by Brill Harper
“Stella?”
I jerk and whirl around, the coffee grounds flying everywhere.
Christopher raises his eyebrows at me. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I brush the coffee out of my bangs. “No, my bad. I was lost in Stellaville. I get a little better after I actually drink the coffee instead of throwing it all over myself, though. Usually, Doc and Carlita don’t speak to me until I’ve had a cup.” I sweep my hand down my “loud” dress. “I’m sure you’ll get used to that.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and studies me. There is something about his gaze that infuriates me as well as flusters me.
“So, Lockwood, tell me about yourself.”
“Excuse me?” he wanders into the room
“You work with Dr. Rivers...how do you like the clinic? She and Doc are great friends.”
I go back to the coffee so as to stop staring at him. He actually doesn’t look all that different from the grainy internet photo, so I’m not sure why all of the sudden “awkward” is completely hot to me. But wow, awkward is totally doing it for my hormones.
“I grew up in Bellevue.”
“Fancy. Let me guess. Your dad works at Microsoft.”
“My mom, actually,” he almost growls. “May I ask why this is so interesting to you?”
The growl makes my tummy flutter because there is something seriously wrong with me.
“Just making conversation.” I shrug. “Do you...know anyone else in Brazen Bay?”
“No. Just you and Dr. Anderson so far.”
I stifle my sigh of relief. He doesn’t know anyone and he is pretty standoffish about personal chitchat. Chances are good that he won’t talk to too many people about his personal life—which means good things for me and my closetful of lies. Though, some guys might thank me for the glowing report I gave about his bedroom skills. I look at Mr. Serious again. No, he won’t appreciate that at all. Especially my assertions of his...girth.
If I can relax and stay focused this week, I might be okay. I reach for my black tourmaline touchstone for comfort and realize I left it at home.
I’m in deep bukkake here.
Chapter Four
Christopher
I escort Dr. Anderson to the waiting car, reassuring her that everything will be fine.
Though I have some serious doubts that Stella can handle putting stamps on envelopes efficiently, much less run the office on her own.
She is so...quirky. As a rule, I don’t like quirky. I never know how to deal with people like her. I prefer women who are serious and don’t draw unnecessary attention. Even in high school, I didn’t have patience for the girls who smacked their gum and giggled. I’ve always been more attracted to the quiet ones who studied hard...and who most of the time were not interested in dating high school boys who got picked on by the jocks any more than the gum-smackers were. I was bullied for many years.
Luckily, I found an ally in an unlikely source—my PE teacher.
Rather than single me out for not being athletic, Mr. Smith brought me into his office and told me some facts of life. Fact one: Physical education was a required course that carried a letter grade. A letter grade that could affect my transcripts. Fact two: scrawny boys get more swirlies than muscular boys. Fact three: Muscular boys get more girls than scrawny boys do. Fact four: Training the body is not just a physical endeavor—the mind is a huge component to fitness. And a healthy body learns better and faster. Fact five: Muscular boys get more girls than scrawny boys do—in case I hadn’t heard that one the first time.
Together, Mr. Smith and I developed a training program that brought up my PE grade, kept me off the bully radar, really did improve my mental health, and sadly, didn’t do as much for my love life as I’d hoped. I got more attention from the giggly girls—but those quiet ones eluded me until college.
And then...well, that hadn’t worked out well, either. But I still enjoy being fit.
In any case, Stella Stone is definitely a gum-smacking giggler.
Which confuses me when I think of the way my body reacted to her abundant curves and that intoxicating cherry scent of her hair or perfume, or probably both. She is nothing like my usual type, and the idea of dating her is ludicrous, no matter what pheromones she’s putting out.
I don’t have to date her, but I do have to work with her, and she is going to drive me crazy with all that color and sparkle and the way she talks in circles. My temples throb in agitation and I’ve barely been in the same room with her this morning.
Perhaps it is the other throbbing that is causing my agitation
After the morning surgeries, Carlita, the vet tech, leaves for lunch and I’m hoping Stella will go, too. I open the fridge in the break room to grab the salad Dr. Anderson told me was in there for me.
There must be twenty or thirty salads...and all of them in Mason jars.
What the hell? Who cans salad?
“Oh, hi,” comes a voice from behind me.
Of course.
Stella cans salad. Of course she does.
“Staying for lunch?” she asks as she reaches around me to grab a jar. A jar of salad. “There are three kinds this week. Each one is labeled. I make them all on Sundays. There are always extra in case someone stays late for emergencies.” She keeps rambling as she pulls out a bowl. “I get the recipes on Pinterest. Anyway, if I didn’t have something ready to eat in there, Doc would starve or exist on Cheetos, so I try to keep her stocked on healthy lunches and snacks.”
She moves easily through the kitchen, and I am uncharacteristically mesmerized by her hips. The skirt of her cherry dress hugs them tightly like a showcase. Like the round shape of her is expertly packaged for inspection. Her curves make me slightly uneasy and I have no idea why.
It doesn’t occur to her to mind that I’m not participating in her conversation. “Once a month, I cook a bunch of freezer meals for her also. You’re staying in her house, right?” Without waiting for my answer, she continues, “They are all labeled, and there is a binder on her kitchen counter that has instructions for heating each meal. They are in alphabetical order. The ingredients are on each page, too, in case you are allergic to anything.”
She shakes her jar, opens it, and dumps the contents into a bowl. “The dressing is already on the bottom of the jar, so they really are ready to eat—and much better than the MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—my cousin tells me about. He’s Army. Well, he’s not really my cousin. It’s complicated. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
I’m still standing in front of the open fridge, the edges of my frown cutting into my forehead. She asked me something...what was it? “No. I am an only child.”
She rambles on about a sister and a brother who is a captain at the fire department who is getting married to a girl he met sexting. I decide I’m not ready for a jar of salad and opt for just coffee. The cupboard reveals even more brightly colored mugs. None of them match each other. Which is kind of a pet peeve of mine. All my dishes at home are white.
I glance at Stella and notice her mug is red and turquoise blue. “Stella, do you always match your crockery to your outfit?”
“Just my coffee cups. Whenever I buy a new dress, I try to find a mug that matches.”
Of course she does.
She smiles at me and damn if my eyes aren’t drawn to those red lips again. She’s left traces of her lipstick on the mug and I think about where else she might leave traces of her lipstick on my body and I know deep in the marrow of my bones that this woman is going to be trouble.
Chapter Five
Stella
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m tidying up the kitchen and making a list for Sunday’s salads when Megan pops in the back door.
Damn it. I almost made it. Doc is coming back on Tuesday—if I can just keep up the ruse a few more days, I swear I’ll break up with Christopher.
“Meg, what are you doing here?” I edge closer to the door, hoping to keep her contained to the e
ntryway so she won’t make herself too comfy.
Because my life has the potential to become an I Love Lucy episode really fast.
“I wanted to apologize.” She pushes right past me and heads for the coffee pot. As usual, Megan looks gorgeous in her little coral Calvin Klein dress and matching pumps.
Wait, what?
Did she say apologize?
“I...thank you?”
Megan finds the plain white coffee mug in the cupboard, the one Christopher tends to favor, and pours herself a cup. “I was pretty bitchy on the phone again last night. I don’t really think you have big boobs solely for the purpose of screwing up the wedding.”
I join her at the coffee maker. “You’re right, I don’t. I have big boobs solely for the purpose of screwing up your life, not just Leo’s wedding.”
“Ha-ha. I’m serious. I don’t even know what is wrong with me. I start every day with a positive mantra about how I will not lash out at people around me and I will try to enjoy the wedding planning and not let it stress me out, and every day I turn into a total bitch and I’m sorry.”
I put my arm around her shoulders. “You’re just under a lot of stress. I love you anyway.”
Megan hugs me back, careful not to mess up her make-up or hair. “Thank you for being so gracious. I hope you’ll let me plan your wedding someday. I’ll find an Elvis impersonator to marry you and just the right harmonica player to play the Wedding March.” She pulls back. “Hey, did you talk to Christopher yet?”
“Talk to me about what?”
Lucy, I’m home...
Be cool, Stella.
Christopher is sporting an honest-to-Goddess pocket protector on his white doctor coat today. I want to start calling him Eugene or Poindexter. I also want to scale his body like a tree and lick him from head to toe. I’m feeling quite conflicted about this very strange man I’m sort of dating. “Um, hi, Dr. Lockwood. Did you need some coffee? I can bring it to you.”
He looks behind him. Like there might be cameras. “You told me you don’t do coffee bringing.”
Because he’d pulled that crap day one. And I’d had to set him straight.
If I could pause time, just once, I’d like to muss him up. Untuck his shirt. Smudge his glasses. Unpart his hair. And then start time again just to watch him freak out about hair number 6,789 being incorrectly positioned. “I’m just trying to be nice,” I say through my teeth from a smile as artificial as aspartame.
He opens the cupboard, sees his cup gone, and shakes his head. Meanwhile, Megan looks like she is trying to do an Algebra problem in her head. This is about to spiral out of control.
Be cooler, Stella.
“Do you want some coffee?” he asks. In addition to being Mr. Control and Mr. Last Century Ideas About Female Office Administrators, he is also Mr. Emily Post. Yes, he thought I should run and get him coffee whenever he asked, but yes, he does always offer to get some for me when he is in front of the pot.
I should say no, but I do want a cup of coffee. I might as well have a well-caffeinated descent into the level of hell my sister is going to make my life when she discovers I made up a fake boyfriend. I also can’t wait to see Christopher’s consternated expression when he realizes I’ve brought him along with me into that hell. “Yes, please. Thank you for asking.”
He sizes up my dress and pulls out the daisy mug.
Huh.
“Stella, are you planning on introducing us?” Megan asks.
I’m still trying to figure out what it means that he matched my mug to my daisy dress and is preparing my coffee the way I like to take it, two creams, one sugar, when I remember that I need a handbasket and an ice machine. Because surely, I cannot keep this ruse up much longer.
“Yeah, sorry. Where are my manners?” Where is my meteor crashing through the sky to strike me dead so I don’t have to live out the next ten minutes of humiliation? Because surely I cannot keep this ruse up much longer. “Dr. Lockwood is subbing for Dr. Anderson this week.” I take the coffee he offers. “This is my sister, Megan.”
They do a round of polite how do you dos. In which Christopher so helpfully offers his first name.
The delight on Megan’s face is priceless. And by priceless, I mean it’s going to cost me. “Stella has told me so much about you,” Megan enthuses.
I hold my breath.
“She has?” Christopher answers, looking askance at me. Which has been the only way he’s looked at me since about Tuesday, so I’m used to it.
“Of course I have,” I say, picking at a nonexistent piece of lint on his sleeve, trying to make it look like I touch him all the time. Which earns me another quizzical look from him, but an “aww” from my sister.
“Yes! She has. And I really want you to come to the wedding. Two weeks from tomorrow.” Judging from the beaming, Megan thinks Christopher is a good match. I don’t quite see it. Well, okay, under the thick glasses and too perfect hair, he isn’t ugly. Okay, he is probably handsome. But that doesn’t make him a good match.
I’m pretty sure everything about me rubs him the wrong way. He sighs a lot. Because I am so taxing or something.
“I’m honored. I...I’m sure Dr. Anderson will be back before then.”
“So?” Megan shakes her perfectly coiffed head and puts her sensibly manicured hand on his arm. “You don’t live that far away. Surely you can stay with Stella the night before. Say you’ll come. I want you at the bridal table.”
“You want me at the bridal table,” he repeats.
I really should intervene here. My lie is about to implode spectacularly, but I’m kind of enjoying the comedic value of Christopher and Megan not being able to size each other up. He’s probably really curious about the crazy woman who just invited him to stay the night at her sister’s and sit at a family table at her brother’s wedding.
Looking at them together, I think they might have dated each other under different circumstances. He probably really likes Megan’s classical beauty and he’ll really like the way she clutches her pearls whenever confronted with anything that isn’t a neutral color or issue.
“Of course I want you at the bridal table.” You total stranger, you. “What I don’t understand is why Stella didn’t tell me you were in town—”
Shit. “Oh, Megan. Look at the time. We really need to get back to work. I’ll call you.”
Megan pushes back at the door. “I’m not leaving until Christopher promises to come to the wedding.”
“I...if...” He looks to me for guidance, so I make the universal “my sister is crazy just agree with her so she’ll leave” face to him. “If it’s that important to you, I’ll come to the wedding.”
I lean my back against the closed door and wait for him to comment. Because how could he not?
“Your sister seems friendly.”
“Yes, well, she’s been a little erratic as the wedding gets closer.”
He nods. “I’ve noticed some women do.”
“It’s a big day.”
“She’s not getting married, though, right? It’s your brother’s wedding?”
“Well, yes. But she’s very invested.”
Christopher shrugs. “I think too much importance is placed on the wedding in our culture. The focus should be on the compatibility of the couple.”
Dammit. I agree with him, but it still ruffles my feathers. “Our culture? You’re from Bellevue.” What I don’t want to do is defend my sister right now. Megan is crazy and the wedding business is worse. But...his attitude really bothers me.
“There is a Japanese couple in my building. They were introduced by a nakōdo, a matchmaker.”
“An arranged marriage?”
“Not exactly. They were just well matched. It’s an arrangement, but one that suits the bride and the groom for longevity, not for the whims of the heart or for family finances. It worked out well for them.”
I shake my head. “I couldn’t do that. When I get married, I want my groom to be so crazy in love that no
thing in his life makes sense. And I’ll feel the same.”
“Of course you would.”
The phone rings, so I’m spared having to argue with him about why the heart matters more than the head. Why romance, a bigger-than-life courtship, is so important. I’m holding out for what my parents have.
After the Year of Stella, of course. And when I get over my commitment phobia. Which I’m sure will be after the Year of Stella.
At my desk, I pick up the line, surprised to hear from Doc. She wants to speak to us both, but my speaker button stops working, so Christopher rounds the counter and stands next to me, sharing the receiver with me.
He’s pressing against my side, and I inhale deeply, surprised by the scent of his shampoo or aftershave. Or soap. Whatever it is, he smells like a sultry, mulled wine. Spicy, tangy, intoxicating. I try to focus on Doc’s voice, but instead, I steal a glance up at Christopher...and find him watching me.
Damn that fuzzy picture of him on the internet! He’d been safe then. Mostly dorky and far away. Now I realize he isn’t dorky, he is imposing and too masculine for my liking, but only because I like it way too much. It doesn’t make any sense. He is 100 percent awkward nerd, I am sure of it. So how does that translate into a wall of man I want to scale? And damn the perpetual beige tie. Does he really not own anything with color?
I wonder what he is thinking when he looks at me this way. Surely his thoughts are not echoing mine because, well, because that would be ridiculous. I’m not his type. I annoy him at every turn. He probably likes petite girls with lithe limbs and nimble figures. If he were a chubby chaser, he’d have come on to me by now.