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What Stella neglected to tell me about brunch was that it is an extended family weekly get-together in her parents’ home and not the simple meal in a bistro that would normally come to mind.
And Stella’s family is more extended than most.
She’s left me on a terrace at her parents’ house with a mimosa and a promise to be right back. I recognize some faces—family and friends who’ve been into the clinic recently—but there are too many to put names to. Nash from the bar is here.
Her parents’ spacious home is lovely. It’s weird to think that Stella grew up in this house. This normal house. There are books everywhere, and well-cared for, yet well-loved furniture. The wood floors shine beneath several fading throw rugs. My favorite part so far has been the photos on the mantel. Stella was a very cute little girl, but she was even more awkward than I was as a teenager. The braces with the headgear charmed me, as did the expression of horror on her face when I found that picture. She quickly replaced it with some pictures of her dad and Dr. Anderson from their ‘80s band. I can’t believe the guy who wanted to golf with me used to wear eyeliner. She promised to not show me the assless chaps picture if I never mentioned the headgear again. That was half an hour ago, and I lost track of her about ten minutes later.
I bring my attention back to the man in front of me. Brandon McKendrick is pretending to care about small talk with me, but he is practically salivating over the woman in a tight dress in the corner talking to Tru and Nash. If I recall, it’s his girlfriend in the dress, and Nash is his son. I catch a shooting star in my peripheral vision and know Stella is near. She joins my side and clasps my hand and it feels natural. Good. At the same time, strange. She’s smiling at me like she’s getting one over on me, like she thinks it’s a hardship to hold her hand. I give hers a gentle squeeze to keep her off balance. It’s only fair.
“I’m stealing him away, Brandon, before you get to any good stories about my childhood.”
“That’s a shame. You are the only fun one of your siblings. There are some good stories there.”
She kisses his cheek. “Don’t I know it.”
I grab my plate from the table, and we go back inside.
She steals a grape from my plate, and I pretend not to notice. “What makes you stay in such a small town? Don’t you feel like everyone is in your business?”
She takes more food off my plate, so I just hand the whole thing to her. She swallows her bite and is about to say something else when she ducks. “Oh, Goddess, my sister is here.”
At the door, Megan and her boyfriend are pushing their way into the room. Megan’s eyes get big when she sees me, and everyone hears her make a squeeing sound, though an octave higher and only my canine patients would have been able to hear it. “Megan appears to already have seen you,” I say blandly.
“Eff me,” my girlfriend laments, straightening up and downing her mimosa.
I brace for the worst as Megan strides across the room. “Christopher!” She hugs me in an overly familiar way. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She takes note of our clasped hands and squees again. “So glad.”
“I think we were just getting ready to leave,” Stella offers. “Farmer’s market.” She shoots me a look like I might not have understood what I was getting into. If she thinks a farmer’s market is going to scare me off more than a brunch with her extremely large family, she doesn’t know me very well. I’m a huge fan of both eggs Benedict and farm-fresh produce. It’s my idea of a perfect Sunday.
Of course, that’s the truth of it, though. She doesn’t know me very well. I don’t know her very well. What we do know of each other isn’t well liked.
I’m still wondering why this was my idea.
“Let me take a few pictures before you go,” Megan says, pulling me along in her tide of dramatics to “better light.” “We are just so happy about you and Stella. She needs someone normal. I feel like I should warn you about her antics, but I’m afraid I’ll scare you off.”
I pull back and look at her. “Nothing you could say will scare me off Stella.”
“Well, you’ve only known her for a few months. I’ve known her for her whole life.”
The idea that I need to protect Stella from her sister is ludicrous. “Megan, I like her just the way she is. Your sister is wonderful.”
“Of course, she is. I’m just teasing.”
But if that is how she always is, I can see why Stella might think otherwise. Families tease, that’s a given. But if it never stops, if the pattern never changes, it would be hard to laugh it off after a while.
I find myself being arranged behind Stella. My arms tighten around her reflexively. It’s like the scent of cherries and maybe vanilla has become Pavlovian. Sniff. Grab. Reward. Sniff. Grab. Reward.
She angles her head to look at me. “What are you doing?” she asks through a fake smile.
I inhale deeply. Losing my mind. “I’m being the perfect boyfriend.” I nuzzle her neck. “You want them to believe this, right?”
“Oh, this is for them, is it?” She arches just enough to brush against my growing erection. “You certainly go all out.” She turns in my arms. Maybe she’s forgotten the camera. Maybe she hasn’t. “I guess I shouldn’t let you do all the heavy lifting.” Her arms go around my neck and she cups the back of my head.
“What are you doing, Stella?”
“Being the perfect girlfriend.” She kisses me. It’s not a sensual kiss. It’s not like last night at all. It’s soft and sweet and my heart pitches uncomfortably like it’s forgotten its rhythm. Like it’s forgotten that it has one job.
She pulls away slowly, and it’s gratifying to see that dazed look has returned. I like putting that there.
I like it too much.
We make our goodbyes after pictures and drive down Bigleaf Lane and back to “town,” parking at her place and walking to the market. I try to imagine myself here long-term if this were really my life. I’d miss things from the city. Sushi. The Apple Store. Fast Wi-Fi. But I don’t miss my commute at all. And while the nightlife is slow and stale here, it’s not like I’m the kind of man who goes clubbing.
It’s a fine day at the market, though. She buys her canned salad fixings. I buy her an enormous bouquet of flowers in the interest of appearances, of course.
She stops and pets every dog we see. I watch her ass while she’s bending over to pet them.
It really is the perfect Sunday.
On the way back to her apartment, we pass a woman pounding a stake and a real estate sign into the lawn of a Victorian house in several shades of Easter egg. I hated that house on sight. Part of me itches to buy it just to paint it one color.
“Oh, I love this house!” Stella exclaims.
Of course, she does. It’s horrifying. It’s obviously well cared for, but an eyesore, nonetheless. “It’s too...complicated,” I say, trying to find the right word. The fussy trim, the color scheme, the protruding spires and bay windows. What is wrong with a nice rectangle in a neutral shade?
“Well, I have always wanted it.” She tells me a story about people I don’t know living in it, then tells me how angry Megan will be that she was not the agent to list it. We both agree that we don’t want to be the ones to tell her and finish walking to her apartment.
As she lays out her salad vegetables and jars, she glances at the bouquet on the counter. “You’ve officially fulfilled your boyfriend obligations for the day, Doctor. You don’t have to stay. Your shift is over.”
A little place inside my gut just hollowed out. “You don’t need help with the ...?” I gesture to the salad bar on her counter.
She shakes her head. “No. I’ve got it under control, thanks. Seriously—I appreciate your willingness to save my reputation today. Goddess knows I can’t manage the thing on my own. But salad I can handle.” She hip-bumps a drawer closed, and my mouth goes dry. I want to grasp those hips, dig my fingers into the skin there and hold her tight. “I know I’ve dragged you into a huge mess. And I know you hate huge messes.” She gets a look I haven’t seen before, and I don’t like it. Contrite doesn’t suit Stella. “I’m afraid that my entire life is pretty much like this. All the time.”
There’s more happening in this conversation than I understand, so I pull my thoughts away from her hips. “Your life is a mess all the time?”
She nods. “Ask anyone.”
I cover her wrist with my hand to stop her from chopping. “I’m asking you.”
Jesus. Her eyes are so blue.
She doesn’t speak for a minute. Just stares into my eyes like she’s trying to communicate something on a radio station I can’t tune in. “Maybe I am. Sometimes...never mind.”
My hand finds her chin. I don’t think I told it to. But I bring her face back to mine. “Sometimes what?”
“I think I have a good life.”
“I think so, too.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Sure, I do. You’re surrounded by friends and family who love you. You have a good job.”
“You don’t think I’m good at my job.”
“I never said that. You don’t do it the way I would. But you have a way with the patients, and Dr. Anderson thinks you walk on water. You seem happy there. It appears to pay your bills. You have a roof over your head. Albeit a crazily decorated one. It’s a good job. A good life.”
She nods. “I do love my job.” She glances around the room. “You don’t like my house?”
“I don’t have to live in it. Where is this insecurity coming from?”
She shrugs. “Anyway, you made your public appearances today. I’m sure there are things you’d rather be doing. There’s probably something in your life that needs alphabetizing or something. So, you can go.”
She’s right. Not about the alphabetizing. But I’ve done what we set out to do today. I’ve fulfilled my bargain. Why am I reluctant to leave?
“I’ll admit a certain curiosity about the jars of salad.”
She smiles, her blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “Well, you start with the salad dressing.” She measures some into a jar and then hands me the bottle and the measuring cup.
“Why the dressing first?”
“It keeps the lettuce from getting soggy if it’s at the bottom because we layer in the harder vegetables as a barrier.” She starts spooning corn into the jars that have dressing. “We are doing a southwest chicken salad this week. I cooked the meat yesterday.” When I’m done with the dressing, she hands me a bowl of peppers and I go in behind the corn. Soon enough, we have a counter full of jarred salad and I’m oddly moved that they are efficient and also...kind of pretty.
Out of nowhere, she says, “Maybe we should break up today.”
Damn it. Damn her. I can’t find a place to step that isn’t treacherous around this woman. I’m up. I’m down. I’m content. I’m irrationally irate. “Why?” I sputter.
See? Irrationally angry. I need to practice my calm breathing.
“We are getting along fine, Stella.” I breathe through my nose, hold for four, and let it out. “Why break up now?”
She loads the dishes into the dishwasher, and I move the jars to the fridge while I wait for her answer.
“I just think it would be easier. And then you don’t have to go to the wedding. And you don’t have to deal with me. Except at work.”
“Are you trying to get out of your end of the bargain?”
Pressing her lips together, she hands me a kitchen towel. It has gold stars on it, of course. “I don’t think we can fool everyone.”
“We fooled them today.”
“Look, Christopher. You’re a nice guy. And today was fun, but it’s not fair to drag you along into my stupid lie.” She hangs the towel back up. “We don’t have enough in common to pull it off for very long. There’s no way you would put up with someone like me unless we were madly crazy about each other. People are going to notice we don’t have that kind of spark.”
I raise my eyebrows at that. Has she forgotten the kiss in the bar last night? “You are kidding me, right?”
“Look, everyone who knows me knows that this is the Year of Stella.”
“Right. No dating. But you already broke your resolution. They already know you’re dating me.”
“But they also know that it would have to be special. That I’d have to be swept off my feet. I don’t think we can pull that off.”
I’m a quiet man. I’m a patient man. But I am a man, and I’m pretty sure she just took a shot at my ego. “You don’t think we can pull that off,” I repeat quietly, calmly, taking off my glasses. I bracket my arms around her, trapping her between me and the counter. “You’re worried that I can’t sweep you off your feet.”
Those big blue eyes widen at me. “You’re too well-mannered. Too controlled. No one will believe—”
I interrupt her by kissing her neck.
“What are you doing?”
I lick a path to her ear and draw her lobe into my mouth.
“Christopher?”
“Hmm?”
Her breath catches. “I asked you what you were doing?”
I sink both my hands into her hair, holding the back of her head and move my kisses to her mouth, drawing that candied bottom lip into mine. She groans and returns my kiss, and I slide gently into the most glorious high. I want more. Now. I can’t stop myself.
“Christopher!”
I pull back. “Tell me again. Tell me how well-mannered and controlled I am.”
Something is pushing at the door to my sanity. I think it’s a battering ram. The hinges are rattling and one more good shove and I’m out of my skull. And it’s not even Stella doing it. The crazy is coming from inside the house. I’m throwing off my own chains. I can’t stop. And I don’t want to.
Stella’s breath is shallow, her eyes a little wild. I’m still holding her head. My body is pressed against all her luscious curves, and the battering ram inside me is pulled back for one last blow.
And she knows it. She studies me. I see the moment she decides to push. “There’s nothing wrong with being in control. Having manners.” She licks her lips, and I feel it on my cock. “It’s just that you wouldn’t know what to do with someone like me. You can’t handle me.”
And just like that—I break free.
I hope she’s ready.