Stella

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I’m not sure what I expected of John. Maybe a text, a phone call, or maybe nothing. But I sure as hell didn’t expect a delivery. It comes three weeks after our implosion.

“What the hell?” Brenna asks, seeing me lug a big square box into her kitchen after signing for it.

“I don’t know,” I say, grabbing scissors out of the catchall drawer. “It’s for me, but that’s all it says.”

Her ponytail sways as she hurries over to help. “It’s gotta be Jax.”

I suppress a grimace. “We don’t know that. How would he even know I’m here?”

Her brow furrows with a frown. “Scottie must have ratted you out. He’s the only one of the guys who knows you’re here, and he’s a total closet romantic.”

“Really?” I can’t imagine stone-faced Scottie being sentimental.

“Believe it. Now that he has a family, he wants us all happily settled.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” I ask, amused at her sour expression.

“It’s an annoying thing.” Brenna quirks a brow. “Enough about matchmaker Scottie. Do you know anyone else who would have something hand delivered? Besides, the courier was Darren. He works for us. My money is on Jax sending this.”

I stare at the box, hesitant to open it. Whatever John sent isn’t small. The box is about twenty inches square.

“If he sent a human head,” Brenna says darkly, “I’m going to be really upset.”

A laugh bursts out of me. “What the hell, Brenn? You are sick.”

She shrugs. “Got you to smile, didn’t I? Stop looking at the box like it’s a bomb and open it already.”

“Sneaky cheeks.” A couple of slices from the scissor blade to open it, and we both peer in.

“Well,” she says, “it’s not a head.”

“Nope.” Bottles rattle as I pull a six-pack of beer free from the box.

“Jax is so fucking weird.”

A smile threatens, and my lips wobble before I force them flat. “It’s one of his best qualities.” God, I’m going to cry. Over this strange-ass gift of beer.

Brenna roots through the box, but it’s empty. “What the hell does it mean?”

“I honestly have no idea. It’s not like I’m a huge beer enthusiast.”

“How could he not leave a note?” Brenna scowls at the beer. “His first contact and it’s to send random beer?”

Suppressing a sigh, I put the beer in the fridge. “I’m done trying to figure him out.”

Words are shallow, though; the beer haunts me as I walk away. What the hell is John trying to say? Hey, let’s have a few beers and laugh this all away? Sorry, I broke your heart, have a drink on me? Whatever it is, I find myself getting more and more pissed.

It builds as I try to lounge in Brenna’s living room, and I end up tossing the copy of Vogue back onto the coffee table with so much force, it slides right off and lands with a thump on the floor.

“You know,” Brenna says, not looking up from her magazine, “only Rye could annoy someone more than Jax. Be grateful you didn’t fall for him.”

“Tell me,” I murmur. “How much of a pain is it to fall for Rye?”

She opens her mouth, then pauses to glare at me, clearly expecting a different question from me and caught off guard. Her brows lower. “Har. You think I’m into Rye?”

My lips twitch. “Everyone thinks you are into each other.”

Brenna snorts, her attention suddenly on her ice-blue nails. “Please. He’s an asshole.”

I get up and go to the fridge for some of John’s damn beer. If we’re going to talk men, I need a drink. It’s cold enough, and Brenna accepts a bottle with a wry look before taking a long sip.

“Is he, though?” I ask, curling back up on the couch. “Admittedly, he has a pretty juvenile sense of humor, and he’s blunt, but he seems like a nice man. He clearly cares about all of you guys.”

A disgruntled sound escapes her, then she sighs and rests her head against the soft couch back. “He does care. And he is a good guy. He’s only an asshole to me.”

“He seems more like he’s pulling your ponytail for attention.”

She slides me a sidelong look.

“Not to condone such behavior,” I amend. “Bullyboy tactics should die a swift death.”

Her mouth twists with a smile. “Admittedly, I’m just as bad. I know this. It’s our personalities, I guess. We’re always rubbing each other the wrong way.”

“I wondered if it was some bad blood that never healed.”

“Oh, it’s that too,” she says with a scowl. “Incidents here and there. Nothing I want to talk about now. I’ll be in a mood all day if I do.”

“Fair enough.” I pull at the damp label on my beer. “I’m brooding enough for both of us.”

Brenna and the girls pulled me through the worst of it. For the first time in my life, I was the one who had friends force me out of the house, take me to salons for massages and facials. We’d gone to the movies, stayed in and watched movies, indulged in cocktails and ice cream—not mint chocolate chip. That was banned from the house. We’d done every clichéd thing we could think of.

And it was fun. Well, as fun as something can be while I’m walking around with what feels like a massive hole in chest. I press my hand to that spot now, surprised my skin isn’t ice cold. I’m cold all the time now. Another new and unfortunate development. If this is what love does to a person, love can go suck it.

Brenna grabs her phone and answers a few emails before tossing it down and giving me an overly bright smile. “We should order pizza to go with this random beer your man sent us.”

“He’s not my man anymore,” I mumble.

The door buzzer stops Brenna from responding. She gives me an excited look that has me flinching inside. Yep, love and hope can definitely suck it. I don’t bother turning my head to watch her open the door.

“Another delivery,” she calls from the hall.

“Seriously?” I get up. “If he sent me more beer, I’m going over there and dumping it on his fat head.”

“Maybe that’s the idea.” She frowns at the box. “But, no, this one is lighter and longer.”

Together, we open it, Brenna muttering about heads under her breath. Inside, there’s another box, this one much nicer. I lift the lid and root through the perfectly folded tissue paper and find a length of pale pink fabric. I take it out and it unfurls.

“It’s a dress,” I say, stating the obvious.

“Hot damn.” Brenna runs a reverent finger along the satin. “It’s Stella McCartney couture.”

It’s a knee-length sheath with a sort of box ’40s-style neckline and a cutout back.

“He bought me a dress? What the ever-loving hell?”

“Maybe it’s a message?” She doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe, let’s have a beer out on the town?”

With a noise of annoyance, I toss the dress back into the box.

“Hey,” Brenna protests, “don’t take it out on the dress. She’s innocent in all this.”

“She?” I laugh.

“Well, I’m not referring to dresses as ‘he.’” She sniffs, lifting her chin. “They deserve better than that indignity.”

I’m still smiling when the door buzzes again. Brenna makes a little squeeing noise, but I hold up a hand. “I’m getting this.” Irritation has me stomping to the door and flinging it open.

Poor Darren, holding a smaller box, gapes at me in all my glaring wrath. “Ah, delivery for you, Ms. Grey.”

“This is ridiculous. Take it back and tell him I’m not interested in games.”

Darren’s mouth opens wider as he struggles for words. “Thing is, I’ll get in trouble if I don’t deliver it.”

“Oh, hell.” I take the box from him. “I’m sorry for yelling. It’s Jax who’s the pest, not you.”

The tips of Darren’s ears pink. “Right. Well, have a good day!”

“Right.” I tear into the box.

“What is it this time?” Brenna asks. “A necklace?”

“No.” I shoot her a bemused glance. “A DVD. A Streetcar Named Desire.”

She frowns. “So … Is he trying to ask for a date?”

My finger runs over the plastic edge of the DVD case. Young Marlon Brando, muscle-bound and handsome, his shirt dirty and torn, screams up at me from a small insert picture. A smile tugs at my mouth. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

“What?” Brenna’s eyes dart from the case to my face, her expression eager. “What did he do?”

Putting the DVD down, I stride over to the living room and grab my beer and hold it aloft. “The beer is Stella Artois.”

Her frown smooths out. “And the dress is a Stella McCartney. He’s sending you Stella things?”

A snort escapes me as I look at Marlon Brando again. “Worse. I think he’s calling out to me. You know … ‘Stella! Hey, Stella!’”

She snickers. “God, he’s so weird. Cute, but weird.”

My vision blurs and I blink rapidly. “Yeah.” He is weird and wonderful and damaged. And I love him. I do. But loving someone isn’t enough. Clearly, he’s trying to reach out and make some sort of amends in his own bumbling fashion. But I don’t feel any better. In truth, I feel worse.

When the buzzer rings yet again, I just sigh and trudge to the door. “Look, this has gone—”

“Hey, Stella,” John says softly. He stands there, his hair mussed, a white T-shirt stretching over his chest, the short sleeves rolled up over his hard biceps, and slouchy worker’s pants hanging off his narrow hips. After two weeks of not seeing him, he takes my breath away, and I can only gape, drink him in. God, he is pretty. He will always be my ideal for sheer sex appeal.

And it will always hurt just a little too much to look at him.

“Were you out here the whole time?” I snap, because I can’t think of anything else to say.

He gives me his crooked smile, the one that crinkles around his eyes and wings up one corner of his expressive mouth. I hate that smile. “Only since Darren delivered the DVD.”

“Poor Darren.”

His smile fades. “Yeah, you seemed a little … irritated.”

“You think?” I grip the doorknob like a lifeline. “Not a word for weeks, then a series of bizarre gifts without a note will do that.”

John shifts on his feet and eyes me from under his lashes. “You figured it out, though?”

I will not smile. Nope. Not going to do it. I bite the corner of my lip. “Yes. You’ve watched that movie, right?”

“Ah …” He scratches the back of his neck, biting the bottom corner of his lip. “I mean, I’ve seen the classic Stella shouting bit. Very emotional.”

Despite my best effort, a smile struggles to break free. “He’s shouting for her because he’d hit her in a drunken rage the night before. Later on, he rapes her sister.”

Color drains out of John’s face. “Fuck. Really?”

“Not the greatest guy to pretend to be.”

He sighs and slumps against the door frame. “Fucking hell. Why does pop culture try to make that bit look romantic?” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it even more. Brown ends stick up wildly as he looks at me with wide, green eyes. “I really suck at this.”

The soft contrition in his voice weakens me, and it’s hard to stiffen my back. But he’s finally addressed the sad gorilla in the room, and it rubs against all the raw and weepy parts of me. “At what, John?”

“I was trying to make you laugh, distract you enough that you’d open the door for me.”

“Well,” I admit, “I did laugh, though it was more from incredulity. And the door is open. So technically you accomplished what you set out to do.”

“I did. But it isn’t enough.”

“No.” My hand is slick and clammy against the cold steel of the doorknob. “What do you want?”

His gaze moves over my face, taking in every line of pain and wariness. “To talk to you.”

It occurs to me that Brenna is somewhere behind me, but a glance back finds the living room empty. I don’t want to bring this into her space.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I tell John. He gives a tense nod and then waits as I find my shoes and keys.

My hands are shaking as I slip on a pair of sunglasses. It’s probably a coward’s move, but I need to protect myself as much as I can, and John is too good at reading me. He gives me a pained but understanding smile as we head out, both of us silent and staying far enough away from each other so there’s no inadvertent contact. All of the ease and the way we’d naturally gravitate closer is gone now. It hurts worse than when I hadn’t heard from him at all.