Page 60 of Still Yours
I inspect what she’s pulled out. “Are you recreating what we made today?”
“Yeah.” She sighs and massages the back of her neck. “I tried to fall asleep, but I kept hearing the chef’s criticism in my head and how I could do it better. I don’t want to endure that kind of humiliation again, so I thought I could practice and Mrs. Stalinski could enjoy the fruits of my labors.” She smiles with a tired, lopsided, gorgeous tilt to her lips. “Because who wouldn’t want a French cassoulet for breakfast?”
I return the smile. “Does Ma even have duck for you to use?”
“No, but I’m trying to recreate it with chicken. See?” She steps aside to showcase what’s sizzling on the stove. I move in for a closer look, conscious of her satin-clad body hovering nearby.
The woman is like a beacon of electricity, striking me whenever I get too close, and I both hate and love it. I’m her reactor, a role I took on at the ripe age of fourteen and never looked back from. I don’t know why I figured the energy between us would die off with time. If anything, it’s gotten stronger.
“It looks good,” I say, huskier than I should. “Smells fucking amazing.”
She smiles a little brighter. “Say what you want about my browning ability, but I have the seasoning dead-on.”
“You’re incredible.” I trace her face with my eyes, taking her in, memorizing her passionate determination and confidence so I can replace the one of her drooling over the chef.
Her smile falters the longer I stare at her. Her gaze slides away, at the sizzle and pop of her meat, then flutters back to me.
I shift closer.
“Stone,” she whispers.
I dip my head. Chances are she could use that spatula she’s holding against me, but I can’t deny this subtle rippling inside me, an instinctive song pulling me nearer.
I want to put my hands on her.
She reads it in my eyes.
“Stone,” she tries again. “Will.”
My response comes as an exhale. “You use my real name, Lavender, you better be prepared to meet the real man.”
She winces at my use of her pet name and it cracks my heart open.
“I know you,” she croaks. “I’ve always known who you are. You can dress yourself up with a cold name and fancy clothes and I’d still recognize you.”
Our noses almost touch. “We haven’t spoken in ten years. I’m just as cold on the inside as I am out.”
Noa tips her chin—her mistake. Her lips come dangerously close. So much so that if she weren’t cooking a mouth-watering dish inches away, I’d smell her sugary lip gloss.
“You’ve changed,” she concedes. “But I see you.”
I avoid her pointed assessment. The colorful flecks in her eyes are a welcome distraction. She’s stained glass up close, fragile and painstakingly put together, and all I can think about is shattering her in the best of ways.
“I’d like to think I’m blind to who I was,” I answer. Smoke drifts between us, putting her features in sorceress relief. That spatula becomes a wand, and she can turn me into a frog if she wants.
I’d give in.
“You married during that time,” she dares to add.
My lips quirk ever so slightly. “So, you kept tabs on me.”
“Not really.” She breaks our stare-off and pokes at the chicken. “It’s hard not to be updated when the entire town spoke of you like a God who smites people. Recently, when you?—”
I put my hand on her arm and spin her. “I like your eyes on me. I’d prefer they’d stay on me while you try to eviscerate me with a past that no longer affects me.”
“Liar.” She goes slack in my grip, allowing my hand to stay there. “I’d have to care about you to want to eviscerate you.”
“You care.”
