Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Noa
M rs. Stalinski asks me to make Thanksgiving dinner this year.
We’re whispering in the kitchen so we don’t wake Stone, who’s slumbering in the next room. I’d crept down the stairs and noticed enlarged lumps on the pull-out couch. It’s a twin fold out, yet Stone encompasses it like it’s a toddler’s mattress.
Tufts of his chestnut hair stick out from under the bedding, but otherwise, he’s buried under the covers like a troll hiding under his bridge until an unsuspecting goat comes along.
I have no idea where he went last night.
After our painful lunchtime confessions, he dropped me off at my car, then disappeared.
Stone didn’t come home that evening for dinner, nor did I find him sleeping on the pull-out when I came down for a 2 am glass of water.
Thoughts turning over in my head and crowding in on one another kept me awake, memories, flashbacks, and wishes all fighting for space.
I wonder if Stone was experiencing the same.
From the smell coming off the couch, I assume he found solace at the bottom of a bottle at the Tipsy Falcon.
I’m glad Stone made it home. As much as I convince myself our lives don’t have to intersect anymore, I worry about him. I care. And if I have to come down the stairs and smell a brewery while putting together a quick egg scramble, then I’ll take it.
Stone’s not sleeping it off somewhere else. He didn’t find another woman. He didn’t give anyone an excuse to press “upload” on their phones by being an idiot last night.
For all of those things, I’m thankful.
“So what do you think? Can you cook up a turkey for, say, six or seven people?” Mrs. Stalinski asks. She gestures for a refill on her coffee.
“Why seven?” I lift the carafe of hot coffee and pour. “Who’s coming?”
“Well, I figure Maisy, Carly, and Mae, and Stone, of course, you, me, and I’m thinking of inviting Rome since he’s all alone out on that ranch of his since his daddy will be patrolling the streets, and Stone said something about this Aaron boy stopping by next weekend.”
“Next weekend?” My voice becomes high-pitched. “Oh my God, Thanksgiving is next weekend!”
Mrs. Stalinski reaches over the breakfast counter and pats my hand. “You’ve been busy.”
I subtly frown at her, wondering exactly what she means by that.
Mrs. Stalinski maintains her mysterious air as she leans back without a clue in her expression.
It’s not like Stone to open up and let her in on what we talked about yesterday or how we’ve christened this counter, but these are different times, and I know when my mother was at this point in her diagnosis, I told her everything I could and absorbed everything she had to tell me.
Then again , I think while staring through the archway at a comatose Stone, denial is a wonderful choice, too.
“Well?” Mrs. Stalinski asks, blinking like a patient owl.
“Um, can I think about it?”
“No.”
“Oh.” I pull the frying pan off the stove, buttery eggs sizzling nicely. “Then I guess I’m a yes.”
“I knew you would be!” Mrs. Stalinski claps. “We’ll do a traditional turkey fare and I’ll help in any way I can. Maybe you can also prepare a dish from your new class.”
“I don’t know. I’ve only had one class with Chef Toussaint and he’s, well, not exactly keeping up with the holidays. This week we’re doing Choucroute Garnie à l’Alsacienne.”
Mrs. Stalinski cocks her head. “What now?”
“Braised sauerkraut with mixed meat and sausages.”
“Hmm. Not exactly Thanksgiving friendly, is it?”
I laugh. “No, but I’ll come up with something fun to make. I’ll enjoy looking through my old cookbooks.”
“That would be wonderful. Surprise us. This will be fun.”
Day brightened, Mrs. Stalinski slides off her stool. “Keep that warm for me, will you? I feel like a bike ride with my son.”
“Is that a good idea?” I spin with her as she passes me. “It’s getting pretty cold out.”
“We go at a brisk pace. Don’t worry.” She flaps her hand behind her, waving me off, then approaches Stone.
Hands on her hips, she studies him for a moment, then pulls the pillow out from under his head and whacks him with it.
Stone’s groan rumbles through the entire house. He shifts, then belly flops back into position, face-planting into the mattress.
“This requires a more organized attack,” Mrs. Stalinski muses. “Noa, grab an ice bucket.”
“A—what?”
“You heard me. Fill it to the brim. That fancy sub-zero fridge he bought me should have more than enough to spare.”
A surprised giggle escapes. I clap my hand over my mouth, horrified.
Mrs. Stalinski straightens, then meets my eye with a softened gaze. “It’s okay to find joy in this house, dear. I still do.”
I tentatively smile in response.
“Now, go get that bucket. Add some water in it, too.”
I do as she says, filling one of the mop buckets. It’s too heavy for Mrs. Stalinski to lift, which I’m sure she knew right from the beginning, so I’m tasked with tossing it onto Stone’s prone, unsuspecting form.
A little part of me is excited about doing it.
Another is terrified.
Most of me is convinced this was a long time coming.
We left last night without a punctuation mark.
It gave me the chance to voice what had haunted me all these years, yet I remain unsure where we stand.
Scratch that—where we should go after a conversation like that.
Do we continue like nothing has changed?
Do we discuss it further? Do we have more explosive sex?
One priority stays the same: Mrs. Stalinski comes first. If she wants to throw ice water all over her hungover, bare ass son, who am I to stop it?
“Okay, one, two…” Mrs. Stalinski watches me approach the foot of the bed. “THREE!”
Without hesitating, I toss the contents onto the bed, screeching as I do it. Mrs. Stalinski cackles beside me.
Stone roars, popping upright like an explosion has gone off. A streak of white and caramel fur flies out from the covers with a distinctly upset yowl. Little did we know Moo had bunked against the delightful warmth of Stone’s body last night.
“Sorry, Moo-boo!” I call after him as he skitters around the corner.
Cold water drips off Stone’s hair and face, his muscles undulating and straining with the shocking change in temperature. His nipples are small, hard, and directed right at me.
Lust builds inside me at the sight of him, all angry, cursing, sculpted muscle. He stumbles out of bed, the slits of his eyes targeting first his mother, then me.
Mrs. Stalinski, damn her, is out of the attack zone, beetling back to the kitchen as soon as he tossed back his covers.
That leaves me laugh-screaming and blubbering as I hold my hands up and tell him it wasn’t me.
Stone’s masculine presence freezes the hair on my arms as he steps close, studies me with a cranky scowl, then bends down to pick up the discarded bucket and plops it over my head before heading to the powder room and slamming the door.
“Good morning, Honeybear!” I hear Mrs. Stalinski trill from the safety of the breakfast bar.
I pull the bucket off my head, sputtering through a small smile.
Too soon, it’s time for Chef Toussaint’s class.
I peel off my scrubs, lavender today (which has me thinking of Stone again, damn it), and dress in black denim and a black cotton T-shirt.
I’d noted how the chef dressed under his coat and how the other couple, Danny and Ray, who I refuse to see as my competition but kind of do anyway, dressed in dark clothing, too.
It’s been so long since I’ve thought about proper dress code in the kitchen, or prep, or knife cuts. It’s coming back to me slowly. But it is returning.
I look forward to Saint’s master class, regardless of how mean and picky he is. He’s one of the most-watched chefs under thirty. We’re lucky enough to have him in town, however he came to be here. Stone may not feel the same way, but I’m confident he’ll behave this evening.
Well … more like hopeful.
Or desperate.
I’m pleasantly surprised to find him waiting at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in jeans in a white cashmere sweater that hugs his muscles in all the right ways.
I should recommend he dress in clothing less likely to stain, too, except I’m too distracted by how handsome this man is even while lingering by a staircase.
I bet if I brushed up against him, he’d be as soft as Moo.
Eager to dissipate that feeling, I search around for Moo, noticing him curled up on the couch that Stone folded back into place earlier. I make a dash for him without thinking, picking him up and cuddling his softness and hiding my blush in his fur.
Stone has always been handsome—gorgeous, actually. It’s almost inhumane how he can be so effectively jarring, even when I’m supposed to dislike him or at the very least conclude we’re not meant to be.
Moo squirms, licks my hand with his scratchy tongue, then uses his hind legs to push off my chest.
“Ah … shit,” I mutter, glancing down.
I pull at my shirt and try to brush off the long, white hair.
“Stupid,” I mumble, hating that Stone is such a distraction. I don’t voice that part, but boy, am I disappointed in myself for not being immune to him by now.
“Lucky for you I have lint rollers in every bag I pack.” Stone lifts a bag from behind the couch and pulls out a black-handled roller. “I must be in pristine condition at all times. A requirement of my assistant.”
He says it offhand, though I notice the downturn of his lips as he says it.
“It must be difficult to have to always be perfect,” I say as he approaches me.
Stone peels off the sticker so I have a fresh one. “It was tough at first. I wanted to dress in my beat-up jeans and faded shirts. Then the promotions happened. I had two assistants, a stylist, a publicist, not to mention HR breathing down my back, and the rest is history, I suppose.”
Stone lifts the roller and glides it across the V of my shirt. I lift my face to his, ready to tell him I can do it, but I’m stopped by … him.
He’s not dangerous this close. He’s lethal.