Chapter 7 #2
Stone swings his gaze in my direction, narrows his eyes, then eats up the space in one step and reaches for the upper cabinet. “What do you need?”
“Your mom’s medicine,” I say, pointing. “In that front container.”
Stone glances up and grabs the clear container with about a dozen pill bottles in it. Any pensive thoughts about him and I disappear from his expression as he lowers the container and studies it. “She takes all of these?”
“Not at the moment, no.” I gently take it from him and place it on the counter, pulling out the mini spiral notebook tucked in the middle.
Attending to professional business loosens my tongue.
“She’s on a clinical trial and gets two of these.
” I lift the plastic bottle and shake it lightly.
“Then for pain, every four hours she gets this. And on particularly bad days, these fentanyl patches or lollipops if she has a dry mouth, too.”
I don’t watch him while I explain, instead crossing out yesterday’s dosages and moving onto today’s column.
Satisfied with my last check, I look up.
I shouldn’t have.
Stone stands on the other side of the counter, unmoving. His eyes shine with contained rage.
My stomach turns to slime. I gave myself full permission to be cold to him, but not when it comes to his mother. Too late, I realize how clinical and uncaring I sound.
I sound exactly like him.
I open my mouth to truly apologize, but the scent of burned butter hits our nostrils at the same time.
Stone whirls. “The pancakes.”
He grabs the frying pan and angles it over the sink. The blackened chunk formally known as a pancake doesn’t shift.
Stone holds the pan over the sink, turning it this way and that and gripping it like he’s never seen a frying pan before. “Fall out, damn you.”
With his expression twisting and face reddening, he uses his fingers to pry the blackened pancake off.
“ Ah—fuck! ”
His cry is the most emotion he’s shown since his arrival, and it’s over a burned glop of food.
“I got it.” I rush to his side as his lips go white and he shakes off the pain. “Where did you put the spatula?”
“The what?”
My finger pads have years of burn experience behind them. I easily un-stick the pancake-coal. It falls into the garbage disposal with a crunchy plop.
“You’re making pancakes from scratch and yet you don’t know what a spatula is?”
“I’m not making anything from scratch. I got this out of the freezer.”
“You—” My eyes land on the open frozen waffle box to the right of the stove. “Oh, boy.”
Taking the pan from him, I run it under the tap; the steam coming up with a hiss of smoke.
“Those go in the toaster, not the stove.”
Stone frowns. “Waffles don’t go in a toaster. That’s ridiculous.”
I stare at him, agog. “Are you so ashamed that you’ve totally forgotten where you came from? You used to love frozen food. I remember you eating thawed chicken fingers in the morning in first grade because you decided you hated breakfast.”
His arms fall to his sides. Stone regards me silently.
I close my eyes. Take a breath. “That was uncalled for. Sorry.”
“It’s been a while. Since I’ve cooked,” he admits gruffly.
My mind immediately assaults me with questions of whether that’s because he has a personal chef, or if his multiple women that have passed through cooked for him, waiting on him in bed as he splayed out naked, greeting them with a grin.
Don’t go down that road. I chastise myself internally. It’ll only hurt more.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I grab his injured hand, inspecting the scarlet skin.
“Fine,” he grits out.
I prod the tips of his fingers gently, happy to see his frustration merely caused impatient man burns and nothing more serious. “You don’t need salve. Run it under cold water for a few minutes and it’ll stop hurting.”
“I don’t feel pain.”
Ignoring him, I pull his hand into the running water, holding on as I angle it.
I’m watching the water cascade over his calloused palm instead of looking at his heart-rendering face. I can feel the soft hairs on his forearm under my grip. And smell the soap from his shower. And inch closer to the irresistible heat of his body.
Then I lift my chin and meet his eyes, blue as the spring sky on our faces when we skipped school to go to the football field.
I drop his arm. Not expecting the move, his hand falls against the still-hot pan in the sink.
“Ah— Jesus fucking —” He recoils, his back slamming into the fridge as I stand there, not sorry at all that I let him go.
“I should get these to your mom.” I use the gap he created between us and get back to pill counting.
Stone doesn’t move, his cautious stare following me as he holds his injured hand. “Not to worry, my hand is fine despite being burned in the same place twice.”
“You don’t feel pain, remember, Mr. Big Shot?” I send him a droll look over the pills, wondering if he’s making it hard to dislike him after what happened between us on purpose. “You’ll heal in less than a day.”
“Well.” He holds his hand up, turning it to make sure I’m not lying. “I can still sign important contracts, so that will have to do.”
Amazing how different he’s become.
I pick up the small bowl where I’d dispensed Mrs. Stalinski’s morning medication. “I’ll take this up to her now.”
“Wait.”
Not much could get me to stop from doing my job, but his quiet plea does.
He blinks. Swallows. Holds my stare. “Last night was hard on her.”
My shoulders slope. “I’m not surprised. I was hoping she wasn’t holding something back when she told me she was okay at night, but I should’ve listened to my instincts.”
Stone works his jaw. “I wanted to call you, but Ma demanded I leave you alone, so we called her doctor instead.”
“Dr. Silver? What did she say?”
“We have three options. One is to put Ma in a home of some sort for round-the-clock care.”
He and I shake our heads at the same time.
“That’s not an option,” he agrees.
“What about the second?”
“Take her out of the clinical trial.”
I stare over his shoulder, thinking. “She won’t want that either.”
“No.” His chest concaves on an exhale. “She seems to want anything other than chemotherapy.”
I’ve had enough patients on chemo to sympathize with Mrs. Stalinski’s decision. “So we’re left with the third.”
“Well…” Stone combs his fingers through his hair. “You mentioned something to her about staying overnight.”
“Oh.” I jerk back despite there being nothing to recoil from. “Yes. I remember.”
Stone looks at me through his thick chestnut lashes. I can’t stand that look. I despise it because it’s like the one where his lashes shine auburn in the sun before he kisses me.
“Would you still be able to do that?” he asks in a professional, flat tone.
“I—well, you’re here.” My voice comes out screechier than I want, but the meaning is the same. “And there’s only one bed aside from your mother’s.”
He folds his arms across his sculpted chest, now spattered with water. “Ma’s comfort is most important. I’ll stay at a bed-and-breakfast in town.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” In no way did I want to separate a mother and her only son during the time she needs him most. Even if that son came by on happenstance. Stone wants to stay, and that’s all that matters.
“I’m not qualified to care for her the way you do,” he continues.
“I can’t tolerate the thought of sending to her to a home or making her reliant on another nurse she doesn’t know, or listen to her pain without having the ability to help.
I don’t know if I can stay longer than two weeks, but Ma takes precedence and I have calls to make?—”
“Okay.” I raise a hand to stop him from jumping off the ledge. Stone’s forehead creases with a rare wrinkle and it makes me want to hug him, long and hard.
I step back, creating more space. “To be honest, I was about to stay over last night, but then yesterday kind of … threw me for a loop.”
Stone gives a curt nod. “For you and me both.”
I resume walking to the stairs, trying not to fall into this actual conversation we’re having after ten years of not speaking. “I’ll see to my other patients after this. Go home and pack some things, then I’ll be back.”
“I appreciate you rearranging your schedule. Even if it’s temporary and Ma fights you on it, it’s absolutely the best solution. Especially if you have someone waiting for you at home…”
I pause at the balustrade, curious over Stone’s not-so-subtle fishing of my marital status. “There’s no one but Moo.”
“Bring him.” I’m thankful Stone’s not like the rest of the town and doesn’t question why I’m single or why there’s no one but an elderly, grumpy cat at home. “I’d like to see him again.”
“You remember Moo?”
“Of course.” Stone says it like he hasn’t erased every single aspect of his Falcon Haven self.
I eye him curiously, a smile pulling at my lips until I yank them back into a firm line. “I’ll see if it’s okay with your mom first, but it would make it easier to have him here.”
I start up the stairs as Stone says, “I could always rely on you, Noa. I’m glad some things haven’t changed.”
There’s a hitch to my step. I hope he doesn’t see. My grip tightens on the bowl to the point it might crack if I don’t loosen my emotions.
Other than that, I have no reaction to his white-collar words.
None.