I don’t turn around. “Yes.”
Seconds pass. Stone clears his throat, then exhales a long, noisy breath.
I whirl. “I’m happy with my choices.”
He pauses with his fingers shoved in his hair. “Okay.”
“No, you don’t understand.” I point at him with the spoon I was using to stir in the honey. “The way you talked about me out there. You didn’t even have tomentionme.”
Stone gives a single brow twitch.
“I’m sure it surprised you to see me like this, dressed in scrubs and tending to your mother, but I’m fine where I’m at. I didn’t have to go to culinary school or pursue endless wads of cash or gain the love of the nation. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t dissect my life choices.”
Slowly, Stone removes his hand from the top of his head. “I apologize. My social filter isn’t at its best. I’ve just found out my mother has cancer.”
“How?” I throw my hands up, flinging warmed, sticky honey onto his suit jacket and shirt. “Fuck. Shit. Sorry.”
I swipe a hand towel from the oven’s handle and rush to dab the mess off his chest.
Digging my teeth into my lips, I swipe at the glob but only make it worse.
I’m stopped by a gentle pressure on my wrists.
His touch sends a scatter of goose bumps across my bare forearms, made more apparent as his minty exhales hit the top of my head.
This close, I can smell his cologne—probably an insanely pricey one that only multi-millionaires can afford. But because it’shim, and he has thoseeyes, it’s a smell unique to this man, and this man only.
“Noa,” he prompts.
I refuse to look up. I can’t. Not this close. Not when he’s touching me, and his skin is as warm through his clothes as his tan, and his hard body is what I’ve been missing for all these years.
“What’s this shirt cost?” I ask, staring at the white fabric stretching across his chest. His nipples pierce through the thin material.
I’m not sure this was the better spot to focus my attention on.
“Has to be a month’s salary,” I add, with a hitch in my voice.
“It’s fine. I’ll have it laundered.”
He releases my wrists but takes his time moving away, his breath tingling the baby hairs across my forehead and making me wish he’d blow that sweetness over my lips before he kissed them.
I recoil and turn away.Not him. What’s wrong with me?
“What did you mean?” he asks. His voice is low with extra butter churned in, and I’m thankful he doesn’t see me close my eyes in pained remembrance at the sound.
“Hmm?” I pretend deep focus on fixing Mrs. Stalinski’s tea. It’s usually done in half this time. I blame Stone’s presence for mixing me up and making me stupid.
“You asked mehow, after I told you I didn’t know about Ma.”
I pick up the mug and the tumbler of whiskey I’d poured for him, handing it to Stone as I spin.
He takes it with genuine surprise.
“I figured you’d need it. Like you said, you didn’t know she was sick.”
Stone parts his lips to say something, but I interject, “Which I’m having trouble believing.”
With deliberate calm, Stone puts the tumbler on the countertop. “You think I’ve deliberately ignored my sick mother?” Stone’s gaze turns colder than I expected, and the small of my back hits the counter with a distinctthud.
