Stone (Pittsburgh Titans 2)

I’m touched that he would call and check on the progress. I thought it was enough that he took it upon himself to fix the Hepplewhite, and I knew from looking at it that the leg broke cleanly under the seat’s edge, making repairs easy and unnoticeable. I expected no more.

Stone moves around the island and approaches, the paper still against his chest so I can’t see what’s on it.

“I wanted to buy and give this to you tonight, but it turns out this isn’t something you just walk into a store and buy.”

My eyes drift down to the paper, and he flips it around. Printed via a color printer is a glossy picture of a small, round table with tapered legs and an inlaid design on top. I don’t need the description below to know it’s a Hepplewhite, yet my eyes fall to read it. It was built circa 1760, and I know that this cost a small fortune.

“Stone,” I whisper, my skin tingling from the shock. “It’s too much.”

“That’s subjective,” he replies, those whiskey eyes locked onto me. We’re so close, a kiss would be easily accomplished by me going up on tiptoes and him bending forward ever so slightly.

But I also know he won’t do it. I pushed him away, and I know this man is the type to respect boundaries.

“I don’t know what to say,” I murmur, taking the paper from him.

“Thank you is usually appropriate.”

I smile, studying the picture. “This will go beautifully between my chairs.” I tip my head back to look at him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. It’s shipping from England, so it will be at least eight weeks, maybe longer.”

Shit… I want to kiss him. Which would be wholly inappropriate, so I step back and place the paper on the counter. I busy myself with opening the remaining containers. “Well, as apologies go,” I say lightly while focused on my task, “that was about the best one I’ve ever received.”

“I’m glad,” he says easily, and moves to the other side of the counter. He passes me a plate, and we use the utensils I’d pulled out to take small portions from each container. I’m an adventurous eater, so I try a little of everything.

“Counter, dining room, or living room?” he asks. “I discovered Brooks has a set of TV trays in there, so I guess that was a meal hot spot.”

I laugh as I nod. “It was. We ate in there a lot.”

“I read in his journals that you shared a lot of meals.” He goes to the fridge and pulls out two bottles of water.

“Pretty much dinner every night he was home.”

I pick up my plate and Stone’s, leading the way into the living room. I don’t say anything to Odin who is curled on the couch watching us. He knows better than to beg for food, so he stays in place. I don’t tell him to get down, figuring that’s Stone’s call since this is now his home.

Stone ignores Odin, though, and sets up trays in front of two side-by-side chairs facing the TV. The remote control remains untouched as we sit.

There are a million things we can talk about, but I decide to cut to the heart of what I really want to know. “What made you so upset this morning?”

Stone tips his head as if considering how to answer. As he dips his fork into some fried rice, he says, “I read the journals all night. Most of the stuff I read was really good. Healing. But at the end, my dad managed to cause my brother to doubt me.” He puts the fork down without taking a bite and swivels his head to me. “It’s something he’d been doing since Brooks was in high school. Trying to pit us against each other. Using me against Brooks to control him. And for the most part, Brooks realized what it was, but in his last entry… he was wondering.”

“No, he wasn’t,” I say, setting my own fork down. My eyes bore into his, so he knows I’m not making this up. “In every conversation I had with him, he loved and trusted you. Did he have a moment where your dad might have cast a little doubt? I can see that. But he and I ate dinner together two nights before he died, and he talked about you. He always talked about you, and it was always with fondness and respect and a desire for things to be better. He was just as lost as you were in how to make it happen, but his loyalty was to you, and not your father.”

Stone soaks in my words, and I can see the yearning in his eyes to believe me.

“I’m not making that up,” I assure him. “I wouldn’t lie to you. If Brooks hated you, I’d break that dreadful news and help you cope. But he wasn’t like that. Not in the slightest.”