I’m not sure how I feel about his definition ofbeing 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 eyessoften, 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,mesince 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 athird, 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.
