by Brill Harper
“You are my best friend.” My often bitchy best friend, but she’s not usually mad at me. “Don’t stop with the bottle but tell me what you are talking about.” I get down two glasses and ignore her attempt to intimidate me. I’m well used to her grit, and it doesn’t bother me. “I’ve had the Ron Jeremy of long days.”
She shoots me another look like she’s forgotten that I’m not afraid of her. So I shrug. She looks at the bottle in her hand and screws up her face as she examines it. “What the hell did you do to this poor cork?” she asks, honestly perplexed at its state of uncorkiness despite still being fully lodged inside the neck of the bottle. “I thought we bought you the screw top kind of wine?” So this wouldn’t happen she leaves off because I’m not nearly as good at opening wine as I am consuming it. Corkscrews are weird.
I take the now opened bottle, bless her heart, and begin pouring. “We did. But I ran out, and I had this bottle in the cupboard or cooking sherry left.”
“You literally live above a bar.”
“I know, but Nash looks at me funny when I wear my fuzzy slippers downstairs, and I was in no mood to put real people clothes back on.” I take a healthy, unclassy swig. “Now, why are you mad at me again?”
Perry grabs her own glass and settles onto my couch, pushing away all the sequined pillows with an exaggerated huff until they tumble to the floor. Mind, I didn’t choose the sequined pillows, she did. Not to say I don’t like shiny things. I do. My mom calls me a magpie. I’ve been squirreling away things that glint in the sun since I was in diapers.
I join Perry, setting the bottle on the end table next to her and plopping my slippered feet onto the coffee table. “You have side bangs today,” I notice aloud. “I thought you were growing them out.”
“Don’t distract me. I’m mad at you.”
“So you keep saying.” I would kill for hair like Perry’s. Though, to be honest, Perry is willing to spend a whole lot more money on hair product than I am. She’s a lawyer with no dependents. I’m a receptionist with a crystal collection. A very out-of-control crystal collection.
She lets out a beleaguered sigh meant to guilt me into submission. It would probably work on other people. Just not me. “Imagine my surprise when I opened Facebook to see Megan posting something that was not about Dixie’s wedding.”
“That is weird.” I muted my sister’s Facebook posts in an effort to not strangle her with a wedding veil, so I haven’t seen what Megan’s been putting down for three months or so.
“Right? Her update was instead about how happy she is about her baby sister and her new beau. What the hell, Stella? And who calls men beaus?”
Unease settles itself on my shoulders, tightening all the muscles around my neck into bands of stress. What part of “keeping it on the down-low” does Megan not understand? She’s posting about my fake boyfriend now?
I quickly open the app on my phone to see what kind of damage she’s wrought.
Perry huffs at being ignored. “Explanation, please. I thought we discussed way back in middle school that BFF trumps sister when it comes to boy news. There was a pinky swear involved and now you hurt my feelings. Why don’t I know about this new boy? I thought you were not dating because this was the Year of Stella or some damned thing.”
“It is and I’m not.” I read the update. Megan didn’t post particulars. She referred to Christopher as “C” and was coy about answering everyone else’s queries. Which, of course, is making them more ravenous for details. Which, of course, was Megan’s goal. Which, of course, means I am screwed. “Goddess, she’s vaguebooking.” I meet Perry’s scrutinizing gaze. “I don’t even know what to say. I don’t suppose we can just drop this and pretend it didn’t happen.”
Perry isn’t so mad that she doesn’t refill my glass. “No, I don’t suppose we can.”
I sigh. “She was being unreasonable.”
“Megan? That’s so...surprising.”
I nod, catching the sarcasm but not commenting on it. “She wanted me to ask Devon to be my date for the wedding.”
“Gross.”
“Right? So, I just wanted to throw her off track to buy some time. I don’t even know how or why I said it, actually, but I told her I met someone.”
“But you haven’t.”
I shoot Perry a “seriously?” look. “I’m not even going to dignify that.” I drum my fingers on the glass. “Let’s just ignore the Facebook thing. It will go away on its own. I’ll break up with Christopher before the wedding and everything will be fine.”
Perry executes a perfect hair flip. I do not know why. It’s not like there are any eligible men in the room to hypnotize with the power of her hair. “You named your fake boyfriend Christopher?”
“I was looking at some guy’s picture at the time. He’s a new vet for Dr. Rivers. His name is Christopher. If I’d been looking at the movie listings, I would have named him Thor.”
Perry settles into the cushions and fixes me with what she thinks is a calm stare. Except it’s more like the gaze of a serial killer right before she warms up the fava beans. “What does he drive?”
“My fictitious suitor? What do you want him to drive?”
Perry purses her lips in thought. “I think he drives a Ferrari.”
I laugh. “The man in the picture is definitely more of a sedan guy. Probably beige. With excellent mileage.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Oh, the internet.”
“Nice. Maybe I should make up a boyfriend, too. Get Mummie off my back.”
“Good plan. Maybe they can be friends. Christopher and Roger.”
“I don’t want to date anyone named Roger.”
“Roger is a very nice man. You should give him a chance.”
“Whatever.” We finish the wine. All of it. And the cooking sherry as well. So I send Perry downstairs to grab a ride home from Nash or his girlfriend, Tru.
As I get ready for bed, I add “break up with imaginary boyfriend” to my to-do list for some time in the next couple of days and reassure myself that everything will be fine. Nobody pays that much attention to Megan anyway.
I’m going to pretend it’s totally normal that I drew the Tower card from my Tarot deck again. It doesn’t mean my life is about to come crashing down on me. Just because I’ve been drawing it once or twice a week lately. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
Chapter Three
Christopher
I see stars. Everywhere I look, glittery, sparkling stars.
The reception desk at Dr. Anderson’s veterinary clinic looks like it is possibly manned by a teenage girl. Every accessory on her desk is bedazzled with something shiny. There are paper stars hanging from the ceiling with pictures of well-loved pets in the center of each. A bulletin board sparkles with star-shaped push pins. A pen cup is surrounded by a dusting of glitter on the counter below it. Even the paperclips have...shapes and sequins.
I shake my head.
How does anything get accomplished in such a chaotic atmosphere?
Dr. Anderson insists that Stella Stone is a treasure. That she couldn’t run the office without her.
I have some serious doubts about that. Reception is an area I don’t know much about, but it is supposed to run efficiently. It’s the first thing clients see, so it should be professional and understated. It should help calm any agitated pet owners with a sense of competence.
But Dr. Anderson sure sings Stella’s praises, all but yelling “hallelujah” and “amen” at the end of every sentence when her name comes up. Something about not eating if Stella didn’t remind her to.
Everything else about the clinic is exactly the way I like it: orderly and neat. There are only two small exam rooms, but a good-sized surgical area. There are no other veterinary offices in town, but a different, mobile veterinarian takes care of most of the livestock in the area. He and Dr. Anderson refer cases to each other based on animal size.
I am a little surprised that Dr. Anderson prefers paper cha
rts to the much more efficient digital charts like those I use in the city. I can certainly make do for a week, though. It isn’t as if there are specialized departments here like the other clinic. In addition to cardiology, dermatology, oncology, neurology, and internal medicine, my boss, Dr. Rivers, employs an acupuncturist and dog psychologist. I am looking forward to a week of getting back to the basics here in Brazen Bay.
But the city is where I belong. It’s easier to blend in. Life in a small town must be a lot like living in a fishbowl, and that is not for me. I prefer simple, professional relationships not complicated by a personal life. Which makes me boring, perhaps, but happy.
I date occasionally but am very upfront that I have no desire to enter into a deep, meaningful romance at this time—not that any woman has argued for it. People make me uncomfortable, generally, which is why I am a veterinarian to begin with. My parents, of course, have other plans for me. Plans that include grandchildren, at least that’s what they say every time I visit. As an only child, I am their one shot at them. But they must be used to disappointment in me by now. I’ve never been the son anyone could have wished for.
I suppose I’ll marry someday. Someone sensible. Someone who doesn’t expect romance and hoopla and a crazy courtship. Someone who would prefer a serious discussion about compatibility rather than a proposal on bended knee. Because that is the one thing I promised myself I’ll never do. Again.
I pick up the pen cup and wipe the glitter dust off the counter before replacing it. I have a feeling about this Stella Stone already. And it isn’t a good feeling. Impractical people are difficult to deal with for anyone, but especially me.
I shake off the negative feelings. I’m happy to spend the week on the bay. I’ve been wanting to take advantage of kayaking and hiking in the area but haven’t taken the time to visit here since I was a kid. Brazen Bay is the kind of small town I didn’t know still existed. One bar, one bank, one grocery store. Dr. Anderson is still in her office wrapping up her emergency travel plans, so I meander toward the kitchen/break room. Through the glass of the back door, I can see a woman in the brightest red coat I’ve ever seen struggling with the door. Judging from the dangling stars on her ears, I assume she is the infamous Stella.
She is grimacing at the door, and my eyes are drawn to her bright red lips. Paired with the bangs and a poofy hairstyle, she looks like she is going for that retro-‘50s housewife look—though she swears like a sailor at the jammed door and has a tattoo sleeve down one arm. The light glints off the diamond stud in her nose like she called it to her.
She looks up at me just as I turn the knob while she’s giving a mighty heave. Those bright red lips form an exaggerated ‘O’ of surprise as the door swings open and she tumbles into my arms.
I try to keep us upright, but she has a lot of momentum behind her, so I have to squeeze her to my body or we’ll end up on the floor.
All curves. She’s made up of soft, wonderful curves made to cushion a man and she smells like cherries. I’m upset with myself for noticing, but it only makes my instinct to pull her closer even stronger. This woman is trouble, of that I have no doubt. She is too loud, her clothes, her hair, her body. It all screams “look at me” when all my life I’ve tried to blend in seamlessly, quietly.
But for one glorious minute, in an awkward dance across a kitchen, I am more aware of Stella Stone than I’ve been of any woman in my life.
Including the one I’d asked to marry me.
Stella
BOY, DO I KNOW HOW to make an entrance.
The wall of man that breaks my fall lets out a hearty “oomph” when I barrel into him, but he recovers quickly, gripping me tightly to keep us both upright. I grab his firm, wide shoulders and look him in the eye. He is either Superman before the phone booth or possibly...a burglar. I should determine which, but the words get stuck in my throat.
Do I know him? I know pretty much everyone in Brazen Bay, and he does look familiar. But I can’t quite grasp how, why, or what he would be doing in the office kitchen half an hour before the clinic opens.
His muscles bunch under my hands. Nicely. He is solid and well-built. And too put together to be a townie. Townies don’t wear ties except to funerals and weddings, and not always then either. It is sad that I am enjoying the proximity of a stranger so much. Apparently, the Year of Stella is taking its toll on my hormones.
While I am at a loss for words, the man doesn’t seem to be doing much better. We’ve stopped moving, but he hasn’t let go. And neither have I. We sort of just...stare at each other. His forehead wrinkles above the bridge of his nose as if he is consternated, a look I am well used to from my family, but his grip doesn’t loosen. No, the arms banded around me hold strong, and my heart does an uncharacteristic flip.
Goddess, I hope he isn’t a burglar.
His tan-colored tie is slightly askew, but I have a feeling that’s due to our impromptu tango and not his usual state of dress. Tall, check. Dark, check. Handsome, double-check, though not my usual type. His wavy hair seems a little too tame, and I want to muss it up. But when those eyes behind his glasses lock on mine, all thoughts float out of my head on cartoon clouds. His eyes seem to look right inside me, liquefying my bones and sending a zing of awareness right to my lady garden.
“You must be Stella.”
His lips. My Goddess, his lips. I suddenly feel achy and hollow, waiting for a kiss from those firm lips.
Wait. He said something. Answer him, dummy. I inhale and try to form actual words, but then his eyes zero in on my mouth and his expression changes, and I can’t stop my tongue from wetting my lips. His nostrils flare...just a little...and he swallows hard.
He squeezes a little harder and every nerve ending where our bodies are touching skips a joyous hopscotch. This stranger is going to kiss me, and I am going to let him.
“I see you’ve met Stella.” Like an alarm clock dragging me into consciousness, Dr. Anderson’s voice penetrates the sexual haze around us.
He blinks once, then lets go abruptly, stepping back and putting me off balance. I grab his tie to catch myself, knocking his head into mine with a sharp crack.
“Ouch,” and “shit,” are replied simultaneously. I, of course, am the one with the potty mouth. Holding a hand against my forehead, I take another look at him, startled by the way he glares at me.
“Sorry?” I say. Even though it wasn’t my fault. Not really. Was it? He was the one that was manhandling me from the start.
I shift my attention to my boss. “Hey, Doc. How are...” I’ve seen Doc Anderson after days of little or no sleep, but she’s never looked so pale. The purple crescents under her eyes stand out like the paint on football players before a game. And she looks...smaller. “Leann, what’s wrong?”
“My dad had a stroke last night. He’s in the ICU in Portland. Dr. Rivers is lending us Dr. Lockwood for the week so I can go right away.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I rush across the room to pull her into a hug. “What do they know about his condition?”
Doc Anderson returns the embrace. “Not much, I’m afraid. I would have called you, but I need you in top shape to run the clinic while I’m gone, so I didn’t wake you last night. Brandon McKendrick is driving me to the airport to catch a flight this morning.”
I squeeze her hand. “Of course. Don’t worry about things here. I’ve got it under control. We’ll whip Dr. Lockwood into shape in no time.”
As I give her another quick hug, something inside my brain snaps to attention, knocking at the small knot already on my forehead. Dr. Lockwood...Dr. Lockwood...how do I know that name...? ...I gasp. Loudly.
“Are you all right, Stella?” Doc A asks.
Oh, no.
There is suddenly no air in the room. I cast a glance at Tall, Dark, and Groper and gasp again as everything starts clicking in my brain finally.
“I’m fine,” I answer my boss automatically. “You just worry about your dad. We’ll be fine here.”
I am p
ossibly never going to be fine again.
That fuzzy, grainy picture from the internet, Christopher Lockwood, DVM, my imaginary boyfriend, in the flesh and in my place of employment for a week. I’d conveniently forgotten to break up with him and now he is here. Really here. And looking at me like I’m crazy.
Well, I really am.
Of course Dr. Anderson would call her friend Dr. Rivers when she needed to borrow a vet. And of course her friend would send one. The newest one in the office. But honestly, how could this happen? Does this kind of thing happen to everyone? I try to imagine it happening to my sister and realize that, no, this kind of mayhem is reserved for people like me. My life is a bad comedy premise.
I unbutton my coat and fake smile to them both. “I’ll just get the coffee started while you finish up.” I open a cabinet and get out the pain relievers, turning to offer my boyfriend two acetaminophens. “For your head,” I say.
He takes them warily, as if he were afraid I am trying to poison him. “Your dress.”
Strange segue, but okay. I look down, pleased to find I hadn’t misbuttoned the bodice or spilled anything on it. “What about my dress?”
“It’s...it’s very loud.” He shakes his head and follows Doc out of the room.
Loud? I look down again. That was kind of rude. Who does he think he is?
The dress is colorful, yes. White with red cherries and a turquoise sash. Because I am loving the combination of cherry and turquoise lately. They are so fun and cheerful together. But loud? I roll my eyes. Is he the fashion police?
I turn my attention back to the coffee. How am I going to handle this? I do a quick rundown. Only Perry knows the fake boyfriend’s full name and that he is, well, fake. My sister knows his name is Christopher and she suspects that he is a vet. That might be a problem. There are other people in town, including my mom, who only know that Meg knows I am seeing someone named “C.”
