Page 1 of Right Next Door (Stone Family #3)

Nicole

I push open the glass door of Sweet Cheeks Bakery, the happy and bright pink decor making me want to puke.

The scent of freshly baked cinnamon buns, still hot from the oven, wafts through the air as I cross to the counter, intent on drowning my sorrows in a mountain of carbs and sugar, and I paste on a brittle smile for Eloise. Her eyes flicker with concern.

The bakery’s owner and I have known each other for years, both of us working on the same block of Aster Street in downtown West Chester, Pennsylvania. But this morning, she doesn’t offer me her typical rambling morning monologue.

I hope I don’t look as bad as I feel. Though her gentle smile and tone of voice convince me otherwise. “The usual?”

I nod, throat too clogged to speak.

The usual. As if my life hasn’t been turned upside down. As if my husband of over ten years didn’t blindside me with a request for an open relationship.

After Eloise passes me a gigantic cinnamon roll on a plate, I sink onto a chair at a nearby table, the echo of Bryce’s words in my head.

We haven’t been happy for a while. You have to see that, right? Maybe we need to try something else so we can be happy together again.

I dig into the pastry, the icing thick and creamy, but the knot in my throat makes it hard to swallow, and when I try to clear it one too many times, Eloise brings a cup of water to my table as well.

“Thanks,” I croak, far too close to breaking down for my liking. I dab at the corner of my eyes with a napkin, a sodden mess. Doesn’t help that it’s eighty degrees outside and I took a couple laps around the block to try to exercise the sadness away.

Spoiler alert: didn’t work.

Eloise squeezes my shoulder before heading back behind the counter. As I gulp down the water, I hear her greet another patron, and even without her addressing him by name, I know who it is.

There are some people who have presence , and Ian Stone is one of those people. From his heavy and sure footsteps to the treble of his voice, he’s impossible to ignore.

“How’s it going today?” Eloise asks, and I glance over my shoulder, admiring the man in small bites like I usually do. Over six feet tall. Big muscles. Wavy, dark hair down to his chin. Golden skin with tattoos all over. He looks like every good girl’s fantasy of a bad boy come to life.

But here he is, in the flesh, in his perfectly faded, ripped jeans and loosely laced combat boots, tugging a leather wallet from his back pocket, the seat of his pants fitting like they were specially made for him.

“Can’t complain,” he says. “Another day in paradise.”

Eloise gestures toward the window. “This delivery situation is a pain in the ass.”

He waves his hand, shrugging like he doesn’t care.

There is very little parking in front of the businesses on Aster Street, so all deliveries are supposed to be made to the side streets, to the back of the buildings.

This is meant for better flow of traffic, but every once in a while, there’s some driver who either doesn’t pay attention to the signs or doesn’t care.

Right now, a giant truck is parked out front, effectively blocking everyone and everything from getting through.

Evidently, Ian doesn’t mind.

Eloise tips her head at him. “Nothing rattles you, huh? How do you do it?”

There is an edge of sarcasm in his voice, and I imagine the way his mouth tilts to the left when he says, “Do what? Stay so young and handsome?”

She laughs. “Yeah.”

“Gotta roll with the punches.” He combs his fingers through his thick salt-and-pepper hair. “And I guess at some point you learn to stop giving a fuck, you know?”

I snort.

I don’t mean to.

But… when ? When does that happen? When do I stop caring so much?

At my dismissive sound, Ian glances over his shoulder, his brown eyes hitting me with a force too strong for the day I’m having.

His eyebrows furrow for a moment, but he swings back around when Eloise asks for his order. “I’ll take a cinnamon roll and how about one of those new muffins you’ve been working on?”

“You got it. For here or to go?”

“To go.”

“Gimme a minute to bring the muffins out from the back, and I’ll box it all up for you.”

“No problem,” he says quietly, and I make sure to be totally engrossed in my cinnamon roll as he pivots toward me. I ignore the five steps he takes to my table and then wait with bated breath, simultaneously fearing and desperate to know what he might say.

“Good morning, Nicole.”

Well, hell.

I wasn’t prepared for my name to be rumbled that way, and I squeeze my eyes shut at the shivers racing down my spine. It could be the air conditioning.

Might be.

Probably isn’t.

I keep my attention on my barely eaten bun. “Hi.”

“You mind if I join you?”

“No.” It’s a shadow of a whisper. He’s always so calm and confident, and at this moment, I can barely meet his gaze, afraid I might split into a million pieces if anyone looks at me too closely.

Which is why my head stays down.

Because I can feel him looking too closely.

Ian settles into the chair across from me, his large frame taking up so much room, his knees knock against mine before he adjusts, careful not to shift the table when he rests his forearms on it.

And then he waits.

And waits.

And I can’t avoid him forever, so I lift my eyes to his. They crinkle in the corners when he squints, and I dare myself to hold his gaze.

“You look like you’re having a rough day,” he says eventually.

I shrug, playing it cool. Even toss my hair over my shoulder. Not a care in the world.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, and I wilt. Absolutely lose it.

He hands me a napkin, but one won’t cut it.

Not even three do.

He places the entire napkin holder in front of me.

I sniffle my thanks, and he bends, making himself smaller, catching my gaze after I wipe my eyes and face.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a really pretty crier?”

Despite everything, I laugh. “ What ?”

He takes the balled-up tissue from my hand to add to the pile in front of him. Then he pulls a dry one from the holder and—horrifyingly—wipes under my nose.

This hot tattooed silver fox wipes the snot from my nose!

God? It’s me, Nicole. Take me now.

When he’s satisfied, he crumples up that tissue then leans back in his chair, drawing my attention to his torso. To his defined pectorals under the tight beige T-shirt with a colorful depiction of a bear in a paddleboat underneath a rainbow. Don’t be a douchecanoe , it reads.

“You’re pretty when you cry,” he says again, and I attempt to appear somewhat reasonable, tuck my hair behind my ears, pluck at my dress so it’s not sticking to my skin.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“I don’t lie.” He doesn’t blink either. And maybe that is true. The one man on earth who doesn’t lie. Who doesn’t go back on promises. Like for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.

“Some people don’t look good crying.” He crosses his forearms over his chest, momentarily drawing my focus to the tattoos covering them. “June, she’s an ugly crier.”

“Juniper, your daughter?”

He nods solemnly. “Worse than Claire Danes.”

“You’re familiar with Claire Danes?”

“Baby, you forget how old I am. I was making out with my girlfriend to My So-Called Life before you were even a twinkle in your mother’s eye.”

He’s teasing me, but I still feel the need to defend myself. “You’re not that much older than me.”

He arches his brow. “No?”

I shake my head, ignoring the unasked question. How do you know how old I am?

Well…

It’s not like I’m keeping track or anything.

But everyone around here knows who he is, who the whole Stone family is.

There are four Stone siblings—Taryn, the manager of The Nest, a lovely bed-and-breakfast not too far from here; Griffin, everyone’s favorite growly fire captain; the youngest one named Roman, though I’ve never met him because he lives out of state; and Ian.

The man who makes my pulse jump whenever I see him.

He’s the owner of Stone Ink, the tattoo shop sandwiched between Sweet Cheeks and my bookstore, Chapter and Verse.

But even if we didn’t work right next door to each other, I would still notice him.

He’s impossible to miss with his build and tattoos.

Plus, everyone was invited to the party his family threw for his fiftieth birthday last year.

I couldn’t go because Bryce had a lecture he wanted me to attend.

I would’ve rather celebrated this man’s birthday instead.

“I’m thirty-nine,” I declare as if that’s important for him to know then roll my eyes at myself.

I’m not usually so out of sorts.

Though he nods at me like he already knows my age, height, and star sign, and I feel so foolish sitting here in front of this guy who’s so put together. So in control.

His gaze meanders from my face down my throat to the burnt-orange maxi dress I’m wearing. Like most things in my closet, it’s nothing special, plain and shapeless but comfortable. And I am suddenly very uncomfortable at the way my skin pricks, almost as if he can see through the cotton material.

“So, what happened?” he asks after an eternity, during which God does, in fact, not take me. “Why are you here crying into a perfectly good cinnamon roll?”

“I don’t think you want to hear about my sad life.”

He leans forward, tapping his index finger on the table. “First of all, if I didn’t want to hear about it, I wouldn’t have asked. Secondly, your life isn’t sad. You’re only having a sad moment. It’ll pass.”

“I’m not sure about that.” I blink my stinging eyes, trying and failing to clear my vision.

Ian catches a tear on my cheek with his thumb. “What happened?”