The Stone Brothers: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  “Excuse me, miss. I only have an hour for lunch.”

  I whip around at the familiar voice and my stomach does the jig when I see said cousin sitting at one of my tables. “Sorry. Be right there,” I tell him, trying to look all professional and not at all like I’d like him to bend me over the edge of the table after closing.

  A half-smile threatens to show the dimple in his left cheek. Yeah, he’s onto me.

  Jarod swats me with his order pad on his way by as I finish refilling the water glasses at the table next to Ethan. I ponder Ethan’s curt remark. Maybe it was meant to be sarcastic, but the scowl on his face tells me otherwise. He’s staring at Jarod over the top of his menu. Oh, of course, he must come here to see his cousin. He’s probably mad he got seated in my section.

  I head to the drink station to grab some sodas. Seeing Jarod there, I ask, “Do you want to take table nine?”

  He cranes his neck around me to have a look. “Nah, you go ahead. He’s a pain in the ass. Do not put a lemon in that man’s water or you’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “But he’s your cousin,” I state the obvious.

  “Yeah. And he’s a great tipper.” He loads drinks onto his tray. “Still. Pain in the ass.” Then, despite the fact there’s more than enough room for both of us at the drink station, he brushes up against my arm as he passes me.

  I turn around to see that Ethan was watching our little exchange. I decide to add a water to my tray. No lemon.

  I drop off the sodas at table twelve and a check at table seven. Then I ceremoniously place the glass of water, sans lemon, in front of the mercurial man at table number nine. “Is this acceptable, or did I put in one too many cubes of ice?”

  Air comes in short spurts from his nose in a quiet laugh. “You must have talked to my cousin. He’s a pain in the ass.”

  “Ha! He says the same thing about you.” I pull a paper coaster from my apron and put it under his glass. “Actually, Jarod’s been great. He’s been a huge help today.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” His eyes dart over to Jarod and back to me. “So you finally met him.”

  “Well, I haven’t met all of him yet. If I recall, you said I would love his tattoos. But, sadly, his shirt covers them all when he’s at work.”

  He shrugs a careless shoulder. “They’re really not all that great now that I think about it. You may not even want to bother.”

  “Is that so?” I bite my lip in an attempt to keep from smiling. “Will anybody be joining you today? Barbie maybe?”

  He furrows his brow. “Barbie?”

  “Sorry. Gretchen.”

  “It’s just me,” he says, shaking his head in amusement. “Rule number two—never take out a woman who won’t eat in front of you.”

  “That’s a P.I. rule?”

  “No. That one’s a Stone rule.”

  Hearing the hustle and bustle around me, and not wanting to screw up on my first shift, I nod to his menu. “Have you decided what you want? And can I bring you anything besides the water? Extra lemons perhaps?”

  His dimple finally makes an appearance. “Just the water, thanks. And I’ll have a Reuben with a side of fries.”

  “Great. I’ll put that right in for you. I know you’re in a hurry.” I give him an obligatory smile before I spin around and walk away.

  “Take your time. I know you’re busy, Tate.”

  A shiver runs through me and it takes all my willpower not to turn back around and look at him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Walking back to the apartment, I think of how Ethan’s eyes followed me around the entire time he was there. Even when I couldn’t see them, I could feel his dark-chocolate gaze on me. Like somehow his eyes had a direct connection to my senses.

  It was so busy we didn’t exchange more than a few additional words. And Jarod was not exaggerating when he said his cousin was a good tipper. He all but doubled the cost of his meal.

  I smile wondering if he tips everyone that well or just women who like to grab his dick.

  When I enter the apartment, I have to double check the number on the door to make sure I’m in the right place. I am. And upon further inspection of the fully-furnished living room, I come to recognize the couch as being the one from the Mitchell’s basement that they later gave to Baylor; a chair from Skylar and Griffin’s; and even the very same television I admired at Piper and Mason’s place a few days ago.

  Big balls of tears balance on my lower lashes as I look around the rooms that were bare just this morning, with the exception of the borrowed air mattress I slept on.

  On the kitchen table is a note. The tears finally spill over when I read it.

  Welcome Home!

  It’s signed by everyone. All the Mitchells and their significant others.

  Skylar and Piper were with me at the restaurant the entire time. They didn’t even bat an eye. It must’ve been the guys and Baylor who did everything. I take it all in. They not only furnished the entire place with pieces of their own, they decorated it too.

  Jan. I’d bet my life she had a hand in this. She was always redecorating her girls’ rooms when we were growing up.

  I never realized how much I missed all of this for the five years I was away. I mean, it was great traveling the world with Piper, but this—this is a support system. A faction thicker than blood. They are my family.

  Chapter Seven

  At the end of each lap my eyes do a quick sweep of the other lanes to see if he’s here. It’s late, but there has been a pattern developing over the past few days. The first time I ran into him here, he said he comes for a workout every day after work. I took that to mean he leaves the office and heads to the gym. But this week he’s been showing up later and later, and it makes me wonder if that has anything to do with my late-night swims.

  Most days, I work until the dinner rush is over, about nine o’clock. By the time I get here, the pool is practically deserted.

  On Tuesday, Ethan wasn’t here when I arrived, presumably because he was long gone after his workout. On Wednesday, he was walking out when I was walking in. Yesterday, our workouts overlapped and he even asked me if he could hang around and walk me home.

  I declined of course. I don’t need any man looking after me. I’ve looked after myself since I was six years old. Granted, I did a piss poor job of it, but still. It’s been me and Piper against the world. And now she has Mason, so it’s just me.

  In hindsight, maybe I should have taken him up on it. Maybe it was just his way of getting a booty call, even though it would break rule number one.

  I get the feeling he’d very much like to break rule number one again. Again? Technically he never broke it since I wasn’t actually his client when we had sex. Okay, so I was five minutes later, but whatever. I’ll give him a pass on that one.

  I find myself wondering about the man who is Ethan Stone, and it pisses me off. I don’t wonder about men. I never wonder about them. I don’t give a shit about personal details. I could care less about their jobs or their cars or what movie they saw last Friday night. The only thing I ever cared about was if they could keep Piper and me off the streets. A warm bed. A hot shower. A decent meal.

  Even after her college fund that she never used for college, ran out, the Mitchells always sent a small stipend each month. That would only go so far, and even combined with the money we made from odd jobs, it wasn’t enough to keep a decent roof over our heads. Anyway, we never stayed in one place for very long. We lived the lives of gypsies, bouncing from one town to another dragging all our worldly belongings in one suitcase apiece.

  Barcelona had become our unofficial home base. There was a guy there who would take us in whenever we were around, no questions asked. Well, no questions except ‘do you want it from behind or on top?’

  I didn’t know anything about the guy other than his name and, eventually, his credit card number since he let me use it from time to time.

  So, why then, as my arms and legs glide through the water, am
I wondering who Ethan’s favorite band is? And what he likes to do for fun. I already know what his favorite food is. He orders it every time he comes in for lunch. A Reuben with a side of fries. Every time.

  It occurs to me that he’s been to Mitchell’s for lunch three times since I started working there last week. It also occurs to me that his office is four subway stops plus a five-block walk from there. Not exactly convenient. If he were coming for free food, courtesy of his waiter cousin, I could see what the hassle was all about. But he’s not getting free food, and he sits in my section every time. And he tips me like he’s got a money tree growing out of his ass.

  I find myself smiling under the water. Yeah, he wants to break rule number one alright. He wants to fucking shatter it.

  I reach the end of the pool and do my visual sweep. But at this late hour, the only person here is Mrs. Buttermaker. She’s as old as the hills and swims the breaststroke at a snail’s pace, not making a sound as her wrinkled arms glide through the water. I made her acquaintance a few days ago. She said she likes to come late so she doesn’t get bothered by those pesky kids who make too many waves. And by kids she means anyone under the age of fifty.

  I make sure to choose the farthest lane from her as she is usually finishing up her swim as I arrive. Best not rock that boat. She’s an old frail woman, but I get the idea she could chew the ass off a Kardashian. Yesterday, she didn’t seem all that pleased that Ethan also decided to join us, disrupting what I’m sure she had hoped was going to be a peaceful swim.

  Butterflies do flips in my stomach when I see strong, muscular legs walking towards me. But they’re instantly stilled when I look up and see the face of a man who is not Ethan Stone.

  Not that the guy towering over me isn’t hot. He is. He’s hot into next week. He’s tall and dark, his sweat-dampened body ripped to perfection. He wipes his face with the gym towel casually thrown over his shoulder.

  He crouches down and extends his hand to me over the edge of the pool. “I’ve been wanting to introduce myself all week. I’m Devon Totman. And you’re new here.”

  I lift my dripping hand out of the water and put it into his. “Charlie,” I say, purposefully omitting my last name. Not even the Barcelona guy was privy to that. “Nice to meet you, Devon.”

  “You look familiar,” he says, studying me.

  I get that a lot. A lot, a lot. Many people my age have seen my mother in one old movie or another, but most can’t seem to place me. Lately, however, her face has been plastered over the news because of her death. It makes it even harder to remain anonymous. After a few patrons at work recognized me as her lookalike daughter, I started wearing my hair in a severe bun, and I even purchased a pair of black-rimmed glasses to help camouflage my face.

  I shrug. “So I’ve been told. Is that a standard pickup line here in New York? Do they train you to use that one in college or something?”

  He laughs. “I wouldn’t know. I never went to college. I’m a self-made man.”

  “And clearly you didn’t need higher education to acquire your cockiness.”

  “It’s not cockiness. It’s confidence,” he says. “So you aren’t from New York then?”

  I simply shake my head, not willing to acknowledge his question in further detail.

  In my periphery, I see someone walking around the pool. My skin prickles before he comes fully into view. My body is aware of him even before my mind is.

  I ignore the pull of him on my eyes and keep my focus on the man before me. I’m not the least bit interested in Mr. Self-Made. Maybe I would have been a few weeks ago. Hell, he’d have been a shoe-in back then. But things are different now. I don’t need them to get by anymore. But the P.I. doesn’t know that, so I decide to have some fun with it.

  “So, Devon Totman. What is it that you do?”

  I almost feel bad when his face breaks into a celebratory smile. He thinks he’s won. He has no idea that he’s just become a pawn in my little game.

  For the next five minutes, I let him talk all about himself. But I don’t hear a word. The only thing I hear is Ethan’s arms as they slice angrily through the water at a pace that grows faster with each length of the pool. It takes all my strength not to look over and see if he’s watching me between strokes.

  “So can I show you around?” Devon asks. “Maybe even tonight, after your swim?”

  I reach my hand out of the pool again and offer it to him. “It’s been nice meeting you, Devon. But I have to finish my swim and then I have other plans.”

  He grasps my hand, holding it far longer than necessary. “Another time then, Charlie.”

  I give him an award-winning smile that says the opposite of what I’m feeling—which is that he doesn’t have a chance in hell. “I’ll see you around the gym, Devon.”

  I watch him walk away, all too aware of the deafening silence that surrounds me. You could hear a pin drop in the massive room. Not even Mrs. Buttermaker’s slow strokes reach my ears. I don’t know where Ethan is, but I can feel the tension in the air. The heavy glass door slams behind Devon at the same time that arms cage me to the side of the pool. He’s swum up behind me. His body doesn’t touch mine, but there is a crackle of something between us. And it’s more than the wave of water he brought with him.

  I can feel his breath on my ear when he speaks. “Rule number three—don’t talk to arrogant strangers who sleep their way through women at the gym.”

  Despite the heated water in the pool, shivers run all the way down my spine. Ethan’s voice does things to me I can’t explain. Devon’s voice was nice. Jarod’s rolls off his tongue like butter. But Ethan’s—I can feel his voice all the way down to my toes. “I’m beginning to think you’re making these rules up as you go along.”

  He swims away from me, leaving my body yearning for his touch as he dips under the lane dividers. “Steer clear of Devon Totman,” he says, reaching his favored center lane. “He’s trouble.”

  “I can take care of myself, Stone. But thanks for the head’s up.” I hear the beginnings of a snide reply but I cut him off, pushing myself off the wall, torpedoing myself under water to finish my swim.

  A few laps later, I see someone standing by my lane at the head of the pool. I smile when I see Mrs. B drying off and I know what words will leave her mouth even before she says them.

  “Will you be okay here, sweetie?” Her eyes flicker over to Ethan as she asks the same question she asked me yesterday.

  I get the feeling I’m one of the only gym patrons to have given her the time of day. We talked for a few minutes that first night and now she feels like a mother hen or something. But it’s okay. I like it. Not getting much in the way of mother-henning at my home growing up, I’m happy to accept it from just about anyone.

  “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Buttermaker. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “Okay then. I’ll just be on my way. See you Tuesday night, Charlie.” She’s known me three days and she already knows my workout schedule.

  I smile. “Bye, Mrs. Buttermaker.”

  I finish up my swim, a little put off that Ethan hasn’t paid me any more attention. I did, after all, wear my most revealing and boob-enhancing one-piece swimsuit for him. It’s a bit old-school Baywatch, but it does the trick. Or so I thought. As I dry off, I watch his muscular body slice effortlessly through the water. I can’t help but think back to last week in his office when that very same body was slamming into mine as I teetered on the edge of his desk. I remember his strong arms that carried me across the room. His shaggy hair that I ran my fingers through. His sexy tattoo.

  I really want to know what the tattoo means. But that would involve asking a personal question. I don’t do personal. Then why did you let him kiss you that way?

  He pops up out of the water to catch me staring. “You done?” he asks.

  I wrap the towel around my waist. “Yeah.”

  “Okay. See you next time.” He turns around and continues his swim.

  What the fuck just ha
ppened? No offer to walk me home. No more shit about Devon. No witty banter. Nothing. The man is more unpredictable than a PMS-ing woman.

  I cross my arms over my body and stand there, watching him do a lap and waiting for him to swim back towards me. When he touches the edge closest to me, he doesn’t even bother slowing down. He does his little underwater flip thing and keeps on going.

  Ugh!

  I sit down on the edge of the pool, putting my legs in the water where he does his turnaround. I scissor them back and forth so he won’t miss them.

  When he reaches my side of the pool again he grabs my feet, slowly walking his hands up my legs as he comes up for air.

  “Was there something you wanted?” he asks, like he doesn’t know his touch just melted my brain into a gooey mess, making it almost impossible for my mouth to form words.

  He removes his hands from my legs, putting them on the edge of the pool next to me as he bobs up and down in the deep water.

  I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a man to put his hands back on me as much as I do this very second. I usually don’t want a man’s hands on me at all, but it’s always been a means to an end. A way to thwart a brutal beating from my mother. A way to get a roof over my head. A way to forget reality.

  “Uh . . .” I scramble for a reason to have interrupted his swim. Other than the obvious fact that I’m acting like an adolescent with a schoolgirl crush on a man who considers me off limits. “I just wanted to know what’s taking so long. I mean, how hard could it be to find a few people? What the hell am I paying you for anyway?”

  “Seriously?” His expression turns stern, making me further regret the off-the-cuff words I spoke. “First off, it’s not just a few people, Charlie. It’s a dozen.”