Page 107 of Sterling Stone

Trudy has become a lot bolder with her compliments, flirting with Stone being a big surprise. Then again, teasing him is too easy, especially when the apples of his cheeks pinken, that warm color spreading to the tips of his ears.

“He sure does look fine. Just like his daddy always did,” Emory states.

Emory’s comment startles me and I glance at Stone, taking in the sudden stiffness in his shoulders. His chin rises a little higher. He doesn’t like the intended compliment, and I understand why in many ways. Stone doesn’t want to be associated with a man who lost his heart and then exorcised that ache on his children.

He’s a forgiving man, but not a forgetting one. He’s better than me on so many levels.

“Mrs. Milton,” he addresses her, polite and contained, like I’ve seen him on occasion. He’s courteous, dipping his hat in acknowledgement, but the edge in his jaw says he’s offering his actions out of propriety, not earned respect. He’s a gentleman, but he isn’t blind to this older woman’s behavior.

Stone leans toward Trudy next, easily offering her a kiss on the cheek, almost like tacking up a sign about the distinction between the two women. One he tolerates, the other he adores.

My heart expands in my chest when I consider how good he’s been to Trudy over the years. Both Stone and Judd have taken care of her, when I should have been more present.

This woman has raised me. What have I done to deserve her? What have I done to show her how important she is to me?

“Now, you know you can call me Emory.” Emory’s voice simpers, cutting into my thoughts. “I’m practically a second mama to you.”

Emory lays her hand on Stone’s forearm, and I see red. A deep crimson color, blinding my vision for a second. Stone’s hand comes to my back, running up my spine and squeezing at my exposed nape. Maybe he’s touching me to steady himself, or hold me back before I pounce on this old lady.

“I was almost your mother-in⁠—”

“Emory Aloysius Milton.” Trudy hisses, shaking her head and tsking. I know that tone. I know that head shake. Trudy is not pleased.

Emory’s hand leaves Stone’s arm and comes to her throat, clutching at a set of pearls.

Pearls? At a barn dance.

“Did you just middle name me?” Emory asks Trudy, like a petulant teen.

Trudy glances at me and rolls her eyes before fixing me with a stare. A warning not to listen to Emory Milton.

I know the truth. Apparently, Emory hasn’t gotten the memo.

To further prove my point, Emory continues. “Emerson is here tonight.” She strains her neck, twisting her head side to side, as if looking for Emerson will make her appear out of thin air.

I return an eye roll to Trudy, while Stone gently tugs me by my nape into his chest.

Again, not certain if I’m shielding him, or he’s toggling me in place before I strangle my aunt’s friend.

“So is half the town,” Trudy grumbles toward Emory.

Those two really do play off each other, like some poorly written comedy act.

“Yes, but Emerson and Stone are⁠—”

“Just friends,” Stone interjects over Emory, his tone suggesting he’s done with this charade. Authority rings in that quiet tenor, enough that Emory straightens and Trudy fights a smile. I lift my drink, taking another sip to disguise my own grin.

He squeezes the back of my neck. “Now, ladies, if you’ll excuse me. I’m going to dance with my date again.”

The gentle pressure on my nape has me turning my head and looking up at him, meeting the sparkle in his blue eyes and the soft curl of his mouth.

His date. That’s me. Prettiest girl in the room, he said. Everything he’s waited for.

We leave our drinks on the bar as Stone takes my hand and leads me back to the dance floor. He’s still a little stiff, tense maybe.

“You okay?” I ask him.

He glances down at me. With his arm around my back and his hand holding mine near his chest, we mirror the position we once had back in Tennessee.