My phone buzzes again; the noise feels insistent.
“You should…” Brandon says, his voice rough, as he glances at the phone.
I reach for it with shaking hands, and we both see Mason's name on the screen. I swipe to read the message.
Mason
Great to see you tonight.
You up for some tennis this weekend?
The words feel like a splash of cold water. Reality crashes back in, reminding me why we were doing this in the first place.
“That was…” I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
“Really good practice,” Brandon says quietly, though his eyes are saying something entirely different.
I slide off his lap, immediately missing the warmth of his body against mine. “Thank you. For the lesson, I mean.”
“Anytime,” he says, his voice rough around the edges.
I stand on unsteady legs and smooth down my sweater, trying to process what just happened. “I should probably get some sleep.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
But neither of us moves for a moment. We just look at each other like we're trying to memorize this feeling. Whatever just happened between us felt like a lot of things, but a lesson wasn't one of them.
“Goodnight, Brandon.”
“Goodnight, sunshine.”
As I walk to his bedroom, I can feel his eyes on me until I disappear through the door. I should respond to Mason, but instead, I plug in my phone and crawl into Brandon's bed, trying to figure out what kind of lesson that was.
twenty-three
. . .
Brandon
I straightenmy tie one more time as I check my watch. Six o'clock exactly. The FlixPix premiere starts at seven, and with LA traffic, we need to leave in the next ten minutes if we want to make it on time.
Last night keeps replaying in my head like a movie. The way Stella felt in my arms on this very couch, how she tasted when I kissed her, and the soft sounds she made when my hands found their way under her sweater. If her phone hadn't gone off, who knows if we would have stopped. I've already had to take care of myself twice today just thinking about it.
I knock on the door to my bedroom, where she's been getting ready. “Stella? We need to head out soon.”
“Almost ready!” she calls back. “Just need help with my zipper.”
I push open the door and immediately forget how to breathe.
Stella is standing in front of my full-length mirror, dressed in a black dress. It's elegant and sophisticated, hitting just above her knee, with a neckline that shows just enough to be interesting without being obvious. Her hair is swept up in a waythat shows off her neck, and she's wearing heels that make her legs look endless.
Christ. When did this happen? When did looking at Stella stop being casual and start making my mouth go dry? We've known each other for a few years now, but it's only been since she moved across the hall that we've gotten really close. And I've managed to keep things perfectly platonic this whole time. But standing here, watching her smooth down the fabric of that dress, all I can think about is not zipping her up and instead sliding that dress off of her.
“Wow,” I manage. “You look?—”
“Too much?” She turns toward me, suddenly uncertain, and the movement makes the dress shift in ways that definitely don't help my current situation. “I know it's more formal than usual, but I wanted to look the part tonight. Make a good impression for both of us.”
This is ridiculous. A week ago, she was just Stella. Now I'm standing here trying not to imagine what she's wearing under that dress, and I feel like an absolute jackass for it.
