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 intemperature. 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 itisreturning.
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 hecame 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.
