Stone (Pittsburgh Titans 2)

Taking the guy in up close, I note that he isn’t merely handsome but devastatingly gorgeous. I hadn’t really paid much attention to it when he was sitting over at the bar, but now that he’s in my face, I can’t help but notice that his looks are movie-star quality.

I glance around and notice that several women are watching him talk to me.

I bring my attention back to him, offering a polite smile. “I’m with someone, so it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

The man smirks and looks around, back to me, and quips, “I don’t see anybody with you.”

No matter how good-looking, his cocky attitude has now annoyed me. I don’t like people who can’t take no for an answer. Stone’s father immediately comes to mind. Someone with so much ego that they can’t believe someone would have a differing opinion.

The man sticks his hand out for me to shake. “I’m Trevor.”

I look from his hand to him, prepared to decline his introduction a little more sternly. I don’t get a chance, though, because Stone appears on my other side and moves in close to me. He kisses my cheek and then puts his elbow on the table to look past me to the man who still has his hand outstretched.

Stone nods down at it. “Pretty sure she’s not interested in meeting you.”

The guy’s mouth falls open as recognition dawns. “Holy shit. You’re Stone Dumelin.”

“That would be me.” Tipping his head to me, Stone adds, “And this would be my girlfriend you’re hitting on.”

The man flushes with embarrassment, and I almost feel bad for him. Stone apparently does feel bad for him because he takes the man’s hand, still stuck out in introduction, and shakes it. “Nice to meet you, Trevor. Did you catch the game?”

The guy gushes. “I did, and you were fucking amazing tonight. You are the best acquisition this team could’ve gotten.”

Trevor continues gushing while I enjoy the warmth left behind by Stone calling me his girlfriend. There are accolades for Stone, and for Gage as well, laments that Coen isn’t playing up to par, and absolute thrills to the fans that we might make the playoffs.

But Stone doesn’t let him go on too long. “Hey… you want a picture or an autograph or something? I’d like to have some time with my girl.”

The man, of course, has forgotten me altogether. His evening has become far better getting to meet Stone than I ever could’ve made it by accepting his offer of a drink. I watch in amusement as Trevor whips out his phone, comes around the table, and takes a selfie with Stone. This, unfortunately, springs the door wide open, and other fans start approaching. Stone graciously takes picture after picture.

The waitress comes up and asks me if I know what Stone wants to drink.

“Just a water,” I reply. “With lemon.”

It will do me no good to ask Stone if he wants a beer, which I know is his go-to alcoholic beverage just through conversations we’ve had. Over the last few weeks we’ve been hanging out, he’s laid down the law that he’s not drinking around me, even though I’ve assured him it’s okay. I think it’s sweet that he wants to be supportive of me and my alcoholism, but I also don’t expect people to give up their responsible use of alcohol.

Ten minutes later, Stone finally extricates himself and plops down on the stool next to me. The water is in place, and he grabs it for a sip before setting it down.

Gaze coming to me, he grins broadly. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I beam back before doing a little gushing of my own. “Words cannot describe how amazing you were tonight. I’m really proud of you.”

Stone’s gaze softens, and his hand goes behind my neck, almost pulling me off my stool so he can kiss me. It’s soft, and sweet, and it makes everyone in this place melt away until it’s just us two.

“That’s new,” Gage says as he comes up to the table.

Stone pulls back slowly and reaches out to take my hand, holding it on top of the table—a public display that the nature of our relationship has changed.

Gage has hung out with us a few times after games. But he has only ever known me as Stone’s friend. He also knows me as Brooks’s closest friend.

Now he sees that we’re different.

He gives Stone, then me, a pointed look. “I was going to join you, but it looks like I might be a third wheel.”

“Of course you’re not a third wheel,” I exclaim, and I nod toward an empty stool.

“You’re totally a third wheel,” Stone grumbles, but he’s teasing. Gage knows it and takes the stool, resting his forearms on the table.

He lasers his eyes onto Stone. “I don’t know what brand of Wheaties you fucking ate this morning, but that was some of the best hockey I’ve seen in my career.”