Dirty Toe Drag (Nashville Assassins Next Generation 6)

“I was in a very serious relationship in high school, had plans for marriage and all that jazz, but then he moved, so I had to deal. Dated a bit in college, but nothing like him. I thought he was a hubby.”

“But you were a kid.”

She eyes me. “Kid or not, those feelings are real.”

“Touché.” We hold each other’s gazes, and I’m enraptured by hers.

She’s so exceedingly lovely. She doesn’t look away, but I don’t think she’s looking in my eyes as she moves her finger along the top of her iced coffee. The silence tortures me as I search her face. I don’t know what she’s thinking or what she’s feeling.

“So, actually…since we’re on the topic of honesty, that’s why I asked you here.”

“Okay,” I drawl. “Hit me.”

I can see she’s instantly uncomfortable. She squirms in her seat as she looks away, taking in a deep breath. “So, earlier, when we were talking…when I told you I was at the gym?”

I eye her. “Yeah, off with another suitor?”

She scoffs. “No, not at all.” She hesitates before looking back at me.

She’s struggling, and I don’t know why. It’s killing me. I don’t want it to be hard for her to talk to me. Though, I have a feeling this has nothing to do with me and it’s her battle. I move closer, sliding my fingers along hers before threading ours together. Her breath catches, and a smile moves across my lips. “You can tell me, Stella.”

She nods, knowing it’s the truth, but still, she asks, “Don’t tell anyone?”

“Okay,” I say, confused. This is weird. “You’ve got me worried.”

Why are her eyes filling with tears? What in the hell is going on? “Sweetheart, spit it out.” She laughs as she squeezes my fingers. I smile as I squeeze back. “Come on. Ready? On the count of three.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“One,” I say, her eyes dancing with mine, trying to lighten the situation. “Two.” She is bouncing in her seat, basically holding my hand like a life preserver. “Three!”

“I was making cupcakes.”

I blink. “Huh?”

“I make cupcakes.”

Again, I ask, “Huh?”

Chapter Eleven

Stella

Holy crap, I just told someone I make cupcakes.

In the most dramatic and drawn-out way, but I told him.

I told Wes.

Oh God.

And he’s looking at me as if I’ve grown three heads and my nose has extended like Pinocchio’s. He’s utterly confused, not that I blame him. I’m making no sense whatsoever, and I’m being extremely cryptic. His eyes darken a bit as he stares at me, his thumb stroking along the inside of my wrist. “You were making cupcakes?”

“Yes.”

“This morning.”

“Yes.” I’m breathless, and I’m unsure if it’s because I’m admitting something I never intended to tell anyone, or if his thumb is making it really hard to think or even breathe. Either way, I hold his gaze. “I love doing it.”

Wes has no clue what my issue is. “I don’t see a problem here. You acted as if there was someone else or you weren’t feeling me.”

“No, not at all. I am totally feeling you,” I blurt out, and his lips curve at the sides. “It’s just that I lied to you.”

He nods slowly. “Because you were making cupcakes instead of working out.”

“Exactly.”

“And why is that a reason to lie?”

I bite into my lip as I look down at my coffee. “I haven’t told anyone that I make cupcakes.”

“What do you mean?”

I look up at him through my lashes. “Everyone thinks I love fashion and designing, but I’m discovering I don’t.” I tip up my head, meeting his gaze. “I don’t want to disappoint my family by telling them I don’t like fashion anymore. That I want to make little cakes of happiness instead.”

He blinks. “You Brooks people and cupcakes are weird.” That makes me grin, and I adore him for lightening the mood. “Stella, you do know people change, right?”

“Yeah, but I’ve loved fashion and design my whole life. I’m so good at it, but I don’t want to do it for other people. I love my style and doing stuff for me, but I don’t want to design for other people.”

“Then don’t,” he suggests, as if it’s that easy.

“You don’t understand,” I say slowly, shaking my head. “My mom has taken me to fashion week in New York, in Paris, ever since I was nine. I did internships in New York, California, and Miami over the summers. My mom would take time out of her schedule to come and stay with me. They’ve paid my college tuition this far, and I don’t know how to tell them that I don’t want that life.”

“So, you’d rather do something you don’t love?”

I press my lips together. “Well, right now, I’m doing both.”

“Are you happy?”

No one has asked me that. I know the answer, too. I look away, sighing heavily. “I love my friends at school and my professors, but I feel like I’m wasting my time.”