Page 27 of The Unexpected

After a minute, she says, “Do you think he’ll tell anyone?”

“O’Toole?” I grin. “Not a chance. Men like him build their entire existence on secrets. He’ll take it to the grave, unless you want him to confess it first.”

Stella looks away, stares out at the blurred city lights. “Honestly, everything about that man has taken me by surprise. I didn’t expect the pastor to look like a male model. And he seemed into it too.”

I can’t help but agree. “He was hard as a fucking rock. Didn’t even try to hide it.” I glance over, and she’s biting her lower lip now, the same way she did when I first opened her up last night. “Do you want him? His dick in your pussy, I mean? Is that something that sounds good to you?”

Her head snaps around again. “What? No! I mean—” she flounders, “he’s attractive, but I don’t want—” She cuts off, sees the look I’m giving her, and blushes. “Maybe a little.”

I smile, broad and easy. “You can have whatever you want, star girl. I’m not afraid of competition.”

She rolls her eyes, but the edges are softer. “Don’t call me that.”

I do, anyway. “You’re a star. Burn bright, burn light. But you’re mine, at least for now.”

The next few miles are quiet, the kind of quiet you can almost taste. The heater hums, the city peels away behind us, the only sign of life the occasional set of headlights cutting through the dark.

I shift gears, letting the car stretch its legs on the empty highway. “You really want to keep going?”

She hesitates, then nods. “Yes.”

“Even if it gets weirder?”

She shivers, but not from cold. “I guess so. I mean, I don’t know! I’m confused, Hunter, and that’s what therapy was supposed to figure out, but instead, we’re up to our necks in quicksand.”

“But it’s good quicksand, right?” I ask, one brow raised. “The kind you want to suck you in.”

She bites her lip. “Yes,” she says in a small voice.

I let the silence return, but this time, it’s comfortable. I watch the horizon, the pale amber of the sky smudged by a thin fog, and I think about how quickly things escalate when you stop pretending.

My hand finds hers, still clenched in her lap. I squeeze, once, hard. She lets out a breath I didn’t realize she was holding.

“You’re not doomed, Stella,” I say, eyes never leaving the road. “You’re just waking up to what your body wants, and what you want.”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The way she leans back into the seat, eyes closed, throat working, is answer enough.

For a minute, the car is just motion and hunger, the twin tides of want and shame blurring at the edges. Then the city vanishes in the rearview, and all that’s left is the road, the white lines, and the memory of her moans echoing in my head.

I drive fast, but this time I take the long way home.

At the next intersection, I catch the blush climbing her neck, the way her pulse beats in the hollow of her throat, and I know we’re only just getting started.

The streetlights flicker, the world blurs, and I accelerate into the day. I don’t know what comes next, but with my sexy niece and a depraved pastor in the picture, anything can happen… and I can’t wait.

10

CONFIDING MY CHAOS

Stella

By the time Chloe texts to beg for an emergency break-room huddle, I’m only two hours into my shift at Nicolette, but already counting down to freedom in seconds, not hours or minutes. But I also have thirty-six pearlized buttons to restock, twenty-four shoe boxes to consolidate, and fourteen slow-motion death stares from Miriam, our manager. My phone pings again desperately, and I fake a trip to the register, then detour behind the fitting suite, into the narrow break area carved like an afterthought from the retail floorplan.

It’s a tight alcove, just big enough for a battered espresso machine, two aluminum stools, and a shelf of spare tissue and garment bags. The walls are painted an industrial gray that always looks damp. Chloe is already there, perched on a stool, legs folded and mug in hand. She’s got her blonde hair in loose waves, wearing an elegant silk-lapel blazer over her own concert tee, a contradiction only Chloe could make look intentional. Her mug is half-drained and cradled between both hands, as if warmth is the only thing keeping her alive.

“Saved you a spot,” she says, as I slide into the opposite stool and try to keep my knees together in the mini-skirt that’s one of the boutique’s bestsellers.

“Did you actually get me coffee, or is this another fake-out?” I ask. The second I say it, I regret it; I sound bitchy and tired, but Chloe just grins and flicks her gaze to the full mug at my elbow. There’s already steam rising from the cup—Chloe knows me too well to fuck up the small things.