Page 113 of Sterling Stone

When Stone opens my door, I’m startled only because I’d been concentrating so hard.

“Cinderella.” He holds out his hand, and I set mine in his to slide off my seat. My legs are still a bit shaky from all the dancing we did, so I say, “I don’t think I can dance any⁠—”

My breath hitches as I catch a glimpse of the truck bed.

“Stone,” I whisper.

The rim of the truck bed, along with the inside edges, are lined with lit candles. A thick blanket is spread down the center with pillows tucked against the storage box near the cab.

Silently, Stone leads me to the tailgate because I’m still too stunned by the setting to speak. He helps me up and follows after me. I slowly spin, taking in the low votives and tall hurricanes, each flame dancing in the slight breeze of the cool evening.

Stone stands behind me. “Take a seat.” His quiet, rugged voice sends additional goosebumps over my skin. Pleasant prickles of excitement.

“It’s so beautiful,” I whisper, afraid to disturb the low flames.

“So are you,” he says.

“Stone.” My breath catches.

He slides his hand down my arm, lowering himself to sit. Gently tugging at my wrist, I follow his lead, folding down beside him, still in awe of my surroundings. The low flickers. The dark sky. The man next to me.

“Where did you have all this?” I question.

Stone has fallen to his back, one hand behind his head, the other on the notch of my waist. He’s taken off his hat and set it on the slim storage box behind his head. He knocks on the box, giving the answer to my question. The box shortens the space, so Stone’s feet stretch onto the tailgate, where he crosses his ankles.

“Come here, baby,” he quietly commands.

Snuggling in next to him, I shiver despite the heat of him.

“Cold?”

“No.” Overwhelmed.

All of this is so unexpected. The night. The dance. Him.

He’s sturdy and kind; confident and sweet. Romantic. Not to mention, a human heater and I cuddle closer, hitching my leg over his.

We remain quiet, both looking up at the stars.

Make a wish, my mama used to say. With thousands of stars, and hundreds of dreams, which star was I supposed to wish on? What dream should I ask for? Wasn’t it a shooting star you wished upon? The ones moving across the sky.

For thousands of years those stars have existed, ever moving but never really falling out of place. Gravity keeps them aligned somehow.

Could Stone be my gravity? Allowing me to still move at my own speed but still have a sun to center myself around?

“Do you know how to read them?” I quietly ask, like I’ll break the silent spell around us, although the night is hardly devoid of noise. The rustle of the tall autumn grass in the breeze. The soft hum of crickets despite the cooling temperature. Even the flickering flames seem to whisper.

“Not as versed as I once was, but I recognize a few.” Stone points toward the sky. “See that one that makes an M or a W.”

I do not see it, but I keep looking.

Always searching.

“That’s Cassiopeia. The seated queen of the heavens.”

I hum in response. The sound of his voice is soothing, even if I don’t see what he sees.

Always chasing.