Chapter 9
[Stone]
Ido not know what her problem is, but the longer her issue appears to be only with me, the more irritated I grow.
And if I thought my family would be focused on her, like I’ve been unable to pull my gaze away from every move she makes on this field, I was wrong.
Because all eyes are on me once I set her on her feet, and she placates me with a patronizing pat on my chest before walking over to a blanket she shares with Genie.
“What?” I snap at Clay, like I hadn’t just made a spectacle, carrying Taxi over my shoulder like I was flirting with her. Like I was familiar with her. Like I knew how her lips melted against mine.
In response, he only chuckles.
For some unknown reason, I glance over at Cort next.
Why I do that, I have no idea. As if some long-suppressed habit forced me to look at my former best friend for reassurance or backup in this situation.
And he’s watching me with a cocked brow and a smug grin, like he knows as well as Clay that I have a secret.
One that’s about five-eight and weighs less than a couple bales of hay, with eyes that match my last name and dark lashes to boot.
Fuck. Why is she so fucking stunning? And just what’s with the attitude?
“I’m gonna start the grill,” I announce, needing space from . . . everyone. I don’t consider myself a quitter, but I’m forfeiting.
“What about the game? We need a pitcher,” Sebastian whines, like he’s still ten and in competition with Ford.
“Hudson can do it. It will be good practice for him,” I toss over my shoulder about my eleven-year-old nephew who plays baseball for the Haven Hitters, the 12-and-under travel baseball team Cort coaches.
I’m aware of the irony.
Cort. Cort. Cort. It’s all I’ve heard for weeks.
And now this.
Tallulah.
“He’s already pitching for Clay’s team,” someone hollers back, but I keep walking, tucking my mitt underneath my arm.
“Stone.” Vale’s soft, concerned voice follows me. Her feet thump behind me.
“Not now.” This isn’t about her. With my back to her and my arm raised, I flick my hand in a signal to stay back. “I’m just gonna start the grill,” I lie again. Last year, we waited until the game ended and beers were shared before anyone left the makeshift field.
As I continue to stomp toward the house, the soft crunch of gravel behind me eventually has my head turning.
Hope rose, but instantly falls when I realize it is not Taxi.
“Why don’t you let me help?” Mary Haven’s motherly voice stalls me in my tracks. With a tight nod, I agree, allowing her to catch up to me.
Walking side by side, she squints at the house. “Place looks good, Stone.” Pride fills her voice, like she knows the effort it has taken to restore this place. A house is just a house, but I’ve worked hard to make it a home. Give this place curb appeal on the outside and love on the inside.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
I wait for her to say what so many others say. Your mama would be proud.
I hope so.
Most people don’t like to mention my father.
I’d want to make him proud as well, although he doesn’t deserve the sentiment. He’d turned into such a disappointment. Into someone I no longer recognized. Eventually, I could hardly remember the man he’d been, the dad he was, compared to the father he turned out to be.
Most days, however, I don’t like to be told I’d make either parent proud because it makes me sound like a saint when I am definitely not worthy of the praise. And I’d give anything to have them both back.
Seeming to read my mood, Mary quietly follows me into the house.
“I’m just gonna take a quick shower.” Typically, I wouldn’t care if I stink. No one else is going to freshen up after playing in the sun and heat. I have no one to impress, but my mind leaps to Tallulah. Taxi.
My Delilah.
“Take your time,” Mary suggests as she heads for the kitchen like she’s been here only yesterday and not twenty years ago. I take the stairs leading to the second floor, skipping every other step.
On the first floor, I have a bedroom and a space I converted into an office, and my personal bathroom is the one across the hall down there, allowing Vale and Hudson to have the second floor to themselves. Wanting distance, I intend to use the upstairs bathroom for a shower instead.
With thoughts of Taxi in my head, my dick stands at attention, and my personal punishment is to refuse to touch him. I will not get myself off to thoughts of a woman who is refusing to look at me. Refusing to acknowledge me. Like that mind-melting kiss never happened.
For half a second, I hang my head, pressing my hand against the tiled wall and glaring at my erection.
Images of Taxi on her knees in front of me fill my thoughts. Then come images of my hands on her hips and me gliding into her.
I tip my head back, blinking up at the steam-filled ceiling, groaning, “Why?”
Why is she here? Why is she acting so cold?
Realizing I don’t have time to process my questions or calculate answers, I shut off the shower, slide aside the curtain and reach for a towel.
And the bathroom door flings open.
A shocked expression strikes the face of one beautiful woman.
Lips in a pretty little O. Eyes wide and sterling bright. Hand on the doorknob.
Taxi doesn’t move.
Instead, I do, taking my time to swipe the towel underneath my chin and down my chest, letting it drape in front of where I’m long and hard, practically pointed at her. Every slow movement is deliberate. She shouldn’t be in here, and that’s exactly why I don’t cover myself.
My house. My bathroom.
My body wants her, yes, but my head is fully aware, fully in control.
She’s in my home, watching me like she owns the show, and I let her. I’m throwing down the gauntlet, daring her to react, letting the tension build with every inch of my measured moves.
Down my chest.
Over my abs.
The challenge hangs heavy in the air.
And neither of us speaks.
When I get to my dick, using the towel to keep me covered, but still rubbing it around the appendage, she finally turns her head.
“Lost, little girl?” I tease.
With her hand still on the doorknob, her cheek aimed in my direction, I watch the subtle roll of her throat as she swallows. “I needed the bathroom. Vale sent me up here.”
Clearly, this space is occupied, but I don’t want her to leave yet.
“We need to talk,” I state instead.
Noise in the hallway causes her to glance back in my direction. Hastily, she steps forward, shutting the door behind her, locking us both in the narrow, steam-filled bathroom.
I step out of the tub, keeping the towel in front of me, letting my ass hang out as we stare at one another.
“What am I missing here, Taxi?” I lower my voice, trying to keep it steady, like I’m interviewing a potential suspect or a skittish victim.
She crosses her arms, glances at my waist, and then turns her head toward the mirror over the sink. From her angle, she can see my ass in the reflection.
I allow her to check me out a second longer, before discreetly working as best I can to wrap the towel around my waist and securing it just above my hips. I swipe a hand through my hair, making it stand up at all angles.
And all the while Taxi watches me through the mirror. Her chest slowly lifts and lowers, like she’s trying to control her breathing. Her nostrils even flare once. She swallows again and licks her lips.
Dammit, I want to press her against the sink and kiss her senseless. Jar her memory because I’m certain she felt something when we kissed that night. When she kissed me back.
Stepping closer to her, I risk cupping her jaw and making her eyes meet mine. “Taxi, talk to me.”
“You played me,” she says, loud and sharp and tugging her face back so I’ll drop my hand.
“What? No,” I state almost as loud, fisting my hands at my sides.
“I saw you.”
“Saw me?” I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“The next morning. I came down for coffee, and there you were, all smiles and bright eyes with a beautiful blonde and—”
“A blonde?” I interject, racking my brain, completely mystified by this accusation before things eventually click into place. “Oh no. No, no, no, Taxi.”
I grip her upper arms and lower my head to level my eyes with hers. “That was not what you think.”
“I think . . . you had her all along and simply played me.” Her eyes widen like she’s suddenly thought of something else. “Or you picked her up after you left me.”
“No,” I bark, distinct and adamant. Clearing my throat, I try to lower my voice. “No, that is not what happened after the best kiss of my life.”
Her long lashes flutter as her breath hitches.
“I . . .” How do I explain the situation? How do I explain who Emerson is? “That woman was Emerson Milton. She’s a friend.”
Taxi scoffs, yanking herself out of my grasp like the words sting. She takes a giant step away from me, which forces her shoulder blades to hit the closed door.
“People assume . . .” I swallow thickly, scrubbing my hand down my face. “I don’t care what people assume. We’ve been friends for years. And she—” I pause again. “Her story isn’t mine to tell. But I swear on each of my siblings and my dead parents, I did not cheat on you with her.”
“You can’t cheat on someone you aren’t with,” she says, her flat voice matching the sudden lack of shine in her silvery eyes. She’s closing in on herself, like putting up shutters, blocking out a storm.
“Taxi.” I step toward her, but she stiffens her spine and lifts her head, plastering herself even tighter against the door.
With my hands up in the air, I whisper, “Delilah.”
“Don’t.” Her voice is sharp-edged, jarring and direct, as it was outside when she used the same command. A solid wall goes up between us.
My confusion hits a new level. We felt so connected that night. The thread between us easy and refreshing, so I don’t understand this moment, where she isn’t willing to hear me out.
“Explain this to me.” I lower my hands and point between us. “Explain what I’m missing. Explain what happened. Give me something.”