Chapter 25
[Taxi]
Iwasn’t exactly convinced I should attend a Sunday dinner at Stone’s home. The day sounded important and full of family time, but Judd didn’t allow me to excuse myself any more than Stone did. Judd picked me up when he came to Trudy’s to gather more clothes for Simon.
The Sylver family collectively is loud and loving, and a bit overwhelming.
Handsome men with beautiful women and gorgeous children.
But their presence was more than eye candy.
They were genuine and honest people. A quip of banter was met with an equal match of funny puns and teasing insults.
They appeared to really like being in each other’s company and reminded me a little bit of my younger days at Trudy’s home.
The original house overflowed with kids and imagination because we’d known worse days. Being together felt better.
My anxiety was bubbly when I first thought about the day. Not like Stone and I hadn’t been spending a ton of time together, but this was his time. His family time.
He’d been driving me to the hospital and sitting beside me. Feeding me dinners and giving me an escape, and I didn’t want to encroach. I should give the man a break from me.
But the second I arrived, his instant smile put me slightly at ease.
This reunion at his home was nothing like the first time I arrived here. When I didn’t know my Samson and Stone Sylver were one and the same, and my angry heart was still . . . angry.
Now, a strange giddiness overcomes me at seeing Stone in his element. Making certain everyone has a drink. Setting up the grill. Quietly smiling while his brothers tease each other, or him.
“He’s good with his meat,” his brother Knox teases.
“He loves his sausage,” Clay playfully adds.
“Think he’s more of a breast man now,” Sebastian mutters, noting the boneless chicken on the menu.
Stone’s responding smile is sheepish.
“Stoic Stone,” someone says, and I see it, but I don’t. He’s been rather open with me, sharing pieces of his past, showing me who he is in the present.
Let me show you who I am.
I’m seeing it.
Family. Devoted. Protective.
Something inside me cracks a little bit. What would it be like to be part of that guarded bubble he’s wrapped around the people he cares about most?
“Come sit with the girls.” Genie loops her arm in mine, tugging me toward the other women seated in a circle with a lawn swing, Adirondack chairs, and blankets spread over the grass.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been part of a group of women. My job can be singular in some ways, while the teaching positions I’ve acquired in the past year have opened my eyes a bit. My need to share my art, share a piece of myself, with others.
Genie is amazing, and we chat about her latest calendar plans. We’ve talked intermittently when she and Judd visit Trudy, and her enthusiasm for art matches mine, even if our mediums are different.
“It’s awesome having another artist in the family,” Genie blurts.
“In the family,” I parrot quietly, choking on the words. I’m not part of the—
“Hey, what do you think Halle and I are?” Cadence interjects, watching her toddler, Beck, who keeps handing her a ball and then taking it back from her.
“Oh, I’m definitely an amateur,” Halle admits. Knox’s redheaded wife smiles warmly at me. “I just like the creative outlet Art’s offers.”
“Art’s?” I question, sensing she didn’t misspeak.
“Art is a local veteran who owns Art’s Studio. He likes to take trash to treasure there, but he also offers other opportunities in his place. Paint. Pottery. Sculpting. It’s a cool place. You should check it out.”
“I will,” I say, excitement growing in me. I had no idea the studio existed.
Cadence clears her throat. “Music is art as well. Just saying.” The brunette has a snooty air in her tone, but her smile says she’s all tease. She is Cadence, after all, world renowned country music sweetheart, and I almost want to pinch myself being in her presence.
Then I remind myself she’s just a woman. A girl married to a man who used to play professional baseball.
Wild.
“Just saying,” Enya, Cadence’s sister, jokes from her position in the yard swing, using her tiptoes to move the seat back and forth while she holds her daughter Annabelle in her lap.
The women continue to share stories. Anywhere from toddler tantrums to teasing about their men.
“Those are my brothers,” Vale sighs about the minor complaints.
“Well, I could share how Ford does this thing and—” Cadence begins, but Vale holds up a hand.
“And that’s where the sharing stops, because those are my brothers.” Vale laughs, cutting off Cadence and what I imagine might be a little too much detail about what her husband does in the bedroom or otherwise.
I chuckle as well, finding I’m at ease with these ladies, even if I’m the quiet one among them. I don’t have a toddler, and I don’t have a man, but I don’t feel excluded.
I feel present and accepted, and it’s altogether strange while comforting.
I’ve been sitting on a blanket near Vale, and she leans forward on her Adirondack chair, whispering toward me.
“He must really like you.”
“Who?” I ask innocently, glancing up and finding Stone watching me. He gives me that slow smile he has. One that looks sheepish, almost anxious, but is actually rather endearing on him.
“Why would you say that?” I ask, a bit more defensively than I should. I don’t really doubt Stone’s opinion of me. He holds me every night without taking anything to the next level. He spends time with me. But sometimes I’m curious what he sees in me. What do I bring to him?
“Sundays are kind of sacred around here.” Vale’s tone is still light and pulls my attention back to her. “For the longest time, Stone didn’t allow anyone else to be present. Just family.”
She nods at the woman seated in a circle, chattering away with one another. “Only the people who really mean something to someone could attend. You could bring a friend, but no girlfriends, or boyfriend shenanigans. A person had to have staying power to be here.”
Vale’s words hit with a soft punch. Staying power? Did I have it? Simon certainly doubted me.
“Anyway,” Vale continues, not sensing my unease. “Stone has never had anyone here. Never.”
She glances at her brother, shaking her head, but I don’t know if that shake is disappointment or lack of understanding. Like she doesn’t know why he’s never invited anyone to Sylver Sundays, as I’ve learned Enya dubbed the day.
“What about Emerson?” I ask, before I can stop myself. I’m no longer jealous of her, just curious. Stone did pretend to date her, or at least, let everyone believe they were a thing.
Vale’s head whips back in my direction. “Never.” Her blue eyes are more playful than her eldest brother’s set. And they impart all the answers I need.
I’m the only one who has ever been Stone’s guest.
Suddenly, I feel overwhelmed with emotion, and I need a little break. Maybe it’s the sense of community among this family that reminds me I’ve been alone a long time. On the outside, always looking in. A temporary addition on the periphery of something permanent for others.
Who’s fault is that? Trudy’s words come back to me.
“Bathroom?” I blurt, unfolding myself from the blanket and standing, keeping my gaze on Vale. I know where the bathrooms in this house are. I was caught in one over a year ago with the head of this household.
Eventually, I made my way to the one on the first floor back then and I found my way there again, after Vale reminded me where it is.
But just like last year, I’m sidetracked from the fib and find myself standing in what appears to be Stone’s office.
A large wooden desk and a worn leather desk chair behind it.
Another chair rests in front of the bigger piece.
Bookshelves line one wall. An old corkboard hangs behind the desk, overflowing with family photos tacked to it.
Smiling faces of his nieces and nephews.
Group photos of his siblings from various ages.
And among these photographs that seem important to Stone are the postcards I sent him.
“Lost again, little girl.” His quiet, rugged tenor has me spinning to find him leaning against the entrance to his office.
“Snooping,” I openly admit, caught, as it is, standing here staring at the picture on his wall. “You have my postcards up there.”
My finger shakes as I point toward them, matching a strange tremor in my voice.
Stone presses off the door jamb and enters the room, closing the door behind him, but not shutting it completely.
“We haven’t really talked about them.” He nods toward the collection. His voice lowers. “I looked forward to receiving a new one every month. But I’m curious why you sent them?”
I twist to look from him to the images on the board and back at him. “Guess I just wanted to share a piece of me with you.”
My throat feels thick, not so much from emotion but the admission. Sharing this information is also giving him another piece of me.
“When you left here over a year ago, you seemed pretty clear about how you felt,” he reminds me.
“And I was an idiot,” I whisper to the wall, my arms crossed around my middle.
How silly I’d been to walk away so blindly before giving Stone a chance.
Not that I would pull away from my work, but we could have had a more open relationship.
We could have talked to one another while I was on the road.
“You never messaged me. Through Instagram,” I counter, turning once more to face him.
“Didn’t have a social media account until you shared that you had one. I saw your posts.”
“But you didn’t message me?”
Stone steps closer to me. Close enough that I have to tip my head back to look up at him. My arms drop from their protective hold on my midsection. I flex my fingers at my side.
“Didn’t know if you’d want me to?” he admits.
He isn’t wrong. I hadn’t exactly given him an indication that I’d like to hear from him.
“I wanted to,” I whisper, glancing from his eyes to his lips.
“I’m sorry I didn’t reach out, then.” Sincerity rings through his tone, like he truly regrets not messaging me.
Then again, he isn’t a mind reader. He didn’t know. I hadn’t asked.
“You could always reach out now.” My voice sounds steady, but inside I’m vibrating.
Not with a sexual rush of need but more a simmering desire to have more from him.
To feel his lips on mine again and remind me of how he kisses.
Consuming. Confusing. A closeness I’d been afraid to admit I’ve longed for.
“What are you saying, Taxi?” His voice is equally as quiet as mine. His nostrils flare once. His mustache twitches.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I say, my words parroting what he said that night we first kissed.
When his hand comes to the side of my neck, and his thumb strokes over my cheek, my eyes involuntarily close.
“I need to be certain you want this.”
My lids ping open, and something in my eyes must give him the answer he needs because his mouth is suddenly on mine, taking what he needs, giving me what I want.
I want this. This confusing, confuddling, comforting sensation he brings to me. The same feeling I had the night I met him, that something was different about him. He was special, unique in a way I couldn’t define then.
His mouth is warm, lips in control, sipping along mine before stroking the seam, forcing me to open, allowing his tongue to meet mine.
The kiss moves from a slow exploration to full investigation within seconds, and I lean forward, gripping his well-worn tee while he cups my jaw, holding the edge of my face like I’m precious.
A sacred piece in his hands that his mouth continues to discover.
He pulls at my lower lip but doesn’t release me, going in once again, deepening the connection. Tongues swirl, smiles spread, but our mouths never leave the others.
“Uncle Stone, I . . . oops.”
We break apart like teens caught making out, and Stone spins, shielding me a bit from the interruption.
“What do you need, Zelle?” he addresses his young niece, clearing his throat while he speaks.
For my part, I fight a giggle and tuck my head against his shoulder blade, gripping the back of his T-shirt near his waistline.
“We wanted to have another dance off. We need you to judge.”
Stone’s hand comes around his back, brushing at the side of my thigh. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Okay.” The young girl giggles and pulls the door closed behind her. The soft click of it latching shut sounds in the room, along with a shout from the hallway.
“I caught Uncle Stone kissing Miss Taxi.”
Stone hangs his head, and the laughter in my throat finally escapes.
He spins to face me, capturing my face in both his hands. “Find that funny, do you?”
“Absolutely not, Stoic Stone.” I laugh again, harder, until his mouth is on mine one more time, swallowing down the sound and stealing my breath once again.
When he pulls back, leaving me a little stunned and smiling like a fool, he presses his forehead against mine.
“How do you feel about being a dance-off judge?”
“Sounds amazing.”
He has no idea how deep the answer is.
Sounds truly astounding to be part of this group, someone considered important enough to make the photographs on Stone’s office wall and be his guest at Sylver Sundays.