She dodged away, laughing, pausing to take a sip from her cup. “So what’s next at the theater? All you said at lunch today was that you have a crew at work, and an interior designer you’ve been debating some ideas with.”
Chase winced, his good mood slowly ebbing. Mom didn’t know the designer was Stella. The two families didn’t exactly have a Montague and Capulet thing going, but she had gotten enough of the gist of his and Kat’s breakup to know that any kind of relationship with anyone from the Varland family—platonic, business, or otherwise—would be a potentially explosive situation.
The niggling feeling he’d had since first laying eyes on Stella at the theater flooded back in full force. He needed to make a truce with her. If the Cameo was going to be a success—if his job, his reputation, his career were going to be a success—then he and Stella needed to clear the air and find a way around all the awkwardness between them.
Maybe then she’d stop taking offense at everything he suggested.
He looked back at his mom, grateful she couldn’t actually read minds the way he and his brother had always joked she could when they were kids. “That’s about it.” He tried to keep his tone casual. Just another job. Nothing interesting about it. “The electrician was able to give us a good quote, thankfully, which will keep us on budget. We’ve about finished the demolition stage, and a plumber is coming to evaluate tomorrow.”
“So much to do. I can’t even imagine keeping up with it all.” Mom shook her head as she watched the boys play. “What did the designer decide to do on the inside?”
“It’s not nailed down yet.” He avoided eye contact, knowing if Mom’s eagle-eyes landed straight on him, she’d sense his uneasiness and be on him like a dog with a new squeaky toy. Mom’s subtlety was about as good as her meatloaf.
Better to play it cool. Detached.
“She pretty?”
Worse than the meatloaf, really. Chase groaned. “Mom, come on.”
“I’m just asking!” Her voice pitched in protest, and she laughed. “Forgive a mother for wanting her son happy.”
He had been happy—with Leah. She just hadn’t been happy with Leah.
He shook away the lingering melancholy. It wasn’t about Leah, not this time. This wave of grief was over something totally different, something he couldn’t quite identify. And to be honest, he was terrified even to try. It felt dishonoring to his late fiancée to put words to it.
Because deep down, he didn’t need to. The feeling didn’t require words.
It already had a face.
Stella tossed a hot pink bib into Kat’s already brimming grocery cart. “I told you we should have gotten two carts.” Or three. And her sister hadn’t even had a baby shower yet. This kid would be beyond spoiled.
“Stella.” Kat scolded as she plucked the pink bib from where it’d landed on a package of newborn-size diapers. “You know we aren’t finding out the gender of the baby until she or he gets here.”
“Hey, real men can wear pink.” Stella tossed it back in. “Besides, it’s the only one that has a cupcake on it.”
“Ohhh, you’re right. And look at this one. It says I get my looks from my mommy.” Kat held up a onesie from a different bin, also in pale pink. “Oh, man, Lucas is going to kill me.” She set it down, left both bibs inside the cart, and pushed it farther down the row, away from temptation. “That’s what he gets for skipping shopping for a pick-up football game with the guys.”
“Is he hoping for a boy?”
“He hasn’t said so outright, but I think he has visions of a future quarterback.” Kat stopped to examine the price on a package of crib sheets.
Stella tugged her away from the overpriced bedding. “Hey, if guys can wear pink, then girls can play football.”
“Said the pageant queen.” Kat winked.
“Enough with that already.” Stella groaned. “I get plenty of it from Mom.” How long did it take after a girl abandoned the stage and the tiaras to lose the title?
And how had she let that title define her life to the point that it was all anyone ever remembered?
“It’s all about redirection. I’ve been reading parenting books.” Kat leaned over the buggy to shift the contents into a more orderly pile. “And I think it’ll work on Lucas too.”
Oh, good grief. “That can’t be good.”
“No, hear me out.” Kat held up the pink bibs. “Like with these. He’ll see them. Might or might not have a tantrum. If he does, I’m prepared with the TV remote and a bunch of fantasy football stats I’ve looked up online.” She snapped her fingers. “Redirection.”
“It can’t be that easy.”
“Sure it is. He goes to the TV, bibs go in the drawer, marriage saved.”
The words slipped effortlessly from Kat’s mouth as she continued down the aisle with the cart, still jabbering about what she’d learned from the book, completely clueless to the dart she’d just unintentionally launched at her sister.
Marriage saved.
No. Definitely not that easy.
Stella hesitated in front of the rows of tiny newborn shoes as Kat meandered away. Miniature loafers and white patent sandals. Her gut twisted from her sister’s flippant words. Would she ever get past it? Would she ever have reason to register for baby items?
She ran her finger across the tiny shoes and drew a shaky breath. She could have been pregnant now, the same time as Kat, sisters expecting babies together. Or maybe she and Dillon would have waited a few more years, had a bit more marriage time under their belts first. Either way, at her age, the dream should be alive and vivid, a heartbeat of hope in her chest.
Not a fading, dying ember of a dream turned to ash.
“Stella, you coming?” Kat twisted around at the end of the aisle, her full belly even more prominent in her favorite cupcake T-shirt she refused to stop wearing.
Yes. Nothing for her on this row.
She joined her sister, finding her pageant smile to hide the lingering emotion. No way was she going to put a damper on Kat’s fun. “What’s next?”
“Mom said to price the cribs here and let them know how much they are. They’re on the next row.” She turned the cart, then immediately got distracted by an end-cap display of baby monitors. “To video, or not to video?”
“Video. Might come in handy when he or she is a toddler. Or a teenager for that matter.” Stella snorted. “If it is a girl, has Lucas started polishing up any shotguns yet?”
“He’s already said she can’t date until she’s thirty.” Kat pushed the cart around the corner toward the cribs. “Or a mature twenty-five.”
Sounded like Lucas. Mr. Protector. Whatever their child was, boy or girl, it was going to be in great hands. Kat and Lucas would be some of the best—and probably craziest—parents the baby could ever have.
Maybe it was better Stella wasn’t getting a chance to follow suit. Maybe she was still too selfish to be a mom. Too distracted, too inward focused. There’d been progress in that area since she’d gotten divorced, but was her heart truly in it? Did she actually want to be less selfish? Or was she just following through with the suggestions from her counselor by volunteering and doing things in the community?
God looked at the heart. What would He see?
Maybe she should keep working toward that. If nothing else, serving someone else again would distract her from Chase.
As long as she didn’t set anything else on fire during said serving, of course.
“When are you doing cupcakes for the shelter next?”
Kat set the monitor back on the display and picked up a cheaper one, scanning the description on the back. “Funny you ask. I was just talking to Nancy today about a fund-raiser. She called me at the bakery earlier, wanted to know if I’d be interested in helping cater. They’re about to do a big event to raise money for rebuilding.”
“Rebuilding? From the sprinkler flood?” Stella’s heart thudded hard in her chest. Had she really messed things up that bad with her impulsive, immature decision?
“No.” Kat laughed. “You’re so paranoid.”
She’d flooded a homeless shelter. Paranoia sort of fit here.
Kat gave up on the monitors and turned her full attention to Stella. “They’ve been planning an expansion and update for a while, and the timing finally came together. No relation to your little candle experiment.”
“What kind of fund-raiser?” Maybe she could help somehow, be more involved than usual. She could be Kat’s assistant with the desserts, and help during the actual event. Paranoid or not, she sort of owed them—all of them.
And owed herself.
“It’s going to be kind of like a big garage sale, but inside the shelter since it’s so hot right now. They’re asking everyone in the city to donate items for the sale, and the residents are supposed to make things to contribute too.” Kat grinned. “Should be pretty fun, actually. I can finally get rid of some of that bachelor-stuff Lucas keeps insisting we hang on to.”
Stella nodded slowly, mind racing. Donations. What did she have to give away that would raise money for the shelter to add on? Did she have anything of value?
An image of her art flitted through her mind, like a wayward butterfly. She swatted it away. Hardly. She’d be lucky to get fifty cents for someone to buy her amateur efforts. But surely she had something . . . jewelry?
Her wedding rings.
She swallowed, heart knotting. That was a decision for another day.
Kat squinted at her, lips pursed like she was trying to hold back a grin and failing miserably. “You do know the shelter still isn’t open though, right?”
“Yes, I know.” Thanks for rubbing it in, sis. “Dixie actually came and hung out at the Cameo yesterday while we were working, so I sort of figured.”
Kat stopped pushing her cart and raised one eyebrow. “How’d that go?”
“Which part? Us working, or Dixie dropping by?”
“Both.”
Obviously, Kat wanted to know about Chase. But what was there to say? Yeah, we fought, and I tattled on him to the Downtown Director, then realized maybe he was right about my designs after all?
No. It was one thing to admit Chase had a point. It was another thing entirely to say it out loud.
Especially to her sister.
Stella stalled, flipping over the tag dangling off a beautiful oak crib. “Dixie was her usual self. Entertaining and cryptic, and then fell asleep. After popping up out of nowhere and scaring me half to death.”
“And Chase?”
Great. Kat wasn’t even pretending to beat around the bush at this point. If there was a bush, she was more like barreling right through the middle of it—thorns and all.
“We’re making it work. For the sake of the Cameo.” Stella pointed to a cherry changing table next to the crib. “Hey, that one’s pretty.”
“Making it work—what do you mean? Have ya’ll talked things out?” Kat crossed her arms over her chest, a slight frown nestled on her brow.
Well, that attempt at redirection didn’t work. Probably wouldn’t on Lucas, either. Or on their baby, if the poor thing had even half the stubborn streak that his or her parents possessed.
Suddenly, Stella wasn’t nearly as jealous over not being pregnant.
“No. Definitely not. I don’t think it’s necessary.” Or desirable. In fact, that was the last thing she and Chase needed—some kind of truce. The past was the past and should stay exactly that. They could be mature and work together without having to dredge up skeletons.
“You’re being careful, right?”
Stella laughed, the sound awkward to her own ears. “Kat. He’s not a serial killer.”
She didn’t laugh back. “Some hurts are worse than death.”
Preaching to the choir. Time for another attempt at redirection, and this time, she wouldn’t play fair. “Hey, look. Baby’s first baking set.”
“What? Where?!” Kat nearly shoved her cart into an elderly woman toting a basket full of oranges before grabbing the wooden set off the shelf. “Real men bake, too, right?”
Stella smiled sweetly. “Absolutely.”
Maybe their kid had a chance after all.
Stella crossed an angry X with a pencil over her latest design failure and flipped her sketchbook to another page, letting out a frustrated huff as she adjusted her position on her living room couch. She’d gotten confident in the gold and silver color scheme, but there was a piece of the design puzzle still missing. The Cameo deserved something . . . something extra. Some focal point in the lobby, something to grab attention, to welcome the guests pouring through the front doors, to set the mood and tone of the evening.
What that focal point was, she had no idea.
Though Chase had certainly made it clear it wasn’t classic movie posters.
Hopefully he’d like the color scheme she’d chosen, because right now she had no idea what else to do if not. Everything she’d researched online lent to the same “been there, done that” ideas Chase was tired of.
Yet wasn’t there something to be said for classic? For timeless? For glamorous? Why fix what wasn’t broken? Cliché became that way because people expected it. Wouldn’t those enjoying a night out in Bayou Bend appreciate an old-fashioned look to the stage and screen? She’d been flashy for years, and flashy definitely wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. So why was Chase so bent on something outside the box?
There was nothing wrong with the box.
She was supposed to meet him Monday morning at the theater to finalize the design and get a timeline projection of when she could start shopping and implementing her design around their construction. He had said his plan was to finish the theater first and work their way out to the lobby. Except for the bathrooms, which would get updated based on the plumber’s schedule.
Which reminded her. She needed to tie the overall theme into the restrooms, as well—subtly, of course, but it was all still part of the experience. She wanted more than wire baskets with flowers on the counters and a few framed photos on the wall. No, she wanted the women primping in front of the mirror to feel like they were still out on the town. Still in a different world.
Still someone.
Or maybe that was just what she wanted when she looked in the mirror.
A sudden knock sounded on her front door. Stella frowned as she moved her sketch pad and pillow from her lap and headed toward the door, hitching up her baggy sweatpants. Seven o’clock on a Saturday evening . . . wouldn’t be Mom. She always stayed in on Saturday nights to cook a hearty meal while Dad finalized his sermon for church the next morning. Some nights he’d breeze out of his home office, relaxed, completed sermon in hand and all ready for pork chops or beef stew. Other nights he’d stumble out of the office, a Bible tucked under one arm and a notepad under the other, muttering prayers mixed with frustration as he gulped down half his dinner standing up and returned to work.
Hopefully tomorrow’s sermon would be a relaxed, God-sent, pork-chop version. She could use the encouragement. And any advice God wanted to share on how to deal with Chase was plenty welcome.
She opened the door.
Chase.
She shut the door.
He knocked again. “Stella. Stella? Seriously?”
She sagged against the frame, back pressed against the painted wood, wishing she had a metal arm to barricade it like the castles she saw in movies. Chase, in her house. Her gaze frantically caught the open door to her art studio, and she flew across the living area and slammed it shut.
Chase kept knocking. “Stella, we need to talk.”
She hesitated. Maybe she was being a little immature. She glanced back at the shut door to her art studio. But Chase, within mere feet of her deepest and best-kept secret? It felt so wrong. As if by allowing it, she was a traitor to her own heart.
He knocked harder. “Stella. Come on, it’s about work.”
He wasn’t going away. Figures he’d turned persistent. Oh no, he couldn’t have fought for her half a dozen y
ears ago. Yet now . . .
Men.
She opened the door, shaking back her hair and attempting a calm expression, as if she hadn’t just reacted like an insulted toddler. “What’s up?”
He stared at her. Maybe she suddenly resembled an insulted toddler too. “Can I come in?”
No. Never. “Sure.” She flattened her stomach, stepped sideways so he could pass, and forced herself to avoid looking at her studio door. She could feel it, though, the tell-tale heart thumping from the corner of the living area. Her art, her heartbeat, her private sanctuary in danger of discovery.
Which meant she was in danger of being discovered.
Stella drew a deep breath to rid herself of the melodrama. “How’d you find me?”
“Find you? I didn’t realize you were hiding.” Chase crossed his arms over his chest. The sleeves of his shirt pulled tight across his biceps, and he studied her cautiously, the way a man might view a threatened tigress in the wild.
“I’m not hiding. Just wondering how you got my address.” In other words, wondering who had betrayed her and ratted out where she lived. Not Kat. Never in a million years would she help Chase. Nor did Stella think Chase dumb enough to seek Kat out. And it wouldn’t have been her mom, meddling as she was. Not this time. Not with Chase.
“It’s Bayou Bend. Not really tricky to find someone’s address.”
What did he mean? That was no answer.
And why did Chase keep scanning the room, as if he was mentally taking a snapshot of her living quarters? She felt exposed, and he wasn’t even looking at her. She crossed her arms, too, wishing she could pull a curtain to shade off her entire apartment the way the teal curtain in the corner sectioned off her bed. Thankfully she’d tugged it into place earlier that day in an effort to tidy up and not distract herself from work.
Hard to feel professional when your office was four feet from your bed pillows.
“I know it’s Bayou Bend.” She frowned at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was avoiding her question. Who was he protecting? Had he gotten her address from Cowboy Bob, somehow? Was it on a form the Downtown Development office had on her after hiring her? But it was Saturday. How could Chase have gotten in touch with—
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