Sterling Stone (Sterling Falls #7)

Chapter 1

April

[Stone]

Commitments.

After a lifetime of them, it should come as no surprise that I hate commitments. Especially the kind that lure me from settling into my easy chair, watching a ballgame, enjoying a beer, and soaking up rare moments of quiet.

But when a good friend retires from professional football, you want to celebrate that achievement with him, especially when you never had the same opportunity.

Neither the retirement nor the higher level of play.

As much as I hate the idea of commitments, I never hesitated when it came to making deeper ones. More important ones by the names of Clay, Judd, Knox, Ford, Sebastian, and Vale.

A rare smile curls my lips as I glance one more time at myself in the hotel mirror. My family is one of the few things I easily smile about. Their success stories. Their love lives in recent years. Their growing families.

Smoothing my hand down the silky tie over a crisply starched white shirt, I stare at my reflection.

“Not too bad, old man,” I mutter, examining the silver that exceeds the black strands that once dominated my hair and the muted white playing a losing game of hide and seek in my thin-layered beard.

Crinkles meet the corners of my blue eyes.

Eyes that have seen too much over my forty-five years.

The years that keep creeping toward fifty.

With a sigh, I swipe two fingers near my temple, although I don’t have a single hair out of place.

I’m in Knoxville for the weekend. The timing worked out perfectly. I’ll make an appearance at the dinner, stay for a drink, and then sneak away for my brother’s fight.

He doesn’t know I’ll be there. He doesn’t want me to know what he’s doing late at night in the backrooms of certain bars, but I know everything about my siblings.

I should, as both the sheriff of Sterling Falls, our small West Virginia mountain town, and as their oldest brother.

My daily fight is feeling older when age is a privilege. I’ve lost too many people too soon—family members, good friends, and folks I couldn’t save on the job—before they ever reached the same age I’m presently sporting.

On that note, I step into the quiet hotel hallway and tug my phone from the pocket inside my suit jacket.

Scrolling for the Uber app my nephew helped me download, I double-check where I’m headed this evening.

With my head lowered, I’m busy thumbing my phone screen when something hard and rather nondescript jabs my chest.

It isn’t the force of the item so much as how startled I am that causes me to stumble backward, dropping my phone. At the same time, a woman propels backward in the opposite direction, and I reach for her before she’ll completely fall.

With my hands on her upper arms, holding her steady, warmth drizzles beneath my large palms over her thin, long-sleeved shirt. Which makes no sense. Lowering my gaze, I note the offending object. The jarring poke came from an open book.

When I feel her stiffen beneath my hold, I release her.

“Are you okay?” I say at the same time she says, “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m the one not looking where I was going,” I assure her, as her apology isn’t necessary. I bend to retrieve my phone.

“No, I had my nose stuck in a book.”

I offer what I hope is a warm smile. No real harm. No foul.

“It must be some story,” I say next, but then I catch on her face.

Because looking back at me is the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.

Her skin looks like polished sunshine, shimmery bronze, and glowing just as brightly. Her hair is as dark as West Virginia coal, wild and loose around a goddess-like face. Then there are her eyes—a captivating grey-blue, almost silver, which feels prophetic considering my last name.

I’m Stone Sylver.

And she is striking.

She is also staring back at me, and we pass uncounted seconds just gazing at one another until I process our current position.

Tall, solid man blocking a slightly smaller woman in a hotel hallway.

Suddenly, I’m aware of my size and the awkwardness of simply staring at her. I clear my throat and slip my hands into my pockets as a subtle means to convey I don’t intend her any harm. Her eyes follow the movement. I notice her shoulders relax a bit.

“Well . . . I’ll let you . . .” I step to the left, intending to allow her to pass. Only she steps to her right, and we freeze in place again.

She chews at the corner of her lip, like she’s fighting a smile. It’s a losing battle, as her bright smile stands out vividly against the rich luster of her lips.

The corner of my mouth ticks upward in response.

As she holds the closed book against her chest now, trim dark brown polished nails tap against the hardcover, which faces outward. I arch a brow at the title containing Daddy and Dom in it.

“Uhm . . . have a good night.” I try again to excuse myself, intending to step right this time.

Only she steps to her left.

And at the same time, we both move forward, nearly bumping into one another again.

Her book hits the floor with a resounding thud.

“Let me . . .” I start, bending at the waist to retrieve it.

“I got it . . .” she says, following my lead.

My fingers reach the book first, and I stand too quickly, thus knocking our heads together. This time, we both fall back, landing on our asses.

“Ow,” she says, rubbing at her jaw.

“Jesus. Are you alright?” I immediately ask, reaching only briefly at the back of my head before scrambling forward to inspect her chin. Slender, long fingers stroke over the hard edge of her jaw, which she moves side to side.

“Let me look,” I whisper, going into the protective mode conditioned by my employment.

Yet something deeper strikes within me. A visceral need to know I haven’t hurt her.

With me on my hands and knees in my suit, and her on her backside, knees bent upward, her long skirt shielding her legs, I’m practically in her face. The soft scent of honeysuckle and citrus tickles my nose. I take in the fullness of her lips. Then, I force myself to focus on her chin.

Her eyes widen, and I realize how close our faces are. Slowly, I lean back. “I’ve been told I have a thick head.”

Her mouth curls again, in a slow, enticing way. Her eyes practically dance.

I point at the book which lies between us. “I’m going in,” I teasingly warn.

She chuckles softly, the sound like the bright metallic jingle of a tambourine.

I reach for the book that has fallen open, face down, and use my finger to bookmark the spot, then hold out my other hand for her.

As I stand, she takes my extended palm, and that drizzle of warmth felt through her shirt only seconds ago becomes a crackle of heat spreading across my hand.

When we stand, I flip the book to the open page, eyes catching on a phrase.

“And so the blue alien led her down the dark passage, heading toward a destiny she didn’t know she’d eventually crave,” I read aloud, before snapping the book closed and handing it back to her, suddenly realizing how close we stand. Less than the length of a book.

Her fingertips brush mine as she takes the book from me. Those pleasant pinpricks spread over my skin again.

“Your husband must get jealous of you reading that.” I nod toward the book, speaking before I consider what I’ve said. The statement comes out of left field, sounding rusty, almost clunky, before I realize I’m curious if she has a husband.

Am I flirting with her? I’m definitely sensing some chemistry at work. Crackles and sparks. Heat and a rush of desire I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

“Only my book boyfriend ever gets jealous . . . when I move on to a new book.”

She tips the book forward, playfully knocking the edge against my chest.

“Easy there. That’s some weapon you have in your hand.” I smile wider to assure her I’m joking.

“Words are powerful things.”

“They certainly can be.” I’ve heard the best and worst of words. Both have hurt me in the end.

Shaking the negative thoughts, I note that she’s slightly shorter than me, slim with wider hips. The perfect notch at her waist looks like an exact fit for my hands.

I shut down that thought as well.

Another moment of us staring at each other passes before I watch the column of her throat roll when she clears it.

“Well, thanks for the dance.”

I chuckle in reference to our one-two misstep and scratch at the back of my neck. Pivoting a half pace to my right, allowing her the path forward down the hallway, I point in the opposite direction.

“I’ll go this way, I guess,” I state, uncertain why I’ve tacked on that disclaimer. Like I’m not ready to leave her when there’s no reason to stay in this hallway.

“And I’ll go that way.” She flops the book forward, using it to point her direction.

I wave my hand, allowing her to go first so we don’t have any more left-right dancing or head knocking.

As she passes me, I watch her move. The subtle sway of those hips. The brush of a long skirt in multiple layers that reaches her ankles. The fit of her long-sleeved shirt outlines her waist.

She moves with grace.

“Have a good night,” I call after her, struggling to make my own feet move over the smooth carpet and away from this beautiful creature.

I’m aware I have somewhere to be, and she is headed in the opposite direction, presumably to her hotel room.

Is this what is meant when worlds collide but ricochet into the night?

Maybe it’s more like that elusive moment. A brief glance. A possible chance.

And then the moment is gone.

She spins to face me one final time, walking backwards and holding up the book, waving it gently in the air. Her mouth slowly curls, and she digs her teeth into her lower lip again. “I will,” she says in response to my wishing her a good night. “The story just reached an unexpected plot twist.”

She winks and turns away from me one final time.

With heat in my cheeks, I shake my head. She was definitely flirty with me.

And if I didn’t have a commitment, I might ask her if she’d like to grab a drink.

Instead, I resolutely spin in the opposite direction, edging closer to the elevator bank with every step. When I reach the short hallway, I pause, giving her one last glance.

Wondering if I’m about to walk away from an unexpected plot twist.