I fucking love the idea that she's comfortable doing that with me, but I stare at her for a long moment, wondering if she has any idea what she just did to me. The answer is clearly no because she's looking at me with those big blue eyes like I'm her favorite person in the world and she trusts me completely.
Which makes me the worst friend ever for the thoughts I'm currently having.
“Fine,” I say because apparently I'm a masochist. “I'll help you.”
What could possibly go wrong?
ten
. . .
Stella
“You're really goingto help me?” I bounce slightly on my couch cushions, barely able to contain my excitement. “Thank you, thank you! I actually started a list.”
Brandon's still looking at me with that slightly dazed expression he's been wearing since I demonstrated what I thought flirting looked like. His cheeks are flushed, and he keeps running his hand through his hair like he's trying to reset his brain.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice rougher than usual. “I mean, you don't really need help, but if you want pointers on how to be more…confident, I can work with that.”
I grab my food and settle cross-legged, facing him. “So, what's lesson one? Eye contact? Body language? Should I take notes?”
“Stella, you don't need to?—”
A sharp knock at my door cuts him off mid-sentence. We both freeze, staring at each other like we've been caught doing something illegal.
“Are you expecting someone?” Brandon asks quietly.
I shake my head. It's eight-thirty on a Thursday night. Blair's home with the baby, Jess and Lucas are at some industry event, and Natalie teaches evening yoga classes. Nobody just drops by unannounced.
The knock comes again, followed by a familiar voice that makes my blood turn to ice water.
“Stella Suzanne? Sugar, are you home? I can hear the television.”
“Oh, my God,” I whisper, scrambling off the couch so fast I nearly knock over my wine glass. “That's my mother.”
Brandon's eyebrows shoot up. “Your mother? From Georgia? What is she doing here?”
“I have absolutely no idea.” I'm smoothing down my hair and glancing around my apartment like it's been hit by a tornado instead of just containing evidence of our usual Thursday night routine. “Just…stay here and be cool. She's harmless, I promise.”
I open the door to find my mother standing in the hallway, wearing a cream-colored pantsuit and her blonde hair in a perfect bob despite what must have been hours of travel. She's holding a designer handbag and a small rolling suitcase, and the moment she sees me, her face lights up like it's Christmas morning.
“Surprise, baby girl!” She pulls me into a hug that smells like Chanel No. 5 and home, squeezing me tight before pulling back to examine my face.
“Mama, what are you doing here?”
“I couldn't wait another minute to meet this mystery boyfriend you've been keeping from us.”
“What?” The blood rushes from my face, and I must look like a ghost. In fact, I think I'm going to pass out.
“Well, when you told me you were seeing someone, I just got so excited.” She's already looking past me into my apartment, her sharp eyes taking inventory. “Your father's at some tediousgolf tournament in Hilton Head, so I thought, why not fly out now and have some mother-daughter time? And maybe meet the man who's captured my baby's heart.”
Her gaze lands on Brandon, who's standing frozen by my coffee table like a deer caught in headlights. He's still holding his plate of food, his hair is mussed from running his hands through it, and he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
“Oh, my stars!” she gasps, pressing a hand to her chest, and then whispers, “Is this him? Stella Suzanne, you didn't tell me he was so handsome!”
My brain short-circuits completely. This is it. This is the moment where I either confess that I'm a pathological liar who invented a boyfriend to avoid blind dates or I figure out some way to salvage this disaster. My mother is staring at Brandon with the kind of delighted expression she usually reserves for babies and wedding announcements, and he looks like he's about to bolt for the door. I need to say something. Anything. But what comes out of my mouth is somehow both the worst possible option and my only way out of this mess.
“Mama, this is Brandon,” I say, my voice getting higher with each word. “Brandon Grimaldi. My boyfriend. He lives across the hall. So convenient to have a boyfriend so nearby.”
