Page 5 of Sterling Stone

Getting hit on in public is like the pages in a book. On the even number, it can be a flattering experience, and if I’m in the right frame of mind, innocent flirtations that lead to mindless fucking is not outside of my boundaries. On the odd pages, my body language might say don’t come near me, as it presently reads, don’t think it’s okay to try flipping my pages, so to speak.

Tonight, the book is closed.

A waitress approaches from behind me and sets my dessert in front of me. The sweet potato cupcake is piled high with cream cheese frosting.

The man beside me tries again. “Some sugar for the brown sugar.”

I stiffen, my jaw tightening. The term brown sugar is written into lyrics and waxed poetically as a compliment at times, but in this case, silence pours between us, allowing the air to chill, the words ash between us.

“I’m sweet enough already,” I say lightly, but the cool undertone gives him a puzzled expression. I shift on my stool, deliberately angling my body away from him and roll my eyes.

While taking a sip of my drink, the stool on my right side is dragged against the hardwood floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a man in a dark suit taking a seat. At least on this side of me, it’s the only seat available.

Here we go again.

Then I do a double-take.

“There you are,” I say a little too loudly, like I’ve been expecting a blind date. I shift on my stool, giving the man to my left my back. “Samson, right?”

The name pops out of thin air.

To my utter surprise, and strange relief, the Hallway Hottie from earlier gives me a questioning look before glancing over my head.

When his eyes meet mine again, he focuses on me and that strange warm sensation drips over me again. This time, it’s a smooth honey-brown color, sticky and sweet, and thankfully playing along with my charade.

“Samson, it is.”

I tilt my head, implying the man behind me. “Alien intruder.”

“Ah.” He lifts one brow, glancing around me again. “But I thought aliens were your thing.”

I chuckle softly at the reminder of the book I finished reading before coming here and the fact he remembers the title. He read that passage earlier in a quiet but rugged voice that whispered through my head the remainder of my reading.

And I briefly wonder what he’d sound like whispering sweet things and sexy commands while over me.

“Need me to arrest someone?” He shifts on his stool, bracketing mine with the spread of his knees. His hand comes to the back of my chair, caging me in, and yet I don’t feel threatened. More like protected. The tone of his voice suggested he might not be joking about arresting someone, and a slight shiver runs down my spine, but I ignore the chill.

Instead, I will my thoughts away from those thick thighs and ignore the temptation to wonder what a man his size might be packing beneath those slacks.

I’m not really a suit and tie kind of gal, and while this guy doesn’t scream millionaire, he does give off a professional vibe.

Still, he’s doing me a solid here by pretending to be the man I was waiting on.

Behind me, the stool scrapes angrily against the wooden floor. As the seat-confiscator steps away from the bar, I don’t bother glancing in his direction.

Samson doesn’t take his eyes off me, and eventually says, “All clear.”

He leans away from me, removing his hand from the back of my seat, and a sense of disappointment blooms with his retreat. I try to shake off the unsettling sensation, but then my nose twitches, catching a whiff of something outdoorsy and fresh about him that lingers between us.

“Let me get your drink,” I boldly offer. He did just play my hero.

“Don’t worry about it.” His smile is kind, but it doesn’t reach his eyes as it did earlier. The lack of a grin is almost as mysterious as the crooked one he gave me in the hallway.

Stop analyzing his smile. Or lack thereof, Taxi. I mentally double pat my cheeks, like the slap will force some sense into me.

“I insist,” I demand.

He tilts his head and tips a brow. “My mama would never forgive me.”