Page 4 of Sterling Stone

Could he have out-of-this-world powers, or was I just too lost in the fantasy of my book?

Daddy Dom Alien Invasion.

Don’t judge. I’m in an extraterrestrial phase. Aliens appear better than humans most days.

And my little close encounter with a rugged man in a hotel hallway feels like something outside this realm.

His eyes were Montana-sky blue, soft and kind, and that mostly silver color cascading through his once-dark hair . . . mm-mm-mm. I chew my lower lip even harder, wondering if my next reading kink should involve a sexy silver fox.

At forty-three, most men in my age group are starting to gray in some manner, but this man took plain gray to stunning sterling.

As an artist, I’m hyperaware of the difference in colors.

I’m in Knoxville for a short-term assignment. Another wall mural to celebrate a diverse community. I’m excited about the upcoming project.

What I’m not excited about is the short-term housing in a hotel. For the most part, I live out of my VW van, but Gloria, as I’ve affectionately named the motorized love of my life, is on the fritz. So, while she’s in the auto-mechanic hospital, I’m stuck in a random hotel.

As an accomplished urban artist, I’ve been all over the United States, using the world as my muse. My art is considered abstract, raw and edgy, and I embrace the communities I visit, immersing myself in them, exploring their residents, the neighborhood, the culture of their community. Of course, art doesn’t always pay for a tank of gas, so I sometimes take side gigs in a new town as a waitress, a desk clerk, even a postal worker once. Anywhere I can meet people, observe others, get inspired by those different than me, I do it.

And the last place I want to enter is my hotel room, alone.

I consider myself a free spirit, which means I’m open to last-minute hookups and one-night stands. However, I’m on a random dude diet lately. As in, I’ve cut them out of my daily menu, finding them bad for my health. My appetite has been spoiled a little too often, and I told myself I’d do better. Be better.

I’m not watching my weight. I embrace my subtle curves. I’m looking out for my heart.

So as tempting as Mr. Tall, Sexy, and Silver was, I push against the pull to turn around and ask him if he’d like to join me for a drink.

Instead, I settle into my room, finish reading about alien invasions and domineering dudes, only to find I’m a little turned on and a lot antsy by the end. Artists keep odd hours, they say, so I head to a local barbecue bar in hopes of settling the itch inside me.

Knoxville is a beautiful city, especially down by the river, which reminds me of a place I once lived. The only place I considered a home, as much as my wandering heart can claim a base. I’ve always been restless, eager to move onward, but part of that jitter comes from never feeling secure in one place. A deep-seated fear lives inside me. One afraid of being plucked from a spot if I grew too comfortable and established roots.

As a child, my two sisters and I were dragged all over by our mother. An adventure, she called every new location. And every new man she was chasing.

I never wanted to be a chaser. At least, not of men.

Shaking off thoughts of my mama, I take a seat at the bar, noting my surroundings. The thick, wooden slab coated in layers of varnish with metal pipe accents gives a country-meets-industrial vibe to the place. My toes tap along with the country music blaring overhead, and I give a nod to the bartender.

Bartenders can be your best friend or the perfect partner for one night, but my man-diet whispers in my ear, so I order a liquid dinner and dessert instead.

“I’ll have the pomegranate margarita, please. And a sweet potato cupcake sounds amazing.” I haven’t had one of these Tennessee favorites in years.

As I wait for my order, a man takes a seat to my immediate left, pushing his stool a little too close to mine when there is vacant space on the other side of him. He instantly glances my way and innocently asks, “Oh, this seat wasn’t taken, was it?”

He’s cocksure that the seat was available, and despite him being relatively good-looking, I’m already over his approach.

While I’ve been trying to protect my heart, my vagina has been on a long hiatus, and she wants a snack. The silver fox from earlier has been on my mind a little too much in the past two hours, merging an alien daddy into that tall sip of water whose large hands looked like they knew how to handle a woman.

His presence said commanding but somehow gentle. He released me instantly, almost like he knew he’d made me anxious at first. I didn’t miss him slipping his hands in his pockets like a tender nod to say, I’m not here to harm you. But it might have been his smile that relaxed me the most. The crook of his mouth. The shift of his thick mustache. His smile was like a secret he rarely shared.

And he’d given it to me.

“I’m waiting on someone.” The truth is buried deep within that statement.

I don’t need a man, but I want one. That blue to my red that makes purple. A brick where I’m sand. A breeze that won’t blow me away but collect the seeds of me. An everlasting love, like my Aunt Trudy had with Uncle Carlton.

“Sure he’s still showing, sugar?” He clicks his tongue against his teeth, like he knows I’m lying.

“Sure as I’m sitting here,” I mumble, giving the bartender a glance when he plops my fruity margarita in front of me.