Page 6 of Sterling Stone

I can appreciate a gentleman, and I accept his brush off of my offer, but I’m also slightly irritated, which makes no sense.

He orders a beer for himself.

“So, a mama’s man,” I say, hoping to keep him talking. He has a nice voice. Rugged but soothing, soft almost, like smoothing out a crumpled piece of paper.

“Once upon a time,” he says before taking a drink of his beer and setting it on the counter. His attention returns to me, giving me those summer-sky eyes again.

“What about you? Mama’s girl or daddy’s?”

I chuckle, the sound instantly bitter. “Neither.” You can’t be a daddy’s girl when you don’t know the man, and as for my mama, well, she’d been absent since my formative years.

“You’re from outer space, aren’t you?” He leans forward like he doesn’t want everyone else to know my secret.

I laugh. “Exactly. Traveling from lands far, far away, as aliens do.”

The curve of his mouth curls higher, emphasizing the silver around those lips of his. Lips that look puffy and soft and ripe for kissing.

Nope. Stop it.

He chuckles as well, causing his eyes to flare. “Must be nice.” The words are dull, like he hasn’t been anywhere special.

“You from Tennessee?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Just visiting.”

I can appreciate a person keeping things tight to the chest, but his answer is so vague, I’m wondering if he’s from outer space.

It doesn’t matter either way. I don’t need his street address. I don’t even need his name.

“Well, Samson. Here’s to landing in Knoxville.” I lift my glass and tap the long neck of his beer bottle, then take a sip of my drink.

He raises his beer to salute me, pokes the corner of his mouth higher, and takes a short swig. “Greetings. What brought you to this illustrious mountain town?”

“Traveling artist.” I’m not a fan of small talk or background-seeking chatter, yet I don’t mind with him. “I’ve been commissioned to paint a mural.”

His brows rise with interest. “Tell me more.”

Truth? I’ve seen the glazed-over look of someone asking for details about my art only to not really care about my passion. But this guy looks truly curious, especially when he keeps his focus on my face.

“I’ve been hired by a local urban outreach organization to paint the side of a community center.”

“Side?” he questions.

“The outside. Like a brick wall.” I wave my hand up and down as if emphasizing the exterior of a building.

His eyes scan down my seated form. “Just you? Alone?”

“Meaning?” I arch a brow at him. Is he questioning my ability?

“I just mean, painting a single wall in my house seems like a daunting project. How do you envision something on such a large scale?”

I’m almost puzzled by the question when I know the answer. I hesitate even to give him my explanation, but the longer he stares at me, waiting on something without those eyes turning to a shield of disinterest, my mouth finally finds the words, and I explain the details, almost painting a picture for him of the initial mock designs, scaling proportions, and software I use to help map everything.

“I like to hand-draw it first, then use technology as a tool,” I admit.

And the entire time I talk, he watches me, his eyes sharp, attentive, patient. He asks questions that make me realize he’s really listening, not just waiting for a pause to speak.

He leans in, forearm on the counter, knees still bracketed around mine, like he’s forming a cocoon around us and I’m the center of his attention. His head inclines. His gaze doesn’t wander. It’s intoxicating to the point I consider coming out of hibernation just for him. Handsome, enigmatic, controlled, and yet entirely present. The sensation is unnerving, but in a way that makes my pulse quicken.