She heads toward my bedroom, and I stand in my living room for a moment, running a hand through my hair and trying to process everything. That kiss felt real, but it wasn't. She's a better actress than I gave her credit for. The way she responded was just her selling the performance. I need to remember that this is all pretend and get my head back in the game.
I head for the bathroom, where I turn the shower on as hot as it will go.
The water feels good against my shoulders. I lean against the shower wall, letting the steam build around me, and try not to think of Stella's lips while I'm naked in here.
This is fake. All of it. The hand holding, the casual touches, the way I keep finding excuses to brush her hair back or rest my palm on her lower back. But being there with her in thatrestaurant, sitting across from her mother, nothing about it felt fake.
When Caroline started talking about Christmas and the upcoming charity gala, asking if I'd be there like it was a given, I should have felt trapped, should have been looking for ways to deflect or keep things vague. Instead, I found myself meaning it when I said I'd be honored to be included. The thought of spending holidays with Stella, of being the person she brings home to meet her family, doesn't make me want to run.
Which is insane. This is Stella. My neighbor. My friend. The woman who asks me to kill spiders in her apartment and steals spring rolls from my takeout containers.
But tonight, in that blue dress that showed off her legs and made her eyes look like the ocean, she was something else entirely. She was stunning. Confident. The kind of woman who could walk into any room and own it without even trying. And when her mother was going on about how perfect we looked together, all I could think was that maybe she was right.
My hand moves to my cock almost without conscious thought, already half-hard from remembering the way Stella felt pressed against me during that kiss. Because Christ, that kiss. What started as a way to avoid an awkward conversation with a director I never want to work with again turned into something that nearly made me forget we were in a public place.
The way she responded, the little sound she made when my tongue touched hers, the way her hands fisted in my shirt like she couldn't get close enough. For those few seconds, there was nothing fake about what was happening between us. Just pure want.
I stroke myself slowly, remembering the taste of her, the way she melted against me like she'd been waiting for that kiss as much as I had. My other hand braces against the shower wall as I pick up the pace, and I let the hot water run over my shoulderswhile I think about what it would be like to kiss her again. To take my time with it instead of having to pull away.
I shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be getting off to thoughts of Stella while she's sleeping in my bed just behind the bathroom door. But the image of her curled up in my sheets, all soft and warm and trusting enough to let her guard down in my space, only makes me harder.
I think about her in those little shorts she sleeps in, the ones that show off her legs and ride up when she stretches. About the thin tank tops she wears that leave nothing to the imagination. About what it would be like to slip into bed beside her, to wake up with her hair spread across my pillow and her body pressed against mine.
The thought pushes me over the edge, and I come with a strangled groan that I hope to hell the shower noise covers. I lean against the wall for a moment, breathing hard and trying to process what this means. Jerking off to thoughts of my fake girlfriend, my neighbor, my friend, while she sleeps in my bed probably crosses some kind of line in the friendship universe.
I finish washing up and turn off the water before grabbing a towel and wrapping it around my waist. When I open the bathroom door, the apartment is quiet except for the soft sound of Stella's breathing from my bedroom. I grab a pair of boxers from my dresser, trying to be as quiet as possible, and glance at the bed.
She's curled up on her side, facing away from me, with the book she was reading on the bed beside her and the lamp on my nightstand still glowing. She looks so peaceful, so perfectly right in my space, that something shifts in my chest.
I gently pull the covers over her, flip off the light, and slip out of the bedroom as quietly as I can. Then I settle onto the couch with a blanket and a pillow. But as I lie there in the dark,thinking about her sleeping in my bed, I can't shake the feeling that something shifted between us tonight.
Which is exactly why I need to get this back on track. Back to what we agreed on. I'm supposed to be helping her learn how to talk to guys, how to project confidence, how to get the attention she wants from someone who could actually give her what she's looking for. Not getting distracted by fake relationship performances that feel way too real.
I'll bring her to a wrap party tomorrow night. It'll be perfect. Lots of single guys, casual atmosphere, and a good opportunity for her to practice everything we've been working on. Maybe I'll give her an assignment, something concrete to focus on, like asking someone for their number, or better yet, asking someone out on a date.
I just need to remember that I'm the teacher here, not a participant. Good teachers want their students to succeed, and success means finding a guy who can be her real boyfriend.
fifteen
. . .
Stella
“Honey, I'm home!”I call out as I push through Brandon's door before dropping my keys on his console table. After eight hours of following my mother through every boutique in Beverly Hills, I'm exhausted, and my feet are killing me, but at least she found the perfect dress for the charity gala. Brandon and I have managed to act normal around each other since the kiss, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about it more than I should.
“Perfect timing.” Brandon appears from his bedroom, and I have to do a double take. Gone are his usual jeans and t-shirt. Instead, he's wearing dark slacks and a white button-down that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. His sleeves are rolled up, and yep, his forearms are perfection.
“You're staring, sunshine.” He smirks as he brushes by me, headed for the kitchen.
I blink at him, confused. “Where are you going?”
“We,” he says, grabbing his keys and wallet from the kitchen counter, “are going to a party in the Hills. Wrap party for that new thriller where I doubled in the snow ski scene. You're my plus-one, and I'm going to be your wingman.”
My stomach drops. “Brandon, no. I'm not ready for?—”
“Tonight,” he continues, completely ignoring my panic, “you're going to ask a guy out on a date.”
I let out an honest-to-God squeal. “No way! You're out of your mind. I can't just walk up to some random guy and?—”
