Fall (VIP #3)(130)

“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.