Page 32 of Still Yours
Mrs. Stalinski’s voice reaches my ears in the den, where I think I’ve found Moo under the armchair by the fireplace.
I pull up the embroidered dust flaps, finding the two yellow beams of his reflective eyes, then make kissy faces at him. “See you soon, pal. Glad you found a safe space.”
He pissily swipes at the flap as I drop it back in place.
Instead of answering Mrs. Stalinski, I return to the kitchen, using an extreme amount of effort to keep my expression calm and blasé as I study Stone, his mother, and the after-effects of their conversation.
Did Stone convince her it was a dumb idea? He must have. A guy like him has a million better things to do than go to a small-town date night cooking class once a week for two months while the restaurant readies for its grand opening right after Christmas. He has employees to order around, other heads of business to intimidate, elite friends to hang out with (does he even have friends?), gorgeous women to bed, and a sick mother to care for. No way would he want to spend his precious spare time learning the specialties of fine French dining.
“Here’s how it’s going to go.”
My brows jump at Stone’s official tone.
“It’s obvious you don’t think I’d enrich your experience at … what is this place called?”
“C’est Trois.” Mrs. Stalinski answers with a thick French accent.
“Yes, that. You believe I’d make these cooking lessons worse for you somehow,” Stone says to me.
I don’t answer. My silence is enough of one.
Stone doesn’t react to my acknowledgment with hurt or ego-wounded anger. No, he rounds to the side of the fridge, swipes the apron off the hook, and throws it over his head.
Stone fists his hands and turns, his face displaying nothing but determination.Get Your Fat Pants Readysplays across the front of the cream fabric in cursive font.
“Then I’ll prove it to you,” he says.
I look at Mrs. Stalinski. Her perfect posture doesn’t give me any clue as to what’s happening. I go back to Stone. “What are you doing?”
“I’m cooking dinner,” he answers, like it’s obvious. “If it’s terrible, I won’t be your weekly date. No argument, not from me or Ma. Right, Ma?”
Mrs. Stalinski pushes out her lower lip. “I suppose.”
“But if I docook something delicious, you let me do this with you. Standard negotiation at its best.”
I rub at my cuticles, suddenly desperate to pick at them. “Why would you even want to do this?”
Stone’s confident expression hardens. “Consider it mutually beneficial. You get fabulous lessons from a Parisian chef, and I get some redemption in the way of improving my reputation for my current clients, who are less than happy with me right now.”
Here is the moment it all makes sense. Stone would never do something purely for someone else. There has to be a benefit in it for him. Good to know he hasn’t changed. His selfish ways remain his most prominent quality. The reminder shouldn’t be surprising, or cause a hollowpingin my chest, yet it does.
It always has, no matter how many times he reminds me.
No matter how many times I’m disappointed, Stone is the only man who keeps me wishing for more.
All suchstupidwishes. Wasn’t I just going through the ways I could avoid him? Why is it suddenly so important that he acknowledges my importance to his life?
“I see,” I respond tightly.
“Is that a yes?” Stone’s brow arches in tandem with one side of his mouth.
I’m about to say no, that my dream shouldn’t be reduced to an impulsive bet, but then I catch Mrs. Stalinski’s face as she watches her son.
There’s color to her cheeks, a flush of excitement.
“I hope you make it difficult for him, Noa,” she says. Then she laughs, a full-on, pre-cancer laugh. “But I still want him to win.”
The vision of Mrs. Stalinski’s pure joy stays at the backs of my eyes as I turn to Stone. “You’re on.”
