Page 17 of Just This Once (Stone Family #2)

Dante

The apartment above her house is one room with appliances that are older than I am, but in relatively good condition.

Big windows span the entire front wall, so I can’t beat the sunshine in the morning.

Although, when I have the time, I’m gonna see what I can do about those wooden shutters that have obviously been painted over multiple times.

I’ve been living here for a few days, and I’m trying my damnedest to be the perfect tenant for Taryn. I’ve been careful about moving around at night, not wanting to disturb her, and I have a reminder on the fridge for the garbage and recycling nights. Can’t have my new landlady thinking I’m a slob.

So far, we haven’t seen much of each other at home, even though I ran into her son yesterday. Jake seems like the average fifteen-year-old, and he was in a rush to get out of the house, so we didn’t exchange much more than a hello.

The Nest is coming along well, and with only about a month left, we’re on target to finish for the holiday season.

Taryn appears to be happy with it, and that’s all I care about.

Now, if only I could get some alone time with her.

Since I’ve been proving how professional I can be, I’d like to show her how professionally unprofessional I can be.

Which is why I leap off the beat-up futon near the windows when I hear a car door slam.

By now, I know the way Taryn Stone closes a car door.

Like she doesn’t have time to deal with its shit today.

Smiling, I watch as she opens her trunk, and I take note of some boxes, so I throw on my sneakers and a coat and head on down to the sidewalk.

“Hey.” When she glances at me, muscling a big-ass crate, I reach for it. “Let me help.”

“I’m fine.” She blows a puff of air out of her lips, aiming up to get the wayward lock of hair out of her face, but when it doesn’t budge, I tuck it behind her ear.

“Are you sure?”

The ponytail on the top of her head is barely hanging on, and from the way she’s hunched, I don’t think she’ll be able to handle the weight much longer.

“Yes,” she says stubbornly. “I got it.” Though the thump and clank of whatever is in those crates doesn’t sound very encouraging.

I don’t wait. I go for the other crate, and it is pretty heavy. “Whaddya got in here? Bricks?”

She shuts the trunk, hits the fob to lock the doors, and shakes out her arms, readying to pick up her box up from the ground. Then she squats and lifts with her legs. Good girl. “My pottery.”

“Your pottery? Like pottery you bought? ”

“Pottery I make.”

“Oh, no shit?”

She tips her head, a silent order to follow her.

As if I’d dare to do anything different.

She leads me up to her porch and unlocks her front door, where Frankie greets us happily.

I set down the pottery then kneel to accept his kisses, nuzzling my face into his neck.

“You remember me? Yeah? I remember you. Yes, I do. Yes, I do. Are we gonna be friends? You gonna hang out with me?”

“No,” Taryn answers for him, hanging her purse and coat in the closet, but I ignore her.

“Yes, we are. We’re gonna be good friends. And you can play with Tortellini. You guys are gonna be buds. I know it.”

“Tell me Tortellini is a sentient being and not a piece of pasta you speak about like it’s alive.”

God, I love her. “Tortellini is my tortoise. He’s the best. Super fun.”

“Your turtle…is super fun?”

“Tortoise. And yes. I made him a little skateboard, and he loves to scoot around. He’s got a lot of energy, actually.”

She narrows her eyes in suspicion. “I…have so many questions.”

I grin. “And I’d love to answer them for you.”

She shakes her head. “No. I am sure it would only make me like you more, and I don’t want to do that.”

I grin even wider. “Aw, babe. You going soft on me?”

“Absolutely not.” She snaps her fingers. “Get the box.”

“Yes, ma’am.” But when I don’t hear anyone else in the house, I ask, “Where are the kids?”

“With their dad.”

“So, you’re all alone?” I take the time to observe more of her house now than I did when I was here weeks ago since my attention had been pretty much focused on one thing.

Now, I let my gaze coast around at the framed photos of her children, the random collection of what I think are I Love Lucy knickknacks all over the place, the clean yet haphazard space of a home that is used well and full of love.

“I’m gonna need you to stop that line of thinking right there,” Taryn says, forcing my eyes to her then down to her ass in a pair of leggings.

“You don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Yes, I do. You were about to try to talk me into having sex with you.”

I gasp. “You scandalize me! I was going to ask if you wanted to play Monopoly.”

She sniffs an impatient sound as she uses her hip to nudge open the door to the basement then hits the light with her elbow.

Literally, she would rather break an ankle falling down these steps, carrying a box, than she would ask for help.

When I finally get downstairs, I find it a real mess.

It’s cluttered with toys that I doubt teenagers would play with, laundry all over the place, sports equipment, and in the middle of it all, a setup for pottery.

A table, wheel, stool, and bins of…stuff.

The plastic tubs are labeled with “mail” and “clay” and “paint” and “sponges.”

“So, you do pottery.”

“Yeah. I have a small online shop.”

I make a circuit of her setup, noting what I assume are completed pieces—a few vases, coffee mugs, matching plates and cups, a really big bowl that my mother would love to have for Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve, and a cute little ceramic Christmas tree.

“Taryn…” I turn to her. “You’re really talented. ”

She ignores me and opens one of the crates, beginning to pull out her art, but it’s easy to see she doesn’t have much room to work with everything else she’s got going on .

“You make it all down here?”

She nods. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

Until now. “Can you walk me through the process?”

She freezes with her hands in midair, halfway to the box to take out another ceramic dish. “You want to know how to make pottery?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

Her voice is high and squeaky, and I’m not sure why she’s so surprised. “Well, I don’t want to do it. I just want to know how you do it.”

“Oh…kay.” She proceeds to explain how she throws her pieces on the wheel first, letting them set up to dry before adding decorative elements.

She shows me where she stores her clay and the different tools she uses to cut and shape the pieces.

As she talks about it all, I can tell she loves it by how confident and animated she is, more than I’ve ever seen her.

“Do you fire everything here too?” I ask, using the opportunity of moving the now-empty crates to step closer to her.

“No. I take them to a studio downtown that has a kiln. It’s the only way I can get them properly fired.”

This woman is seriously talented. And doing it all in a cluttered basement? Even more impressive. “How long have you been doing this?”

Taryn thinks for a moment, her dark-chocolate eyes focused on some point in her mind as her bittersweet mouth purses. “I’ve always liked to draw and paint, and I loved art in high school. In college, I minored in it and fell in love with pottery. I love using my hands to make something beautiful.”

It’s so hard not to wrap my fingers around her neck and taste those lips of hers, swallow her words, pull her love and energy into my body, and keep all her dreams safe. That’s what I want for her. From her .

“I understand that,” I rasp, unable to be anything other than myself at this moment. A man at her feet. Mesmerized. Beholden. “I love seeing something old and making it new again or having nothing and suddenly…something.”

She slants her face toward mine, and she must have been chewing on candy at some point because her breath is sweet as it gently wafts across my mouth, warm and inviting.

It would be nothing to close the last inch between us, but I want her to come to me.

To offer what I want so badly, I feel it in my bones.

“I guess we’re both creators,” she says quietly, and I fist my hands at my sides, forcing myself to take a step back from her, putting a foot of space between us.

Then another, two feet. Three feet. Until I can no longer feel the warmth of her body, smell the candy flavor on her tongue.

Tempt me to do something I know she wouldn’t like.

My woman needs to make all the decisions on her own time.

I blink a few times to clear my head. “So, you said you have a shop?”

She stares down at her feet, as if she’s working through a fog too.

“Uh, yeah. When… When I was married, I, um…” She clears her throat before lifting her gaze to me, and I can physically see her put on her metaphorical armor.

The change in her body is immediate. How she tips her chin, sets her shoulders like she’s readying for combat.

“When I was married, I did it as a hobby. It was something I did for myself when I didn’t have much that was mine.

I still do it for myself now, but I also make money from it that is only mine. ”

My breath leaves my lungs in a rush. My beautiful warrior.

I can’t begin to guess what she’s been through, but I will make sure the way forward is paved in gold from here on out. She won’t need to fight for anything.

“I know you don’t need to hear this because you already know, but you are incredible.”

Her cheeks redden as she shakes her head slightly.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Anyone can make an okay-looking ceramic dish. Even preschoolers.”

“Yours are more than okay-looking, and it isn’t only your pottery.

It’s everything. Everything you do, everything you are.

You’re incredible, and I am truly sorry because it seems like I was wrong.

You do need to hear it. You haven’t heard it enough.

” I lick my lips, reaching for her shoulders even though I know it’s a bad idea.

“You are wildly talented and smart and so interesting that I look forward to what new fact I can learn about you every day. I’m sorry for whatever has happened in your past, but you have to know…

You are more than a mother or an artist or a badass businesswoman—you are fucking remarkable. Truly.”

Her eyes water like she doesn’t know exactly how special she is, and I have the sudden urge to hammer something.

Instead, I tighten my hold on her and bend, pulling her close, barely a sliver of daylight between her lips and mine.

Every second, every millimeter of space between us is too much, but then she goes and whispers two heart-achingly soft words, vulnerability pouring out like water from a broken levee. “Thank you.”

I hate it.

I hate whoever made her believe she isn’t wonderful and perfect.

I hate every minute that she second-guesses herself.

I hate that she’d accept an organ before she’d accept a compliment, and unfortunately for both of us, I’ve got more compliments than I do organs. But I’d happily hand over the one rattling around in my chest right now .

I settle for kissing her cheek instead of her mouth then back away, fingers tingling with the need to return to her. Even my nerves know what I think my heart has known since I first laid eyes on her.

That I was meant to be with her.

That one , my heart said.

That one , my head agreed days later when the universe granted me another chance.

That one , my blood tells me now, rushing thick and fast through my veins, urging me back to her.

And all I can do is try to calm myself. Soon. Hopefully, soon, she’ll be mine.

“Thanks for letting me in on your workspace.”

She blinks away any lingering emotion and nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work?”

I wink. “Mm-hmm. Yep.”