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.
Stone’s tanned from all the ranch work he’s doing with Rome. From the worn cowboy hat I’m always picking up from the arm of the couch and hanging on the coatrack, he’s using it often, but it can’t compete with cloudless fall skies allowing the sun to beam down on him.
Even the sun has him in a spotlight, I muse as I trace his face with my eyes. His scruff is lighter than his hair, rough and auburn streaked. The lines on his face are more pronounced by the permanent layer of grit he can never seem to wash off completely. Stone angles his head, focusing on the direction of the roller, and the carved structure of his face hits the overhead lights with breathtaking accuracy.
His clear eyes dart to mine, and there they stay as the roller moves over my breast. When he hits the peak of my nipple, Stone slows his movements, his brows furrowing in silent question.
My lips part. My eyes stay on his. When his free hand comes up and cups my other breast and he pulls me closer, my breath hitches.
Our lips are an inch apart. Stone’s head is at the perfect angle to seal his on mine. The roller moves, back and forth, againstmy breast as he massages the other, the varying sensations becoming too much.
I lift my hand to slap the roller out of his, grab the back of his neck, and kiss him until I can’t breathe, until we’re interrupted.
“You two ready to go? You’ll be late if you don’t hustle.”
Mrs. Stalinski hasn’t wandered all the way around the corner, giving us enough time to break apart and for Stone to shove the roller in my hand.
Jesus, who knew such a benign tool could be so stimulating.
I busy myself removing the rest of the hair since Stone did such a poor job by becoming so easily distracted by my breasts. Stone clears his throat.
“Just about ready. Noa said farewell to her cat by hugging him until he porcupined her with hair.”
Mrs. Stalinski nods her head with a smile as if she believes him, though when she gets to me, her eyes have a knowledgeable slant, like she knows what we are getting close to doing.
“Well, get on, then. Moo and I will entertain ourselves with a movie.”
“You’ll be all right?” I ask her, handing the roller to Stone, who deposits it in his bag.
“I’ll be fine,” Mrs. Stalinski assures. “I noticed the pills you left me if I need them and the plate of dinner I can warm up when I’m hungry. I’ve also noted the fresh bath salts on the side of my tub and a wonderful new candle and headrest to go along with it.” She pats my cheek as she passes me and makes herself comfortable on the couch. “I am properly taken care of, my dear. You two go have fun.”
“If you’re sure,” I say to her, “because I’m here for you.”
Stone pauses in palming his keys from the side table. The glance he sends my way is both sweet and uncomfortable. It’s the type of loving gaze he used to give me during our post-coital glow, rested and content in each other’s arms. It communicateshis gratitude for how I’m putting his mother first, but I shift on my feet, the similarities between our past innocence and our current grief hard to swallow.
