“Look at this,” I say, pointing to a printed article. “Second-unit directors often come from stunt backgrounds. And here, Netflix just announced three new action series that'll need stunt coordinators. Plus, there's this whole emerging field of virtual production, where they need people who understand both physical action and digital environments.”
As I walk him through my research, I feel that familiar spark I get when I'm really in my element. This is what I love about my job: finding the perfect path forward, seeing possibilities that others might miss.
“You could start transitioning gradually,” I continue, pulling up a spreadsheet I've created. “Take on more coordination responsibilities while you're still performing. Build relationships with directors and producers. I even found a mentorship program through the stunt coordinators' guild.”
Brandon looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. “Stella, this is incredible. How long did you spend on this?”
“It was a slow day at work. It was nothing.” I shrug. “Oh, that reminds me. We should go to Helena Voss's premiere tomorrow. Ava has a cameo role in it, so I can get us passes easily. Helena just sold a racing series, and it would be good for you to meet her.”
“This isn't nothing,” he says, digging through all the info I've gathered like it's Christmas. “This is fucking incredible.”
Something warm spreads through my chest at the admiration in his voice. “It's really nothing. I actually love doing stuff like this.”
“I can tell. You get this look when you talk about work, like you're exactly where you're supposed to be.”
I smile at that. “It's funny because having my mother here this week has been interesting.” I pause, trying to find the right words. “She sees my career as something I'm doing until I find my real purpose. Every conversation somehow circles back to marriage and babies, like all of this is just a phase I'll outgrow.”
Brandon nods slowly. “I get that. My family loves me, supports me completely, but they've never really understood why I'd choose this over joining the family business. They keep waiting for me to come to my senses and take my rightful place running hotels.”
“Exactly!” I lean forward, feeling understood in a way I rarely do. “It's not that they don't want me to be happy. They just have a very specific blueprint for what happiness should look like.”
“And they genuinely believe their way is better,” he says with a knowing look. “Not malicious, just convinced they know what's best.”
“Yes! And you feel guilty for wanting something different because you know how much they love you, how much they've given you.” I shake my head. “It's hard to argue with people whowant good things for you, even when their expectations don't quite fit.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and I realize this is the most honest conversation I've had about my family in a long time. There's something about Brandon that makes me feel safe enough to admit things I don't usually say out loud.
“Speaking of expectations,” I say, closing my laptop and turning to face him fully, “Can I get your thoughts on what goes through a guy's head on a first date?”
Brandon's eyes snap to mine. “Are you going on a date?”
“Well, Mason mentioned maybe playing tennis.”
“Good for you!” Brandon shifts on the couch, reaching to pick up the papers I had spread out on the table. It feels like he's trying to avoid the question.
“So, what do guys want? What do they expect?”
Brandon is quiet for a moment.
“Those are two very different things,” he says finally.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what guys should expect versus what they'll probably want.” He leans back into the couch and brings his knee up, turning to face me more fully. “What he should expect is for you to be yourself. To respect your boundaries. To treat you like the intelligent, accomplished woman you are. To pay for dinner because he asked you out. To walk you to your door. To not assume anything beyond that.”
“And what he'll want?”
There's a shift in his eyes as his gaze moves across my face. “He'll want to know if you're as soft as you look. He'll want to know what you taste like, what sounds you make when someone touches you the right way.”
My breath catches somewhere between my throat and my lungs. The rational part of my brain knows this is supposed to be educational, but the way he's looking at me right now doesn'tfeel like a lesson. It feels like a confession. Heat pools low in my belly, and I realize I'm leaning forward without meaning to, drawn by something magnetic in his voice.
“Oh.” It's barely a whisper, but it's all I can manage.
“He'll want to know if you're the kind of woman who kisses on the first date,” he continues, his voice dropping to that rough register that makes my skin feel too tight.
His hand moves from the back of the couch, and his fingers brush against my cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The contact sends electricity shooting down my spine. “If you're the kind of woman who lets a man take his time exploring every inch of your skin or the kind who takes control and shows him exactly what you want.”
His touch lingers at my temple, and his thumb traces the shell of my ear. I can feel my pulse hammering against my throat and hear the slight change in his breathing. The space between us has shrunk to almost nothing, and I'm hyperaware of everything—the warmth radiating from his chest, the way his eyes have gone dark, the faint hint of beer on his breath when he speaks.
