Chapter 45 - Stella
Stella
By morning, the storm is gone, leaving the world scrubbed clean. Sunlight spills through the curtains, warm on my face, the scent of rain still hanging in the air. Donovan’s side of the bed is empty, but the sheets are warm, and I can hear the faint clink of dishes from the kitchen.
For a moment, I just lie there, letting the quiet settle over me. No phone buzzing, no meetings, no deadlines—just us. This weekend has felt like pressing pause on the rest of our lives, and I want to stretch it as far as it will go.
When I finally wander into the kitchen, he’s at the stove, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the shower. He looks over his shoulder, smiling like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen. And just like that, I forget to wonder why he’s already dressed at eight on a Sunday morning.
He plates pancakes before I can even make it to the coffee pot, sliding the stack in front of me like this is something we do every Sunday. It’s not—but I wish it was. The butter melts down the sides, pooling in the maple syrup. I take a bite just to hide the stupid smile creeping onto my face.
We spend the morning like that—lingering over breakfast, reading headlines out loud, and trading commentary that has us both laughing.
At some point, he moves behind me, pressing a kiss to the back of my neck and murmuring that I smell like strawberries and rain.
I don’t bother telling him it’s my shampoo; I like the way it sounds too much.
By late afternoon, his bags are by the door, the day already slipping through my fingers. Donovan checks his watch, muttering about boarding times, and my chest tightens the way it always does when we’re about to go back to separate lives.
The drive to the airport is quiet, not in a bad way—just in that suspended, heavy kind of silence where neither of us wants to admit the countdown’s almost over.
He squeezes my hand at red lights, his thumb tracing circles into my skin, but his gaze stays fixed on the road, as if he looks at me too long, something might break.
At the drop-off curb, he kisses me once, twice, three times, like he’s memorizing the shape of me before walking through those sliding doors. For the briefest second, his smile falters—so quick I almost convince myself I imagined it.
I watch him disappear into the crowd, the smell of jet fuel mixing with the last hint of his cologne, and force myself to turn away before I lose the nerve to let him go.
The house feels too big once the door closes behind me. I drop my purse by the stairs, the echo following me into the kitchen. The pancakes are gone, but the smell of maple syrup clings in the air, a reminder of him still threaded through the house.
I wash dishes that don’t really need washing, water the plants even though they aren’t thirsty, and pretend I’m not counting the days until I see him again. By the time the sun dips low enough to turn the kitchen tile gold under my feet, I’ve convinced myself I’m fine.
By the next afternoon, the house feels too quiet.
I’ve buried myself in work, sketching out a casket design for Agave Hills’s oldest family names—the kind of commission that demands imported mahogany and hand-stitched silk.
My pencil moves in steady lines, chasing symmetry, but my mind drifts every few minutes.
Ansel’s text lights the screen. “Your girl has landed. Come collect me before I get roped into some influencer’s travel vlog.”
An hour later, and much to my surprise, she’s in my passenger seat, wearing sunglasses so big they look like props and a scarf like she’s avoiding paparazzi.
She tosses a tote bag into the back, the top gaping open to reveal an alarming number of glossy magazines and a half-eaten bag of peanut M&Ms.
We’ve barely gotten inside when the doorbell rings.
Cormac’s standing there, all six-foot-something of him, a dusty pair of boots on my welcome mat and a weathered Stetson tipped low over his brow.
Donovan’s leather jacket hangs over one shoulder, and his mouth quirks when he says, “Slate left this in my truck,” before stepping inside without being asked.
Ansel freezes mid-pour. “And you are…?”
“Cormac,” he says flatly.
“Cormac.” Ansel repeats it like she’s tasting it and isn’t sure if she likes it. “Sounds like a whiskey brand I wouldn’t drink twice.”
“And you sound like a headache,” Cormac fires back, dropping the jacket over a chair.
I lean against the counter, hiding my smile. Watching the two of them square off is better than reality TV, and I have a feeling it’s only going to get worse—or better—from here.
Ansel finally slides the mug of coffee toward me like it’s a peace offering. “Your friend here didn’t mention why he came barging in.”
“I did.” Cormac tips his hat back, revealing sharp blue eyes that look like they’ve spent too many hours squinting against the sun. “Brought Donovan’s jacket back. Thought Stella could bring it back to him next time she is in Virginia.”
“That’s very… neighborly of you,” Ansel says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“It’s called being a friend,” Cormac counters, leaning against the island like he owns the place.
I sip my coffee, letting them volley insults. “Are you two done, or should I make popcorn?”
Cormac ignores me, flicking a glance at the sketchbook on the counter. “Working?”
“Always,” I say.
Ansel props her chin on her hand, studying him with mock curiosity. “So, cowboy—”
“Rancher,” he cuts in.
“Cowboy,” she repeats with a smirk. “You gonna stick around or ride off into the sunset?”
He shrugs. “Depends. You plan on making more coffee or just an attitude?”
I set my mug down before it betrays my amusement. “Both of you—out of my kitchen before one of you ends up mounted on the wall.”
They drift toward the living room, each jab a little sharper, a little closer to hitting something vital.
I follow with my coffee, settling into the chair opposite them.
Cormac has claimed the corner of the couch, long legs stretched out, while Ansel perches on the arm like he’s prepared to make a quick escape if cowboy energy gets too close.
“You always just walk into people’s houses?” Ansel asks, swirling her iced coffee to annoy Cormac. “You always talk this much before noon?” Cormac shoots back. I sip my coffee, trying to hide my smile. “Play nice. Or at least don’t bleed on my rug.”
Ansel leans forward, ignoring the warning. “So, Stella tells me she’s flying out Friday.” Cormac’s head turns. “To see Donovan?”
“Surprise him,” I say, already bracing for the commentary.
“Show up when he’s not expecting me.” Cormac tips his hat back, studying me.
“Are you sure that’s smart? Guy’s got a championship game coming up.
” “That’s exactly why it’s smart,” Ansel cuts in before I can.
“Nothing like a morale boost before the big show.” Cormac snorts.
“Pretty sure coaches prefer film and practice over… morale boosts.” “Pretty sure nobody asked you,” Ansel fires back.
The next morning, I’m ankle-deep in a pile of clothes that looks like my closet threw up.
Silk, lace, denim, the sundress he once said made him forget what he was talking about—all tugged off hangers in search of the perfect I’ve been missing you outfit.
I toss half my closet onto the bed before settling on a dress that’s soft where it matters and dangerous where it counts, folding it between layers of tissue like I’m packing an alibi.
The rest of my suitcase is an afterthought—a jacket in case Virginia pretends it’s still winter, perfume that clings like a second skin, and the black heels he’s always had a weakness for.
By the time I zip the case shut, my bedroom looks like a boutique after a clearance sale. The chaos doesn’t bother me. I’ll deal with it when I’m back—or maybe I won’t.
Morning comes too soon, coffee in a travel cup, and my phone clutched in the other hand as I slide into the back of the car.
The driver takes one look at my overstuffed bag and says nothing, bless him.
The airport’s a blur of rolling suitcases and sleepy faces, the kind of half-light where the world still feels private.
When the plane lifts, Agave Hills falls away in slow layers—desert, mountains, clouds—until all that’s left is the thought of him on the other side of this flight, completely unaware I’m coming.
The flight is quiet, just the steady hum of the engines and the occasional clink of ice in plastic cups.
I pretend to read my eBook, but my eyes keep sliding to the window, tracking the slow crawl of the horizon.
Ansel texted me last night from L.A., saying Theo had a last-minute work trip and she tagged along, which means the apartment will be quiet when I get there. Just him. Just us.
I think about the look on his face when he sees me—how his brow will lift first, like he’s making sure I’m real, and then that slow, wicked smile will take over.
I think about the way he’ll smell when I fold into him—dark musk, the faint sweetness of plum, and that hint of tobacco leaf that lingers like the end of a kiss.
By the time we start descending, I’ve given up on reading entirely.
My palms are warm, my chest tight with the kind of nerves that don’t feel like fear at all—just wanting.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. I don’t know why my stomach won’t settle, why there’s this flicker of unease threading through the anticipation.
Maybe it’s just been too long. Maybe it’s the surprise.
Maybe it’s something I don’t want to name.
The wheels hit the runway, and the jolt sends a rush through me. He still doesn’t know. And for a little while longer, that secret is mine. While we taxi, I thumb open my phone and type a quick message—not coy, not careful.
ME: I can’t wait to feel you coming inside me again.
I watch the screen for a beat, but there’s nothing. I lock my phone, shove it back into my bag, and tell myself he’s busy.