Page 20 of Still Yours
I step farther inside, setting my purse and keys on the side table. Above it sits a mirror, and I can’t help but smooth down the fly-aways the wind kicked up and tighten my low ponytail. My make-up is minimal, but I might’ve applied more concealerand blush than usual and glossed my lips. I wasn’t about to be caught unawares by Stone Williams a second time. Not that he deserves an increased beauty routine, but I also don’t want to look worse than he does.
His absence as I continue to move deeper into the house comes as a relief. Maybe Stone stayed at a bed-and-breakfast last night or found the Tipsy Falcon, had a bit too much to drink, and was sleeping in.
Either way, I could get Mrs. Stalinski’s morning routine done without having to see?—
“Good Morning.”
The soles of my sneakers squeak against the hardwood flooring as I grind to a halt.
Stone stands at the stove in low-riding gray sweatpants and nothing else.
His back muscles bunch as he uses a spatula to flip what resembles a pancake.
“Hi,” I respond with a tight voice, shifting in place which will hopefully summon the confidence to appear unaffected and casual. “I didn’t think anyone was awake.”
Stone glances over his shoulder at me. “I’ve been up since before dawn. Went for a run.”
His statement brings up an image of him running in those very sweats and nothing else, beads of sweat forming on his muscles and running a straight line down his spine.
I tread into the kitchen, eyeing the cabinet over the fridge with worry.
Stone catches my stiffened approach, asking, “Is something wrong?”
“No. It’s just, I need to get into that cupboard.”
I don’t want to tell him I’m staring at the cabinet like it’s a venomous snake because I have to scoot past him to get to it.
And possibly touch him.
Probably grazing his perfect, melon-shaped ass with my stomach while I’m doing it. Or, if I turn the other way, pressing the small of my back and part of my butt to his.
Physical contact isn’t supposed to be part of the equation. Hating him means keeping my distance, speaking only when spoken to, and redirecting any conversation back to his mother. Nothing else. No reminiscing, no wishing.
Stone swings his gaze in my direction, narrows his eyes, then eats up the space in one step and reaches for the upper cabinet. “What do you need?”
“Your mom’s medicine,” I say, pointing. “In that front container.”
Stone glances up and grabs the clear container with about a dozen pill bottles in it. Any pensive thoughts about him and I disappear from his expression as he lowers the container and studies it. “She takes all of these?”
“Not at the moment, no.” I gently take it from him and place it on the counter, pulling out the mini spiral notebook tucked in the middle. Attending to professional business loosens my tongue. “She’s on a clinical trial and gets two of these.” I lift the plastic bottle and shake it lightly. “Then for pain, every four hours she gets this. And on particularly bad days, these fentanyl patches or lollipops if she has a dry mouth, too.”
I don’t watch him while I explain, instead crossing out yesterday’s dosages and moving onto today’s column.
Satisfied with my last check, I look up.
I shouldn’t have.
Stone stands on the other side of the counter, unmoving. His eyes shine with contained rage.
My stomach turns to slime. I gave myself full permission to be cold to him, but not when it comes to his mother. Too late, I realize how clinical and uncaring I sound.
I sound exactly like him.
I open my mouth to truly apologize, but the scent of burned butter hits our nostrils at the same time.
Stone whirls. “The pancakes.”
He grabs the frying pan and angles it over the sink. The blackened chunk formally known as a pancake doesn’t shift.
