“Oh, definitely. Probably framed the first one.”
We both laugh, and it's just easy. This is what I love about Brandon: he lets me be me. No pressure. No pretending. Just this rhythm we've fallen into, like we've known each other forever.
The elevator dings as it reaches the first-floor lobby, and the doors slide open. Then I see him.
Mason Park.
The devastatingly handsome neighbor I've been quietly obsessing over for months while simultaneously avoiding any meaningful conversation because, apparently, proximity to him turns me into a socially incompetent disaster. My stomach drops like I'm on a roller coaster that just hit the steepest part of the track.
He's standing there in joggers and a fitted tee that clings in all the right places, and I can't stop myself from cataloging every perfect detail. Perfectly tousled blonde hair. Bright blue eyes that crinkle slightly at the corners. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass. You know, the kind of classic good looks that belong inold Hollywood movies. His tan skin has that effortless California glow, and the way his shirt fits across his chest and shoulders makes my mouth go dry.
Well, this is just fantastic.
I paste on my best pageant smile, the kind I perfected at sixteen back home in Georgia for cotillions and fundraising galas. Bright. Polite. Quiet.
“Hey, Stella,” he says like it's normal. “Hey, Brandon.”
Brandon gives him the kind of nod only guys understand. “What's up, man?”
I remain silent because, apparently, twenty-five years of being told that men prefer women who are agreeable and soft-spoken has left me completely incapable of normal conversation with attractive guys. It's maddening. I can go toe-to-toe with studio executives and come out winning, but put me in an elevator with a cute guy, and suddenly, I'm back to practicing the art of being seen and not heard.
The elevator dings again as we reach our floor. Mason glances up, pockets his phone, and flashes me that smile that turns my brain to mush.
“You two have a good night,” he says as he exits through the open doors.
“You, too,” Brandon replies.
I make a sound that might be words, might be a sneeze, and then race in the opposite direction to my apartment before I finally let myself breathe.
Brandon follows me to my door and, with one brow raised, asks, “What. Was. That.”
“I panicked.”
“Was that a stroke? Should I call someone?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, fumbling my keys so badly I nearly drop them. He plucks them out of the air before they hit the ground and hands them back with maddening calm.
“I've never seen you malfunction like that. You froze so hard I almost threw a coat over you and declared it winter.”
“I have a crush, okay? A stupid, completely impractical, Mason-shaped crush.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that.” Brandon's grin is entirely too amused. “The statue impression was a dead giveaway.”
“It's not funny!”
“It's a little funny. You literally didn't say a single word the entire time.”
I slump against my doorframe. “It's pathetic.”
“So, why don't you just talk to him next time?”
“Because I'll probably say something mortifying and ruin any chance I might have had.”
“Chance at what? You want him to ask you out?”
“I mean…yeah. That would be nice. But it's probably better that he hasn't since I can't even string together a coherent sentence when he's around.”
“Well, you're in luck,” Brandon says, stepping inside like he owns the place. “Because these garlic knots don't care how weird you are.”
