Why was he here?
“I felt bad about what I said.” Wrappers rustled from the living room. “About Dixie.”
Ah. He never could leave things unsettled. If he thought there was any hint of conflict lingering . . .
“About her being creepy, you mean?” Stella rejoined him in the living room, tapped the ketchup bottle against her palm to shake the good stuff to the bottom, and offered the bottle to Chase first.
He squeezed a few dollops onto a napkin and slid it to her across the coffee table before serving himself. “It offended you. So for that, I’m sorry.”
Wow. Chase Taylor, apologizing. The man had grown up—and for once, that fact wasn’t indicated just by the muscles under his tee. No, it was showing in the manner in which he made sure her food was fixed up and accessible before starting on his own. Was showing in the way he carried himself, a little wearier around the edges than she remembered, but confident. Strong.
She settled on the couch beside him, a full cushion away, pulling the coffee table up to meet their legs. On second thought, maybe he was too strong. Maybe he had his own mask, his own secrets.
She was sure of it, actually. He’d been through something too.
What if he was divorced?
The thought made her choke on a fry.
“Is it that shocking? Me apologizing?” Chase swabbed a fry through a pile of ketchup and shook his head at her in exaggerated pity.
She covered her mouth and coughed harder, laughing now behind it. But the initial thought lingered, wouldn’t quite dissipate. “No, sorry. I just . . . choked.” On a question she could never ask. But was dying to know the answer to. Why did it even matter? She wouldn’t judge him for the same label she tried to hide herself.
It just . . . mattered. Somehow.
She wanted to know.
Wanted to know Chase again.
She stuffed another handful of fries in her mouth. Too bad she couldn’t choke off the thoughts in her mind.
He put down his cheeseburger and leaned toward her. “So, you forgive me?”
Such a serious question for such a minor offense. “Of course. It’s not a thing.” Wasn’t, really. She had been bothered by it a little for Dixie’s sake, even though she knew at first impression—or sometimes, even second, third, and fourth impression—how Dixie came across. What had bothered her more than the comment was the judgmental attitude behind it. This was her town and her people—he had left. He had forfeited the right to tease and criticize and judge Bayou Bend.
But there was zero to be gained in pointing that out. She’d agreed to a truce, so she’d pick her battles.
For now.
“So how did you know I hadn’t eaten yet?” Stella took a bite of her burger, wiping her mouth with a napkin and mentally blocking the calorie count prancing through her head. She didn’t give much merit to the parade anymore, but it didn’t stop the numbers from parading all the same.
“I just assumed. Remembered how busy you were at the Cameo, and you never did turn off of productive-mode very quickly.” He shrugged, looking almost . . . shy. Sheepish?
No way. Chase? She fought the urge to rub her eyes to clear her vision. The man didn’t have a shy bone in his body. This was the man who hit on her while dating her sister.
But it hadn’t really gone down like that, despite Kat’s version of the story.
He kept talking. “I figured you came home and started cleaning.” He looked around and then shot her a teasing grin. “Clearly that wasn’t the case, so you must have been working on the design for the theater again.”
She snorted. Her house wasn’t that messy. Just . . . cluttered, especially after her haphazard flight from her art room. She darted a glance at the shut door and drew a steadying breath. Her secret was safe. There was no way Chase could stumble into there.
She really needed to find a deadbolt for that thing.
Chase focused back on his fries then, his voice higher and a little too nonchalant. “Just assumed it’d be a safe bet to bring you a burger. You used to always be doing something to make you forget to eat.”
So, he had put a good deal of thought into what she might be doing—and pretty much nailed it on the head. The idea spread warmth through her stomach, the type of warmth she hadn’t felt in years. Maybe since her honeymoon days of being married. When was the last time a man—a real, flesh-and-blood man—had put that much consideration into her well-being? For no gain of his own?
Scratch that—had it ever happened?
Reality sucker punched her, jabbing away the short-lived warmth and comfort. An anchor dragged at her gut, pulling her emotions down into an endless pit. Dillon always had his own agenda. So did the dozens of men before Dillon. Always wanting a piece of her, wanting to break off a portion for themselves, rather than protect her or make sure she was taken care of.
Tears sprang, unbidden, from a well deep within and rarely accessed. She blinked them away before Chase could notice. She was done falling apart. Had already wasted way too many tears on Dillon.
And Chase, for that matter.
No more. She finished the last bite of her burger and began quickly gathering up her trash, wishing he’d never come. Wishing he’d stay forever.
Wishing he’d just leave. Like everyone else always eventually did.
Just. Go.
“What happened?” Chase frowned at her, but she ignored him, kept wadding together her paper wrappers and shoving them into the discarded bags, refusing to cry. She was fine. Everything was fine.
“Stella.” His hand covered hers, warm, traces of salt still on his fingers from the French fries. She jerked away as if she’d been burned. But she had been burned. By Dillon. By Chase. By the lineup of men before them.
Unbidden, the memories flooded through her. She let out her breath, but couldn’t draw another one. She began to shake. The room dipped. She closed her eyes. Opened them again. It was hot in here.
“What did I say?” He reached for her hand again but didn’t force it, allowing her to step back. Which she did. He stood up, facing her across the coffee table as her fists clenched at her sides and her breathing came in short gasps she couldn’t control.
No. Oh no. Not another anxiety attack. Always at the worst times . . . was there ever a good time?
She struggled to inhale. She was fine. Fine. Her counselor and her doctor told her the attacks would pass with time, that she was healthy. There was no reason for these to continue. It was just stress, the sensation of being overwhelmed.
Yet somehow, knowing she was fine didn’t quite push back the darkness.
She faltered, then strengthened. She could not—would not—faint in front of Chase Taylor twice.
Determined to beat it, to fight, she tried to breathe, but the apartment was shrinking by the minute. Like Alice in Wonderland standing before the tiny door, she was too big. Nothing fit. Nothing made sense.
Chase Taylor was in her apartment.
Black crowded her vision and she opened her eyes wider, forcing back the darkness. She tried to pray, but it stuck in her throat. Stuck in her thoughts.
“Stella? Are you okay?” Chase was in front of her then, swaying. No, she was swaying. She reached toward him to steady the room, still pressing in tight. But the electricity shooting up her fingers at the contact with his shoulder let loose a fresh burst of adrenaline.
Everything burst with light.
And then went dark.
Either Stella had some sort of blood sugar issue, or his way with women was getting worse by the minute.
At least this time, he caught her.
Chase laid Stella’s limp form on the couch. She moaned, and he relaxed slightly. She didn’t seem quite as out of it as she’d been that day on the Cameo stage. He adjusted the couch pillow under her head and watched her take several deep breaths and stir. What was he supposed to do? Calling 911 seemed extreme, especially since she hadn’t hit her head. Maybe a cold washcloth?
He looked a
round for the bathroom and headed for the shut door near the curtained off area he assumed contained Stella’s bed. He eased it open, reaching for what he figured would be a light switch, expecting to see a sink and a toilet.
Natural light shone through a window, illuminating an easel with a half-finished painting. He blinked. Not a bathroom. A watercolor? A beautiful blue sky . . . hidden behind an angry red X. He frowned. Why had someone ruined the work?
And yet the one on the wall . . . a woman, dancing. It was stunning.
He turned a slow half circle, taking in the rest of the tiny, packed room. To the left of the half-finished canvas sat a low workbench, holding a shoebox full of broken pieces of random objects. He gingerly reached into the box, rustling the contents. They were from the Cameo.
This was Stella’s room.
Stella was an artist.
A talented artist.
“Chase?”
He spun at the sound of her voice, which sounded sleepy and disoriented, and hurried to the doorway so she could see him and ease her confusion. “I’m right here. Are you okay?”
She sat up on the couch, her hair mussed, and squinted at him like he was an illusion. “What are you doing? Were you . . . why is the door . . .” The blood rushed from her face, leaving her even paler than before. “Did you go—” She jumped to her feet and wobbled slightly.
“Stella, you fainted. Don’t move too quickly.” He took three long strides in her direction, ready to catch her again if she was still weak.
But the firm set of her jaw was all strength. “Get out.”
He stopped short of touching her, hands hovering. “What’s wrong?”
“Get. Out. Now.” She pointed to the door, her entire arm shaking, betraying the steel in her eyes. What had happened? Was he not supposed to have gone in that room?
He backed away, giving her space even though he just wanted to pull her into a hug. Find out if his hugs still helped at all like they used to. “I was trying to find a washcloth for your head. You fainted.”
She pushed toward him, the anger sparking in her eyes propelling him backward. “A washcloth? The bathroom and kitchen are both over there.” She pointed in the opposite direction from her art room. Her secret art room, apparently, if he was reading the situation correctly.
Their truce was rapidly slipping through his fingers. Maybe she was just afraid of his criticism again. He knew it had affected her when he hadn’t approved her first designs for the Cameo. Maybe she just feared his rejection again.
Maybe he could fix this.
“It was an honest mistake.” His back was against the front door now. He held up both hands in surrender, attempting to talk her off the ledge “Stella. Listen to me. You’re good. Really good.” So good, it was pure relief. Relief that the Stella he knew still resided somewhere in there. The colorful, flashy Stella he missed so much.
Cheeks flushed red, she reached around him and grabbed the doorknob, knocking into his side as he stumbled out of the way. “I said get out.”
Apparently compliments weren’t going to work. He obediently stepped onto the porch, but leaned forward and braced both arms against the door frame, preventing her from shutting the door in his face. “This isn’t like you, Stella.”
“Don’t even pretend to know a thing about who I am now.” Her voice shuddered with intensity. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m sorry I went in the wrong room.” More than sorry. He should have just wet a paper towel in the kitchen and been done with it. Who knew stumbling into the wrong room could cause all this? Whatever this was. “I’m really sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She started to shut the door.
He blocked it with his foot, frustrated. Confused. Hating that he had ruined something he’d just started putting back together, however fragile it’d been. “What, it’s some unpardonable sin? That’s not fair.” Not that much was these days, but this . . . he couldn’t lose this. They’d had a truce. They were going to be friends again, redeem the past.
No more regrets. He couldn’t have any more regrets.
And this was rapidly careening in a direction he couldn’t control.
“You don’t understand!” Her resolve was slipping now, cracks evident in her voice. Were those tears?
He’d made her cry.
Again.
He was really good at making girls cry. “Make me understand.”
She shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest. Hid. Hid within herself. He hated when she did that. It was almost as bad as her pageant smile. He lowered his voice, tried again. “What are you so afraid of?”
She uncrossed her arms, and his hopes lifted. Putting down her defenses? Tearing down the wall she’d started building before his eyes?
She put both hands on the door and pushed. “The truth.”
He stepped back just in time.
And the lock clicked into place.
ten
Stella had a dream once. One of those nightmares that lingered long after you woke up, that stayed on the fringes of your subconscious for weeks or even months.
In the dream, she’d been onstage competing in a pageant, and her bathing suit had been too big. It’d been a one-piece, red polka-dotted suit, and it kept slipping as she made her way down the catwalk. Every time she grabbed the straps to hold it up, the material slid through her grasp like oil and disintegrated until, by the time she’d reached the end of the stage, she’d been completely naked.
She remembered that bad dream vividly, even years later. The memory of it burned, that awful feeling of exposure. Helplessness.
But this was worse.
This was a reality she couldn’t wake up from. Chase had found her secret.
She couldn’t hide anymore.
“What is with you today?” Kat transferred a tray of cupcakes from the oven at Sweetie Pies and then bumped the door shut with her elbow.
Hot air from the oven billowed through the small industrial kitchen. “What do you mean?” But Stella knew exactly what her sister meant. If she looked even half as betrayed as she felt, then she could only imagine Kat’s level of concern. Yet she couldn’t explain herself without admitting Chase had been in her apartment, which would bring up all kinds of questions from Kat that she really didn’t want to answer.
And she also couldn’t explain without revealing her own secret to Kat.
It was lose-lose.
Kat deposited the hot trays on the countertop and waved her oven mitt in the air. “You’re moping. Even more than usual. And why aren’t you at the Cameo this afternoon working?”
Because she couldn’t face Chase after she’d kicked him out of her apartment.
Stella rubbed her hands over her face. The smooth complexion under her fingers still caught her off guard sometimes. She never used to be able to touch her face without coming away with layers of foundation and powder caking her fingers.
Good thing she’d made that change, because with all the stress of the past year, she’d end up with finger tracks down her cheeks daily.
“I’m going over there later. To discuss the stage.” She didn’t have a choice. They wanted her opinion on what color stain to use after they finished sanding it. Would Chase play it off and be professional, or would he pull her aside and insist they hash out what had happened last night?
For that matter, she still didn’t know for sure what had happened. She’d fainted. Another anxiety attack when her thoughts got the best of her, apparently. Then she’d come to and found Chase standing in her private sanctuary. Where she sweated and prayed and placed the only remaining untouched piece of herself on tentative, private display.
And now her last secret place had been revealed.
Kat took out the next tray from the oven. “The shelter reopened, by the way. I wasn’t sure if you’d heard.”
Thank goodness. There would probably never be a day that whole situation didn’t rub against her nerves in some form. She’d never fully live it down.
>
Hazards of a small town.
Hazards of an easily pricked conscience.
“It wasn’t your fault, Stella.”
Stella squinted. Pursed her lips. “No, I’m pretty sure it was.”
Silence tucked itself around the kitchen. And then Kat snorted. “Okay, maybe it was. But you’ve been through so much. Everyone does stupid things when they’re hurting.”
“Sure they do. They impulse-buy musical instruments they’ll never play and go on rebound dates with the biker down the street. They don’t typically ignite and flood out homeless shelters.”
Kat coughed back her laugh but Stella heard it anyway. “Seriously, it’s going to be fine. They’ve got the fund-raiser planned out now. It’s in a few weeks. Remind me and I’ll text you the exact date and time.”
“Okay. I’ll help.” It was the least she could do.
“Have you thought about what you’ll donate?”
She had some ideas, but nothing that was worth enough. “Still debating. I’ll need to go through my closet again.” The image of her wedding rings still danced in her mind, but she didn’t know if she could go through with that. It wasn’t like she’d wear them again—if anything, they’d burn a hole through her finger if she tried. And she didn’t have a child to pass them on to.
Still. It was a decision to make.
“So how are things going with Chase at work?” Kat slid the next tray of batter-filled liners into the oven and shut the door. “And I want a real answer. None of that fake mess.”
“What fake mess?” Stella straightened her spine, feigning offense.
It didn’t work.
“Don’t even pretend to be offended. You know you can slap on that pageant smile and give all the big-white-teeth right answers you want all day long, but I want the truth.” Kat tossed the oven mitt on top of the counter and grinned. “And I can say that right now because I’m pregnant and you can’t get mad at me.”
Oh, she could. But she wouldn’t. Because her sister was right. She’d perfected the crowd-scene expression and tone and could slip back into the practice faster and more automatically than she liked. Old habits died hard.
Love Arrives in Pieces Page 12