Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Noa
H ot air tickles the hair around my ear. I swat at it, thinking it’s a fly, then nestle into my pillow.
It happens again.
Frowning, I roll onto my back, then come up against something hard.
Hard and warm.
Hard and warm, and moving.
And smelling like Stone.
Last night comes back in a wave, our spontaneous romp in the kitchen and the mess we made both in the kitchen and with ourselves.
“Shit,” I mutter, trying to slide out from under the possession of his arm.
I don’t regret what we did. Not physically. Stone made my body feel things I’d long forgotten were important, like pleasure and a satiating sleep. We’d showered together after in the guest bathroom, sudsing our bodies and unable to resist coming together again. And again.
Our bodies missed one another more than our minds allowed us to remember, and I couldn’t control the innate need to have him fill me, carry me, and hold me.
Morning makes a difference, and as the golden sunrise peeks through the blinds, I sneak out of the couch’s bed without disturbing him.
I pull on a T-shirt and thin robe before entering the hallway and going upstairs to do a quick check of Mrs. Stalinski’s room.
Mrs. Stalinski.
Hot shame, pinker than the waking sun’s rays, color my skin as I slump away from her door and down the stairs. Now that reality’s set in, I realize what I’ve done.
Had sex with her son while she’s upstairs.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no stranger to sneaking into Stone’s room and enjoying the forbidden pleasures of fucking each other while our parents are asleep, but it’s different this time. She’s sick, and I’m her nurse. I’m in this house to take care of her, not myself.
It’s a moment of weakness I resolve never to happen again. I plan on telling Stone the same, and for reasons beyond respecting Mrs. Stalinski, even though that’s a top priority.
We’re messy, he and I. Almost as destructive as we were to this kitchen, and this time, I don’t want to throw my heart in the garbage disposal, all in the name of becoming addicted to him again.
I stop at the entrance to the kitchen.
Blinking, I scan the room, wondering if I’m dreaming.
The granite counter gleams along with the stovetop. All traces of spilled flour and escaped beans and baked-on sauce are gone.
Fresh lemon and vinegar wafts under my nose as I cautiously wander in.
Either magic cleaning elves came into the house last night while Stone and I were sleeping off our sex, or he came in here after I succumbed to exhaustion and did this all himself.
“Wow,” I whisper, drawn to a folded note sitting near the sink.
I open it and read.
I hope this helps your regret this morning, because you and I both know you have nothing to feel guilty over.
x Stone
I don’t realize I’m smiling until my cheeks communicate the ache. It’s Stone’s version of an apology. Not perfect, full of innuendos, and right on the money. He knows me too well sometimes.
“Wondering what to do now that you’re up this early and have no kitchen to clean?”
Stone’s sleep-roughened voice comes from the archway.
Turning, I respond, “You’ve certainly put a wrench in my plans.”
“I can think of an activity.”
I huff out a laugh. “I’m actually considering it.” Or more likely, my vagina is. “But your mom will be up soon and I can use this extra time to make us a delicious breakfast.”
Stone pretends to consider it. “Hmm. We do need the calories.”
“And your mom?—”
“Don’t,” he says in a gentle tone. “I told you not to feel guilty over what we did.”
“But she’s sick and I’m her nurse. It was totally unprofessional of me.”
“Listen, if Ma were healthy, she’d encourage it.”
I roll my eyes. “I hardly think she would.”
“You, Lavender, were the perfect girl for me.”
“We’re not back together.”
An indiscernible emotion flickers behind his expression. “I was going to say she’ll be pleased we’re back to being friendly.”
I’m not sure how I feel about his definition of being friendly .
Conflicting emotions aren’t my strong suit. I jump to attention, walking close to him to reach the cabinet above the fridge.
Stone doesn’t shift.
I clear my throat. “I need to get into the cabinet.”
Stone continues to stare down at me, unmoving.
“We should talk later,” he murmers.
I’d say anything to get us to move apart and reduce the electricity between us. “Sure. You won’t have trouble finding me.”
“I think we need more of an intimate setting. A dinner.”
“A dinner?” I echo, retreating a step. He follows. “Like a date?”
“I wouldn’t call it that. Just somewhere you won’t run away. So you can talk to me.”
Talk . He says it like it’s so easy. “Maybe later. Can I get to the pills, now?”
“By later, you mean your lunch break. I’ll make it easy for you and say we’ll grab sandwiches at the Merc. I’ll meet you there.”
“If it gets you out of my way, then yes, fine, I’ll see you there. If Maisy doesn’t kick you out first.”
Stone turns to the cabinet and reaches for the container, pulling it down and passing it between us.
It’s security, in a way, a physical barrier between him and me.
My shoulders relax.
“She won’t be able to resist my bad puppy look,” Stone says. “I haven’t used it in a while, but I’d wager it’s still potent.”
He tries to deploy it on me. Stone’s stern frown lines turn into apologetic strokes and the usual vigilant slant to his eyes soften, his handsome features transforming into chagrined in less than a second.
I can’t say it’s his corporate experience that’s given him this talent. He’s been using this look on unsuspecting townsfolk, parents, adults, me since he could control his facial muscles.
“I’ll go up, give Mrs. Stalinski her medicine, then come down and make breakfast,” I say, ignoring the twinge in my gut. Damn him for making me want to go in for a hug.
Stone chuckles. It’s short. Barely there, but it lightens his entire form. He knows he’s won. “Tell me what to do to get started.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” This time, his tentative smile is genuine. “I’m your sous chef now. Might as well take the work home. I feel bad for distracting you from your practice last night.”
“No you don’t.”
But I give him instructions while ignoring the chemical rewiring going on in my brain. If I’m not careful, I might actually start liking this man again.
“Start with pulling out the half-finished cassoulet from the fridge. Maybe we can make a breakfast skillet.”
Stone nods. “Consider it done.”
And that’s where I leave him, bare-chested in the kitchen while organizing ingredients in a way my brain only wishes it could categorize him.
Breakfast ends up being really enjoyable.
Mrs. Stalinski comes down and joins, eager to observe us cooking in the kitchen together.
Stone is the perfect assistant now that there isn’t a third, competitive chef in the kitchen.
He even insists on cleanup despite doing a midnight spray-down of the kitchen beforehand.
If Mrs. Stalinski suspects anything went down last night, she’s very good at hiding it. I spend most of my time studying her features for the slightest lip tilt or eye crinkle, maybe a frown of disappointment.
Her opinion of me means a lot, and I’d hate to be lesser in her eyes. Stone may be her son, but she’s not oblivious to his behavior and wishes for him to sow his oats and settle down more than anyone. We both know it’s not with me.
All I notice with Mrs. Stalinski is the pure joy at watching Stone and I bicker over how finely to slice onions and the perfect amount of salt to add to any dish. I catch her eye at one point, and she smiles over the rim of her coffee cup, her eyes alert and candid.
After the kitchen returns to its spotless condition, I leave them chatting over coffee. Saturday is any other day in my world. My shifts are seven days a week, and I have three patients to see.
I’m finishing up with my last patient, Mrs. Cavendish, when a text comes through.
Stone: See you in 10.
The phone drops to my side. I’m half tempted—no, entirely driven to respond with an excuse that I have a lunch date with Carly and have to cancel. Until Carly responded to my desperate text a few hours ago, saying she was stuck in the city on a case and couldn’t drive down.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the two were in cahoots to have me sitting with Stone, fully clothed and without the excuse of naked fun to distract us. But it’s no secret Carly hates Stone, and if she were ever in cahoots involving him, it would be on where to bury his body.
I wish Mrs. Cavendish well and tell her not to use the stairs without her husband around, and after that, have no excuse to linger. The roads are empty on the way into town and a parking spot opens up directly in front of the Merc.
“Damn you,” I say to the celebrity gods before pulling in, turning off the engine, and resigning myself to a lunch date with Stone.
I take solace in the fact that I’m in my scrubs and didn’t dress up.
Too many times, I wanted to look good for him, especially after a night of sex.
I was one of those girls who sprinted out of bed before their man woke up to brush my hair, put on deodorant, and insist I woke up like this even though Stone clearly knew better.
“I like you messy and roughed up by me,” he’d murmur into my lips before rolling on top of me.
The memory sends shivers down my spine. I shake it off, hardening my resolve by recalling the last vivid, terrible memory I have of him. That makes it easier to stroll into the Merc’s cafe side with a straight back and closed mouth, scanning for Stone’s broad shoulders.
I spot him at a tabletop near the back. Two girls nearby keep darting glances his way, whispering and giggling. He’s in his 30s, way older than them, yet he has the type of powerful charisma coupled with unnaturally good looks that would make anyone attracted to a male specimen melt at the sight.
He’s in a blue button-down and jeans, somewhat adapting to Falcon Haven’s warm-casual fashion and losing his suit.