Page 31 of Just This Once (Stone Family #2)

Taryn

T his isn’t a date.

Number one, because I said so.

And number two, because I’m wearing my frumpiest sweater.

So, it’s definitely not a date.

But Dante is refusing to accept that it is not.

He kept putting his hand on my lower back as we walked from the parking lot to the auditorium and then while we waited in line to show our tickets, and now he sits on the other side of Maddie, with his arm on the back of her chair, his knuckles brushing my shoulder.

During intermission, he took Jake with him to buy a round of waters and snacks for us, even though I told him I didn’t want any, and then he refused to accept money for my kids’ food. Like a gentleman.

What an asshole.

Maddie’s attention has been glued to the stage for the last hour, but every once in a while, Dante ducks down, whispering something in her ear that earns a snicker or whispered response. Because they’re good buddies.

And Jake? I can’t even believe he’s here. Even though he clearly hates it and is slouched so far down in his chair, I can barely see his head, he’s spending the day with us because of Dante. Because Jake has begun to look up to the man.

I am outnumbered.

And out of excuses.

It was easy to cling to my anger and jealousy yesterday, when I saw Dante and his shrew of an ex hanging all over him, but today, there is nothing to keep me anchored to earth. Nothing to keep my heart tethered.

That dumb organ is off floating on cloud nine.

To say nothing of my sex drive.

I hoped by wearing the thick cream sweater and wide-leg pants, I’d be able to prevent Dante’s constant horndog eyes.

But any time I catch his gaze, I can practically see the movie in his head.

The visions flickering of me on my knees in the kitchen.

Bent over in the shed. Splayed out between his legs in my bed.

He’s replaying it all in his mind.

So am I.

I can’t help it.

Especially when he wraps a lock of my hair around his index finger, tugging gently.

Makes me think of our first night together.

Strip.

Get on top of me.

Feed me your tits.

I don’t realize the ballet is over until everyone around me stands in an ovation. I jump up to follow suit, although I haven’t actually watched anything since the dancers in the candy-cane-striped costumes left the stage .

Dante tosses a knowing grin at me, and I barely restrain myself from flipping him the bird.

The audacity of being hot and charming.

After the show, he ushers us all out of the theater like a mother duck and her chicks to the Christmas market downtown.

It’s a cold but clear day, the blue sky just starting to bleed into orange as the sun sets.

The market is only a few blocks and Dante entertains us on the way by talking about which bits of the ballet he enjoyed most and that he could “totally hit that triple axel jump that guy did.”

Jake dares him to, and he takes a running leap into the air only to do half a spin, but he lands with a flourish that sends Maddie into a fit of giggles.

I dip my chin down, tucking my mouth behind the collar of my coat, so he can’t see me smiling when he comes to my side, asking, “Did you see that?”

“ So impressive.”

“Yeah. I thought you’d like that.” He curls his hand around the side of his mouth, shouting to Jake, who’s performing his own jump spin. “Hey, you gotta get better height. Come on!” Then he shoots me a wink before sprinting ahead to complete a 180 this time.

Sighing up at the sky, I let a laugh loose. Whoever is up there really did break the mold with Dante Moretti.

And I would never want him any other way.

The market is set up every weekend in December on Aster Street with wreaths on lampposts, lights strung across storefronts, and booths set up in the cordoned-off street, selling wares from the local vendors.

We stop to say hello to Ian at his shop, where Dante spends a few minutes looking over my brother’s art pieces framed and hung up on the walls as they chat about tattoos.

Dante has two. One on his forearm, with a cross and rays of sun behind it, and another above his collarbone with Roman numerals for his birth year .

As if I need a reminder that he is so much younger than me.

“Nice seeing you again,” Dante says, clasping hands with my brother, who flicks his gaze to me in silent communication.

One that means he knows something is going on between us.

Because, first, I invited Dante over for Thanksgiving, and now, we’re out with the kids. On something that probably appears very much like a date to an outsider.

Even though it is not a date.

We are not dating.

We’re hooking up. That’s it.

“You can fill us in when we get coffee,” my brother says when I offer him a quick hug goodbye.

“No, I won’t be doing that. ’Kay, thanks. Byyeeeee.”

We move on toward the hot chocolate stand as Jake whines that he’s hungry. What’s new? Dante throws his arm around my son’s shoulders. “Let’s go find something. We’ll give the girls some time alone.”

Jake nods, and Dante swings his gaze to me, making sure it’s okay. “We’ll meet back up here in thirty minutes?” I ask, and when the boys agree, they take off to the other end of the block where a band is playing and someone is grilling something. I turn to Maddie. “What are you hungry for?”

She points back to a small food truck. “Crepes.”

“Yes. Good call.”

We order a ham and Gruyère along with one that has cinnamon apple compote and caramel drizzle and share them at a small table, where I ask casually, “So, what do you think of Dante?”

“Love him,” she says without a second’s hesitation. “He’s so funny and really nice. Like, would trust him to stand guard outside of the porta-potty at a concert nice, you know?”

I bite back a laugh. I took my daughter to one Olivia Rodrigo concert last summer, and you’d think she’d been to Woodstock with all her new, worldly knowledge. But I have to agree with her. Dante is nice. Too nice.

For me, at least.

I’m mean and prickly and don’t deserve him standing guard in some theoretical scenario where I have to pee in a broken porta-potty, and he’s outside of it holding my purse and keeping the door closed.

Because he would do all that and more.

He’s the type of guy who puts you on his shoulders without asking. Who makes friendship bracelets and acts as DD. He’s the one guy to trust at a bar to get you home safe. The late-night call you make when you need help.

He is everything “nice” guys pretend to be and looks like what every man behind a social media avatar image wishes he could.

“Do you like him?” Maddie asks, and I give her a slight nod. She tips her head to the side. “ Like him, like him?”

I narrow my eyes. She’s too smart. “Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know.” She carefully scrapes up the last of the caramel from the plate with the final bite of the sweet crepe. “He’s around all the time, and I think he likes you. Like likes you, I mean.”

“Oh. Hmm.”

She watches me as she chews, and I suppose she’s getting to the age where we can start having conversations on the same level. The kinds of conversations I used to have with my mother. About what it means to be a woman and share in the communal experience of it sucking a lot of the time.

My time with Dante doesn’t suck.

“Yeah, I like him,” I tell her honestly. “But we’re just friends. We’re going to stay friends. ”

She toggles her head side to side. “Sometimes friends turn into lovers.”

“How do you know that?”

“I read romance books,” she says, as if it should be obvious.

Neither one of my kids reads a lot , but Maddie enjoys a good shopping spree for paperbacks that will stay in the same tower next to her bed for the whole year until she spends two weeks over summer break obsessively reading. Only to start the routine over again.

“Is there sex in those books?”

“Not in all of them, and the ones that do have it don’t have a lot.”

I gather up our garbage to throw away. “I don’t know what a lot is, but you know that’s fiction, right? If you have questions about sex, you need to ask me.”

“I know.” She follows me up from the table with a smile.

My mother let all of us kids read whatever whenever we wanted, and I don’t police what my kids read either.

Maddie’s thirteen, and when I was thirteen, I read Flowers in the Attic on my own and Flowers for Algernon for school, arguably both just as traumatic.

So, if she wants to read romance with sex, I’m going to let her.

As long as she continues to communicate with me.

“Ooh, can we go look at that jewelry?”

I trail her to the booth with the handcrafted pendants and necklaces, where we bump into Marianne and Clara.

My best friend frowns. “You didn’t tell me you were coming out.”

Marianne and I regularly update each other with our schedules. Daily check-ins and mental health updates. On the struggle bus today. Gotta stay late at work. Or I’m going to murder my ex-husband. Prepare bail money.

After all these years, we can pretty much guess what’s going on with each other, so for me not to tell her I was going to be here is a red flag.

Maddie fills in the missing information. “Dante got us tickets to The Nutcracker .”

“Did he?” Clara crows with a knowing grin in my direction. “How nice.”

Marianne tips her head toward me. “So that’s a thing, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Definitely yes.”

I shake my head.

She nods.

Clara claps like Snow White when she’s listening to the dwarfs sing. Utterly enchanted.

Maddie glances between us before slinking away to check out the rings.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Clara slaps my arm. “I knew it!”

“You did not.”

“I knew you’d be good for each other.”

“We are not good for each other.”

Clara heaves a sigh. “Why are you so obstinate? Can’t you see how well you complement each other?”

“So?”

Marianne buts in then. “I do feel like you’re fighting this extra hard.”

“Because nothing’s going on.” When they both glare at me, I lose my temper. “It’s just sex!”

A few people shoot their attention to me at my outburst, and I lower my voice. “It’s just sex.”

“And yet you’re here on a date,” Marianne says, and I knock her elbow.

“Why are you pushing me on this? ”

“Because you’re self-sabotaging.”

I wrench back, jaw hanging open, huffing perturbed puffs of air. And yet no words exit my mouth.

“What’s holding you back?” my best friend asks, her head angled in that way she does whenever she’s breaking down a problem.

“He’s twelve years younger than me.”

Marianne blinks wide eyes at me while pointing to her wife. They have the exact age difference that Dante and I have, and it’s worked out pretty well for them.

“You don’t think he’s mature enough?” Clara guesses, and I shake my head.

I’m the older one, but he’s the one who has a better handle on himself.

Sure, I have a house and kids and all the things an adult is supposed to have, but sometimes I feel like I’m still figuring it all out.

After my divorce, I had to start my life over from scratch, and most days I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, overwhelmed and stressed out because of all the plates I’m spinning.

It’s Dante who dragged me out of my corner kicking and screaming, forcing me to have fun and relax, forget about what I need to do and focus on what I want to do.

Fuck the plates. Fuck juggling balls. Fuck the past.

He lives in the present and has brought me along for the ride.

“For all of his big golden retriever energy, Dante is one of the most mature and level-headed people I know,” I tell them. “Which is why I think he needs to find someone else who’s not jaded and still trying to overcome drama and trauma and?—”

“These all sound like excuses to me,” Marianne says to Clara. “What do you think?”

“Excuses,” she confirms, and I really don’t have time for this impromptu therapy session.

I motion behind me. “Whatever. We have to go and meet up with Dante and Jake. Mads, come on, hon.”

She holds up a pair of earrings. “Can I get these?”

“Yeah. Your aunts said you can get whatever you want as your Christmas present.”

Maddie hops up and down excitedly. “Really?”

They roll with it. “Yeah, of course!”

Clara pulls out her wallet, like she’s going to blow on dice. “Earn those airline points. Mama wants a trip to Aruba next year!”

Marianne is practically a sister to me, her parents letting me sleep over so many nights, they bought me all my own toiletries.

Her father, Larry, became a stand-in dad, helping me with homework and cheering me on at soccer games.

Her mother, Vanessa, held my hand at my own mother’s funeral and brought me food and groceries after both of my kids were born, then slipped me a business card for a divorce lawyer when the time came.

Without the Wilkensons, I don’t know how I would have survived.

Sure, I had my brothers, but as the only girl in the family, my place and experience were very different, and if there are such things as soul mates, I know Marianne is mine.

With her hand on my daughter’s shoulder, she turns to me, mouthing, I love you .

Love you too , I mouth back.

After all these years and everything that’s happened, I have never been able to scare her away, and I know deep down I won’t be able to scare Dante away either.

With Maddie’s new purchases in hand, we say goodbye to Marianne and Clara and head back to meet Dante and Jake. They return, all smiles, each holding a container of candied pecans. Curious, I ask, “What did you guys get up to?”

Jake shrugs. “Nothing. ”

Dante tosses a pecan up in the air and catches it in his mouth. “Bro stuff.”

Jake imitates Dante, tossing and catching the pecan before saying, “Eating and talking.”

Dante nods to Jake, a signal to get ready, then tosses a nut to him to catch in his mouth. When he does, they high-five, and I suppose boys will never truly grow out of being boys.

Then Dante offers me a pecan, but when I reach for it, he snatches it back, holding one in his hand, like I’m supposed to let him throw it at me. There is no way I’m letting him.

Until he waggles his eyebrows all cute, and I sigh, tilting my head back. He lets it fly, and I catch it, barely. The thing bounces off the corner of my lip and into my mouth, but Dante and my kids cheer anyway.

He grins, and I hear his voice in my head from a few weeks ago. Don’t try to scare me away. You can’t.