out for a hike. Cute leggings, matching cropped sweatshirts, tennis shoes, and water bottles—ready. Saguaro Crest has trails for every level, so we pick an intermediate one. Halfway up, we’re out of breath, laughing, and for a little while, today’s troubles are forgotten.
By the time we reach the top, we’re huffing like a cowboy who smokes a pack a day. We sit on a rock and take a selfie—because no pictures, no proof, right? I snap a less-than-glam shot (sweat is not my best accessory) and schedule a quick Instagram post.
ME: [photo]
ME: Xoxo
While I’m scrolling, Blythe’s tone changes—that overly polite edge people get when they’re trying to tell someone to fuck off without actually saying it. I glance up and see a man standing too close, smiling like a predator who thinks he’s charming.
I rise slowly, stepping between them. “Hey,” my voice smooth as silk, “read the room. She’s not interested.” I take Blythe’s hand and guide us down the trail.
He follows anyway, his voice far too loud. “Oh, come on, beautiful. You know you like what you see. You want a piece of me, don’t you?” He laughs, proud of his own filth.
A second one joins in, his grin as greasy as his tone. “Come on, ladies. Little double action? We’ll take turns pleasing you.”
I stop walking. Turn. And close the distance between us.
My hands find their targets, one in each palm. I squeeze slowly, savoring the way their smirks falter. “Sweethearts,” I murmur, each syllable like honey laced with arsenic, “I tried to be polite. I really did. But you’ve gone and made me mean.”
They’re shifting now, knees threatening to give. I lean in, my voice dropping to a near-whisper they have to strain to hear. “She doesn’t want to talk to you. And we certainly don’t want your—” my gaze sweeps down with a delicate, disdainful pause “—tiny little souvenirs anywhere near us.”
I smile, all softness that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Now be good boys… and run along.”
We make it home fast, locking the door behind us, the adrenaline still humming. I pull chicken from the fridge and start gathering ingredients for homemade chicken alfredo.
While I’m rolling the pasta dough, my phone rings—an incoming video call from Donovan.
“Hi there, handsome. How was kissing ass today?” I ask when his face fills the screen.
“Star, I’m fucking exhausted. Really, I just want to lay my head in your lap and watch a movie,” he says through a yawn.
“Are you making alfredo with homemade noodles?” His tone perks up; it’s his favorite.
“Yeah, Coach. I missed you, and I thought making this would make me feel better.” I wipe my arm across my forehead, and Donovan lets out a belly laugh.
“Stella, you have flour all over your face.”
I lean closer to the screen, catching my tiny picture in the corner. “Fuck, it is all over my face!” I grab a towel and wipe at it, still smiling.
We don’t talk long—he needs sleep, with volunteer work in the morning—but it’s enough.
The next two weeks blur together in the most mundane way. Quick texts during the day and an even quicker call at night. We’re both exhausted, running on fumes, and the distance is starting to sink its teeth in. The longer we’re apart, the more it gnaws at me.
Finally, I’m flying home. Donovan is in meetings with the PR bimbo, coaches, and the school admin. Guess he isn’t picking me up from the airport.
Sugar Plague: See you soon, Slay Muffin. I'm snagging you from the airport. Then a muck we shall run!
Me: Just what the doctor ordered! Is Theo going to be with you? Sugar Plague: NOPE! He flew home two days ago. Some family thing.
Me: Well, coffee, books, and wifey! I’m off the plane and see Ansel, and we do exactly what we said. With coffee in hand, we take long romantic walks down the book aisle.
I snag a few romance books I’ve been wanting to read. A cowboy romance, Step Brothers…yes, please. Small-Town Romance… Biker Boy, Stalkers, sign me the fuck up.
I blacked out while shopping because I came home with at least 10 new books, a few bookmarks, and the cutest little bookshelf decor.
When I walk into the apartment, Donovan isn't here. His meeting must be running late. I hang my bag up, toe my shoes off. I walk through the kitchen and into the living room. I lounge on the couch and pull out the small-town romance. I need a sexy biker boy in my life—since mine isn’t here right now.
After a few chapters, I decide to change into something comfy.
I walk into my room and hesitate for a moment.
It smells different, like wildflowers and honey.
Not a bad smell, but not something I am familiar with.
I shrug it off and grab Donovan’s Huntsville Dragons t-shirt.
It hits mid-thigh and covers my butt perfectly.
I grab my blanket and make my way back to the couch to binge this romance book.
Several hours later, the door swings open and Donovan stumbles inside.
“Star! You’re home,” he slurs, swaying with each step.
“Yeah. I’ve been home for six hours, Donovan.” My voice is flat.
I set my book down and head into the bedroom. The Huntsville Dragons t-shirt hits the hamper, replaced by pajama pants and a matching tank top.
He follows, dropping onto the bed, rolling toward me with a sloppy grin. His breath isn’t just alcohol—there's something sweet beneath it, like the wildflowers-and-honey that clung to the room earlier.
I pull the blanket to my chin before his lips can find mine. “Goodnight, D. Talk to me when you’re sober.”
The next morning, I wake up to the smell of bacon and coffee. Donovan’s at the stove, hair messy, wearing just a pair of basketball shorts. He flips an omelet like he’s auditioning for a cooking show, glances over his shoulder, and grins.
“Morning, Star. You want your eggs the same way?”
I nod, still wrapped in the blanket, and shuffle into the kitchen. We move around each other in an easy rhythm—him plating bacon, me pouring coffee. It almost feels normal.
His phone buzzes against the counter. I slide it out of the way so I can set my coffee down, and the screen lights up.
Elaine PR: Van Van, you better bring the good coffee on Monday ?? *laughing face*
Van Van? The nickname pricks at something in the back of my mind. I’ve heard that before… but from where?
Donovan grabs the phone from the counter without looking at me, tucking it into his back pocket. “Need more toast?” His voice is casual, but his eyes don’t quite meet mine.
I pour more coffee instead. “Sure.”
The smell of bacon fills the silence, but the words stay stuck in my head. Van Van.