Mrs. Stalinskitsksat the two of us. “I couldn’t get you two off each other without resorting to chemical glue remover.Sue me for thinking that showing embarrassing baby pictures of you both while you were being crowned harvest king and queen would humiliate you enough to un-stick yourselves and scramble to take them down.”
“A mortifying acceptance speech by my mother would’ve been better than that,” Stone says.
Mrs. Stalinski’s lips spread into the widest smile I’ve seen in months. “The one of you pooping in the bathtub and holding it up with pride was my favorite.”
“All right, Ma. That’s more than enough.”
“You brought it up.”
"That was because…” he drifts off at the same time his eyes drift to me. “Because your laughter brought that memory forward. Crowning you harvest queen and sharing a dance.”
“It was an enjoyable night,” I hedge, shaking off the intuition that Stone is searching for something more.
Is he wondering if he’s dredging up feelings from me? If so, he couldn’t be more wrong. No sweet memory of ours will ever make me love him again.
My chest constricts at the thought. What a conceited way to think. There’s no reason Stone would want to be with me again, either. He has everything. Why would he be interested in a small-town palliative care nurse?
Mrs. Stalinski goes on as if Stone and I haven’t just gone through unsaid turmoil. “It was during your potty-training days. I couldn’t get you to relieve yourself on the toilet, but squatting on the floor and in the bath? Good to go.”
“Mother.”
Mrs. Stalinski catches my attempt to swallow my laughter.
“Don’t think your days of running butt-crack naked through the backwoods were any better, Noa,” she says to me. “Thank goodness your mother was just as eager to publicly humiliate her child as I was.”
Stone’s rumbling acknowledgment fills the air. Familiar and contagious. “I forgot about that. You wore mud pie hats for a while there if I remember correctly. How’s your mother doing, by the way? Does she still make that prize-winning cherry cobbler?”
I straighten, my hands sliding off the counter and going for my bag on autopilot. “I’d better go. I’m going to be late for Mr. Childs.”
The lines around Mrs. Stalinski’s lips soften. “Off you go, dear. I’ll be here when you get back.”
Nodding, I squeeze her shoulder as I pass and take a wide berth around Stone.
Stone calls behind me, “The guest room will be ready by the time you return, Noa.”
His statement forces me to turn around and acknowledge his sacrifice. “Thank you.”
I focus in his direction long enough to see Mrs. Stalinski lift her coffee to her lips while her eyes ping between us both, sharp and assessing.
“Fate better be on my side,” I mutter to myself as I open the front door, “because I refuse to allow two weeks of living with that man to get under my skin.”
My regular patients are easy and unproblematic, giving me plenty of time to head home for lunch and pack for my stay at the Stalinskis’. If I were a superstitious woman, I’d think the town was hatching a plan to return me to Stone as seamlessly as possible.
Not that he wants me. He obviously doesn’t.
The town is split on the benefits of Stone’s presence. He’s been here less than a day and strange cars have popped up, likely hiding a camera behind their reflections. Falcon Haven welcomes strangers, except for those who unjustifiably pry into town residents’ business. The key word there isunjustified.The town can pry into the town’s own at will.
It’s impossible not to overhear tidbits of conversation as I’m running errands. A cluster of girls at the bus stop fawn over one of their phones after she took a picture with Stone unaware in the background. It’s clear the younger generation will forgive any transgression after Stone commits to a reluctant, dimpled smile in their direction, whereas the elders of the community grumble over their chess games and coffee about his poor choices in life and debate whether the corporate world has poisoned his soul and his mind.
I’m debating where I fall. Emotionally, I’m in the elder camp. Physically, my body betrays me whenever he’s in my proximity, and I become a hormonal millennial.
Moo is in the third camp. After bribing, pleading, forcibly prying off my couch, then giving in and drugging Moo to get him into his carrier, I stop at the Merc for a couple of sandwiches to take to Mrs. Stalinski in case she’s feeling peckish. Getting Moo to transfer away from his favorite spot on my pillow and into the type of confines he only gets when he goes to the vet made me burn enough calories to eat Mrs. Stalinski’s share if she doesn’t want it.
Maisy rings up my order of two turkey sandwiches with the smooth movements and a watchful eye consistent with being fully aware of my temporary housing situation.
“Got everything you need, doll?” she asks, dripping with sweetness.
I sigh, envisioning the conversation I’d have to endure if I don’t give in now. “You better add a third sandwich. For—Stone.”
