Page 38 of Sterling Stone

“Anyway. Stone is just a really great guy.” She chuckles. “Well, he’s more like a good man. There’s a difference.”

Strangely, I know what she means. Some guys are just guys. Fun to be around, great for a good time, easy to hang with. But a man . . . he’s different. He’s sturdy and confident, compassionate and playful. He isn’t just a good time but a rock when things go bad.

The day has been full of surprising bursts of information, like a firework dangling overhead before disappearing into the dark.

Stone had been engaged. Stone lost his best friend. There’d been mention of both his parents being dead. He’d raised his siblings.

And another plot twist, he’s the town sheriff.

I guess I knew this information as well, but had somehow placed it aside in my mind, blocking anything that involves law enforcement. My relationship with the law leans toward a distrust of the system. A lack of enforcement resulted in a loss of faith in them.

But those thoughts are heavy for a brain already weighed down by the other things I’ve learned about Stone Sylver as I’ve observed him throughout the day.

He loves his family, first and foremost. You can see it in the subtle smiles he gives to them, or without them noticing. When he dips his eyes, but curls his lips, at something they said, either to tease him or each other.

He has grace for those who have done him wrong, as I’ve surmised from the snippets I’ve gathered about Cortland Haven and Stone’s past friendship. The loss of that relationship. And the patience he’s offering his sister, who is so obviously in love with his former best friend.

Stone is also kind. He doted on Trudy and Mary throughout the day, even giving in to their slightly tipsy behavior, letting them tease him about how handsome he’s become and what a fine partner he’d make for any woman.

There was even a jab or two about Emerson Milton and her loss. How she was a fool when it came to him.

And all these tidbits had me questioning myself even more.

I’m not staying.

But—for hypothetical sake—what would it feel like to be involved with a man like him? A man who cherishes family, lets two old ladies flirt with him, and offers gentle tolerance to a complex situation. A man with a beautiful home and a steady job, albeit that employment conflicts with something deep-seated inside me.

That last one might be the hardest to overcome, and I weakly use it as another excuse not to get involved with Stone Sylver.

I’m not staying.

My what-if scenarios are as devoid as a spent firework.

Shortly after the finale of the celebration in the sky, everyone starts packing up. Blankets are folded. Chairs collapsed. Trash picked up. Exhausted little ones have fallen asleep.

Eventually, with Trudy’s arm looped in mine, I assist her to the car, which she’ll need to drive because I’ve had an extra Mary-Haven-lemonade my mixed-up emotions didn’t need.

Simon climbs into the back seat.

As I hold open the driver’s door for Aunt Trudy, an electric ripple crackles down my spine. The sensation rivals the firework show and has me standing straighter, hyperaware of his approach before Stone reaches the side of the car.

“I want to thank you all for coming.” His voice is low, quiet and rugged, and I close my eyes for a moment, allowing the sound to wash over me, imprinting itself.

How would he speak if he were over me? Under me?

I shake the thought and spin toward him. Trudy gives Stone another easy hug before slipping into the driver’s seat, leaving us alone.

Stone and I face off. His eyes are on me in a way that’s steady, assessing, almost measuring, but there’s heat in those soft blues, barely contained, and easily discernible, even in the pale moonlight. His jaw tightens, shoulders broad and still, a quiet tension in his stance that makes my stomach twist.

My pulse spikes and I realize I’m pressing my weight slightly forward, wanting on . . . what? To see him better? To challenge him? My fingers twitch against my leg, and I can’t prevent the faint heat creeping up my neck.

Eventually, he holds out his hand. The movement is stiff, business-like, controlled.

“Taxi.” He pauses on my name, and anticipation builds, stealing my breath as if I’m hopeful of what he’ll say without knowing what I want that hope to mean.

“It’s been a pleasure,” he finally adds, but his eyes tell a different story.

“Same,” I say, forcing my hand to meet his. His skin is warm and firm, and the contact sets additional sparks through me. My knees feel oddly weak, but I plant my feet. Conflict rises like a tide. I don’t regret his touch. I want more. My mind protests, but my body betrays me, leaning slightly closer even as I try to remain aloof.