Page 42 of So Wrong It's Right

“I...haven’t made breakfast for anyone in a really long time.”

She stops chewing and slugs down some coffee. “Really?”

I don’t know why I told her that. It seems foolish now. I guess I wanted her to feel like this is special. To know this, whatever we have, is different for me.

“Well, thank you. It’s great.” She looks down at her plate. “Nobody’s ever made me breakfast before.”

My heart does that tumble again. It’s not even graceful about it. More like a four-year-old executing their first somersault. “Devon not the breakfast-making type? I’m so surprised.”

She does this half laugh thing that tells me she’s not feeling funny. “Devon and I didn’t do sleepovers.”

I reach for her hand.

Devon. That stupid fuck. How could he not have taken better care of Stella? “Devon is an idiot. He didn’t deserve to wake up next to you.” To lighten the mood, I add, “Watching you drool on my pillow is going to be the highlight of my day.”

My sweet, suddenly shy Stella looks up at me through her eyelashes and grins. I can’t stop myself from cupping her face in my hands and kissing her the way I’ve never kissed anyone. It’s not hot or even sweet—it’s seeking. I want to know her. I want her to know me. I need to taste her secrets and give her new ones.

My secrets. Our secrets.

I’ve wanted her from the first time I touched her. But now I want more than her body. But I don’t understand what that means.

We pause, our foreheads resting on each other and this peace steals over me. Peace I usually find only when alone in my kayak on still waters.

There is a rightness singing in my blood.She’s the oneis the chorus.

That can’t be right, can it? This woman who makes me crazy can’t possibly be the one who could keep me sane. Keep me grounded and balanced and in the center of contentment.

I open my eyes and look into hers. Does she feel it? Can she see right through me? Does she know where my mind is going? My heart?

Does she care?

She pulls back and stands up abruptly. “I need to go. Get home and change. Don’t want to be late for work. My boss is a real bear about stuff like that.”

She’s out of my kitchen before I can say a word.

And what would I say?

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Stella

PERRY HATES HER OFFICEand has always done as little work as possible in it. Instead, she always practically lived in Coffeehouse, taking client meetings in the very back until they sort of made it her office for her. When it came up for sale, she snatched it up and still does most of her business in the café in addition to owning it.

Coffeehouse is rich with texture and scent—dark roast, brown sugar, loose-leaf tea, ginger, and lemon polish on old wood. It feels like the inside of a wooden boat with its low ceiling, brass and dark wood, floors that creak, and a sense of age and history that takes you to a different time.

At this moment in time, however, Perry is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You want me to what?”

“I want you to remind me that this is going to end badly. Very badly. Please.” Because it’s been going way too well the last few days. Other than me bolting from breakfast the other day anyway.

She pushes my cold brew coffee at me.

“Dr. Anderson comes back on Tuesday. I need to hold on to my heart for a few more days.”Just get through the wedding.

“Perry,” one of her employees interrupts us at the table. “Phone for you.”

“Take a message, please. I need to sort this girl out.”

I take a drink of my coffee until the barista moves on. “Year of Stella,” I remind her.

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