Page 38 of Still Yours
I lean back, sipping my coffee, certain I covered everything that needed covering.
“I won’t insult your intelligence by denying that my boy has always tried to behave himself around you despite his innate nature to make trouble. And I’m hoping you’ll continue to rub off on him, as he’s about to face the most difficult hurdle in his life. Losing his mother.”
I lower my mug to my lap.
“Thank you for not denying that,” she says, cupping her drink. “We both know Stone likes to react when matters don’t go his way and I’m afraid as I decline, he’ll be moved to make a mess of his life and do something worse than he already has.” Mrs. Stalinski moves her head in a sad arc. “My boy’s so put together that he’s about to implode in so many ways, and while I’m positive returning home will help him, I need you to control the rest. It’s a lot to ask of you, I know,” she says as I open my mouth, “but he has no one else.”
I chew on my lip. “I’m not sure I can be that kind of light for him.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t certain you are the right person for the role. What went on between you two, I will never try to disrespect. But it’s been ten years, and if it’s possible, I would be forever grateful. And eventually, so will he.”
“I don’t need his thanks,” I automatically say, then shut my mouth.
Mrs. Stalinski responds with an empathetic curve to her lips. “I will defer to your initial point that forcing you two into proximity might fix all those holes in both your hearts. But to be safe, I’ll refrain from making that my dying wish.”
Mrs. Stalinski chuckles and I go along with her dark humor, since that’s the only choice we have.
“And I really cannot do those classes with you, even though a month ago I was ready, energetic, and willing.”
“I believe you.” Rising, I take the mug from her hands and tuck the sheets around her. “And we would’ve been hard to beat.”
“You have that right.” She accepts the palm-full of pills I give her. “I’d argue my son shares my DNA, but sadly, the cooking gene swooped right over him and went into the family dog instead. Rest his soul.”
I laugh. “Stone proved himself last night.”
“To both of our surprise. Maybe California isn’t so bad for him after all, or more likely, he learned one dish to impress the ladies, and that was it.”
“Well, he can chop onions. I suppose I can always delegate veggie duty to him.”
“Does that mean you’ll do it?” Mrs. Stalinski’s question rises with hope.
I offer a confused smile. “I thought we resolved that last night when he won the bet to cook dinner.”
“True, but I would never force you to agree to terms that make you uncomfortable, ridiculous wager or not. You realize you always had a choice to say no, right, dear?”
“Of course. Yes.” I try for a dismissive laugh, like I hadn’t just lectured my reflection on how to cope with my new sous chef for the next two months. “It means a lot to you, so I’ll do it. Try, I mean. I’ll try it. If Stone’s willing, then I am, too.”
If anything, it’ll give me a chance to redeem myself after my outburst and show Stone how cool and collected I can be—willbe—around him. He doesn’t affect me anymore, and if I have to cook with him to prove it, then I will.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Stone
Ihaven’t stacked hay since I was a sixteen-year-old kid, desperate to do anything that would make me enough money to get out of here. I’m ashamed to admit that these days, it’s triggering my sciatica.
I refuse to let it bother me. I may use more mental work than physical these days, but I don’t shy away from hard work.
The nerve screams like a banshee but it doesn’t show on my face as I grab another bale from the truck and “toss” i.e. roll it to the waiting teenager who should then load it onto the waiting truck.
The bale comes to a stop near the backs of his legs.
I say to get his attention, “I got another one here for you.”
He doesn’t hear me over the blaring music coming from his earphones. Contrary to popular belief, I donotenjoy scaring children. This one, Devon, gave me one cursory look underneath his cowboy hat when I introduced myself before the crack of dawn and hasn’t said a word to me as we drove into the field to theverytall stacks of hay, climbed out of the vehicle, grabbed a bale, and swung it at my chest.
Death by hay squash. That is what this knee-jerk of a sperm sample almost did to me.
“Devon, is it?” I try again. “Another’s incoming and we’re running out of room.”
