“You nailed it,” Stella says sincerely. Then, without missing a beat, she shifts gears. “I also wanted to introduce you to Brandon Grimaldi. He's one of the most talented stunt performersworking right now, and with his racing background, I thought he might be a great resource for your F1 project.”
Helena turns toward me and offers a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” I reply. “I really enjoyed the show. Congratulations.”
Her gaze is direct, with all her focus on me. “How long have you been in the business?”
“I've been doing stunt work for about fourteen years. I've worked on three racing films and understand both the practical and safety elements involved in automotive sequences.”
“Interesting,” she says, giving me a quick once-over like she's already plugging me into a shot list in her mind. “Stella, maybe you can set something up?”
“Of course,” Stella says, already slipping into follow-up mode.
And just like that, Helena's pulled away by a swarm of producers. Stella looks over at me with that signature I-know-what-I'm-doing smile—and yeah, she absolutely does.
“That was perfect,” she whispers as we move through the crowd toward the exit to find her mother.
But all I can think about is how perfect it feels to have her by my side.
twenty-four
. . .
Stella
By the timewe get back to Brandon's apartment, it's past midnight, and my feet are killing me. Mama disappeared into my place across the hall with a satisfied smile and a comment about what a “lovely evening” it was, leaving Brandon and me alone in his living room.
I kick off my heels and immediately feel human again, while Brandon shrugs out of his suit jacket and loosens his tie. That's when I notice him rolling his left shoulder, trying to work out what looks like a painful knot.
“Your shoulder bothering you?” I ask.
“Just a little stiff,” he says, but I can see the way he's favoring it. “The couch is comfy, but space is limited.”
Guilt washes over me. He's been sleeping on that couch for a week because I took over his bedroom, and I never even thought about how uncomfortable it must be for him.
“Brandon, this is ridiculous,” I say, heading toward the bedroom. “We're adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”
“Stella, you don't have to?—”
“Yes, I do. I should have already offered.” I turn back to face him with a pleading look. “I'm sorry I didn't think of it sooner.”
He follows me into the bedroom. “It's fine, Stella, and I don't have to sleep in here if it makes you uncomfortable.”
I turn to face him, trying to read the look on his face. Does he want to sleep in here?
“It doesn't.”
“I promise to keep to my side of the bed,” he says and starts to unbutton his shirt, which is my cue to leave.
“I'm going to rinse off this makeup and change,” I say, grabbing my sleep clothes from the dresser. “Make yourself at home…in your own room…that I took over.”
God, why am I so awkward?
When I emerge from the bathroom five minutes later in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, Brandon is already in bed, propped up against the headboard with the covers pulled to his waist. And he's shirtless.
I try not to stare at the expanse of his chest, at the way his muscles shift as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, but it's impossible. He's beautiful thanks to years of working out and building a body made for stunts. He’s all golden skin and defined lines that almost look photoshopped.
“Much better,” I say, hoping my voice sounds normal as I slide under the covers on my side of the bed.
