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

by Samantha Christy

  Shit. I didn’t think to look at her left ring finger. I assume she’s not married since she still lives with her dad. But who’s to say she’s not spoken for? A woman who looks like that must have men beating her door down. Richard didn’t say anything about a fiancé or a boyfriend. But then again, other than him telling me where she worked, we didn’t talk about her, we only talked about me. I think Richard wanted it that way. I’m sure he knows how Mal feels about me and he didn’t think it was appropriate to give me any personal details about her life.

  I descend the four porch steps to the front walk where, tucked under a corner shrub, a ceramic frog still keeps watch over the front yard. I lean down and pick it up, looking underneath it. The house key is still taped to the bottom where it always was. The strong tape is weathered and torn and I wonder if they even remember the key is here. I put him back in his spot and walk to the driveway, glancing at Cole who has been waiting patiently for me.

  Then I notice the old, rusty basketball hoop that is attached to the house over the garage door. Most of the netting is torn, as it was back then. It had seen hundreds of games of HORSE. Thousands maybe. I smile thinking of the times Mal and Julian and I spent out here. Immediately, my eyes go to the driveway hedge on the left side of the garage, lighting up when they spot an orange ball. It’s almost as if I were meant to find it.

  I hold up a finger to Cole, alerting him I’ll be a bit longer. Then I pick the ball up out of the concave indentation that had become its home over the years. I press it firmly between my hands. It feels decently inflated. I dribble it a few times, happy to see it come back up to meet my hand each time.

  I take a few steps back and take a free-throw shot. I miss of course. After all, it’s been nine years since I played. I dribble the ball around and take several more shots, making some now that the familiarity is coming back. I start to get into it, announcing my own fantasy game as if I were playing in the NBA finals. “And, Lebron fakes to the outside, but cuts in, spinning away from his defender and, wait, he’s going for three” —I jump up and make a sloppy-yet-effective three-pointer— “aaaaaaand, it’s nothing but net as the crowd goes wild.” I kiss my fingers and wave them to the pretend crowd as I take my victory lap around the driveway all but knocking over Mallory when I run up near the sidewalk. “Uh, sorry,” I say, shocked to see her watching me.

  She’s laughing at me and I think it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. “I heard the thumping of the basketball and came out to see what it was,” she says, putting her arms through her coat sleeves.

  I back away from her, dribbling the ball. I nod to the net. “How about a game of HORSE? You know, for old times’ sake?”

  She looks at the net and then at me, her eyes turning sad. She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. It’s pretty late.”

  I look at my wrist as if there is a watch on it. “Oh, come on, Mal. It’s barely dark outside. I’m sure your dad will let you play a little longer, even if it is a school night,” I tease.

  She looks back up at the house, just as the outside lights magically turn on, illuminating the entire driveway. I catch a glimpse of a curtain closing in the living room. I smile. Richard may think she hates me, but it appears he’s rooting for me anyway.

  I bounce the ball on the ground, passing it to her. “Come on,” I goad as she catches the ball. “You know you want to. I’m a little rusty so you will probably kick my ass.”

  She snickers. “That’s nothing new, Chad. I always kicked your ass.”

  “Ouch!” I cover my heart with my hand. “That hurt, Mal. My ego is very fragile.”

  “Ha!” she cries. “Somehow I doubt that.” She throws the ball at me. Hard.

  I pass it right back to her. “Think fast!”

  She catches it and dribbles it expertly behind her back. I raise an eyebrow. “You’ve been practicing,” I say.

  “My dad and I play sometimes.”

  “Shit,” I say. “You really are gonna kick my ass. Come on, you go first.”

  She rolls her gorgeous green eyes at me. “Fine.” She walks to the middle of the driveway, about three feet away from the basket and she lobs a shot up and over the rim.

  “Going easy on me, Schaffer?”

  She shrugs.

  Even though it’s been a few years, I still make the shot easily from this distance. I throw the ball back to her. “You’re going to have to come up with something better than that.”

  “Okay.” She walks back a few steps. “Eyes closed this time.” She shoots and misses.

  “Yes!” I say, with the enthusiasm of an adolescent boy. I scoop up the ball and position myself where the free-throw line would be and I take a shot. She follows my lead, easily making the basket.

  Next, I try to trip her up with a left-handed shot, but I miss it myself. “Back to you,” I say, handing her the ball.

  She walks beyond the driveway crack that was our unofficial three-point mark. She throws the ball in the air, swooshing it into the basket. I walk up the driveway to retrieve the ball and then plant myself in her spot and attempt the shot. I miss. “Shit. That’s an ‘H’ for me.”

  I give her back the ball and she bites her lip in thought. Then she moves up four steps and says, “Bank swish.” And just as she intended, the ball hits the backboard and falls through the basket touching nothing but net.

  I’m mildly impressed. She smirks as she hands over the ball. I shoot and miss. Well, I don’t miss, but it touches the rim so it doesn’t count. “Crap!” I shout. “There’s my ‘O.’ Where the hell is Julian when I need someone to look like more of a loser than me?”

  She laughs. “Julian used to kick your ass, too,” she says. “I think all the fame has gone to your head and you’re having delusions of childhood grandeur.”

  “Julian used to beat me, too?” That I don’t remember. Maybe because I was always so focused on her.

  She raises her eyebrows, nodding.

  “Oh, hell. I really was a loser, wasn’t I?”

  “You weren’t a loser, Chad,” she says, right before shooting an easy jump shot, probably to take pity on me.

  “So, do you still keep in touch with him?” I ask, taking and making the jump shot.

  “Who?” she asks.

  “Julian. Do you still talk to him at all?”

  I see something flicker across her face. Guilt? She quickly turns away from me and walks over to retrieve the ball.

  “What is it, Mal?”

  “Yeah, we still talk,” she says, running up to the garage from the other side of the driveway to do a lay-up. “He’s one of my best friends, in fact.”

  She throws the ball to me but doesn’t make eye contact. I hold the ball and stare her down, trying not to be jealous that Julian has remained in her life all these years. “You’re not telling me something. What is it?”

  “You’re stalling the game, Chad. Take the shot,” she says.

  I narrow my eyes at her and then turn away, focusing on the basket as I run up to it. Halfway into my lay-up, something dawns on me and I trip myself up, missing horribly as I fall to the ground, landing on my ass.

  “Are you okay?” Mallory asks, running over to me when I don’t get up right away.

  “I’m fine.” I drape my arms across my knees, looking up at her. “He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?” When she doesn’t deny it, I shake my head in anger. “That little shit. He promised.”

  She looks surprised by my outburst. “What do you mean he promised?”

  I stand up and walk over to sit on the bench next to the driveway. “He never told you?”

  “Told me what?” she asks, sitting down on the other end of the bench.

  “That we made a pact before he went to Brazil.”

  “You made a pact? About what?”

  I sigh. Then I laugh at myself. We were sixteen back then. Of course he didn’t keep his promise. Plus, I guess I gave him an out by moving across the country. I’d never know if he broke it and there wasn’t anyt
hing I could do about it if he did. “I think Julian was afraid I’d make a move on you back then. He was getting ready to leave for Brazil for the summer and he made me promise I wouldn’t touch you.”

  Mallory guffaws. “Why would he say such a thing? That’s silly. We were all best friends.”

  I stare her down. “Oh, come on. You must know both of us had a major crush on you.”

  “W-what?” she asks, looking at me like I’m ten cards shy of a full deck.

  “Seriously? You didn’t know?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.

  “It wasn’t just a one-sided promise,” I tell her. “It was a pact. We made it sound as if it would ruin our friendship if one of us acted on our crush, but in reality, neither one of us wanted the other to have you.” I push off the bench and go over to collect the ball. “I guess it only makes sense that you’d end up with him. He’s a lucky guy, Mallory.” I throw the ball to her. “Your turn again.”

  “Left-handed hook shot from the elbow off the backboard,” she says, with a sly grin.

  “No fucking way,” I challenge her.

  She makes it of course.

  “Just gimme the goddamn ‘S’,” I say.

  She giggles. “He’s not my boyfriend, you know. Not anymore.”

  All in a matter of two seconds I feel relief. Then jealousy. Then anger. But I think relief wins the battle. “Anymore?” I ask.

  “Long story,” she says, taking the ball from me and I get the idea the subject is off-limits. “Three-pointer. Backwards.” She lines up the shot perfectly then misses.

  “Sweet!” I shout, plotting my next shot. I grab the ball and spin around twice before shooting, surprising myself by making the basket. “So, is there one? A boyfriend?”

  “Not at the moment.” She motions for the ball. “Piece of cake,” she says, spinning around and shooting, only to miss the rim by a good two feet. “Aw, darn it. That’s an ‘H’ for me.”

  I can’t help but laugh at her version of a swear word. “You still can’t say it, can you?”

  “Say what?” she asks.

  “Fuck.”

  “Ugh. I can say it,” she whines.

  “Then say it.”

  “No. It’s not the same if I just say it out of context.”

  “Okay.” I try to think of how she can use the word. “How about this—why don’t you ask me why the fuck I stopped emailing you and calling you? Ask me why I was the worst fucking friend of all time. Why don’t you ask me that, Mallory?”

  “Because I’m sure you had your reasons,” she says, pulling her coat tightly around her.

  I go back over to reclaim my spot on the bench, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “Nothing short of a lobotomy could excuse everything I did.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, resuming her seat next to me.

  “There’s not much to talk about. Shit happened. A lot of shit happened. But that was then and this is now.” I look up and stare into her stunning eyes. “And I really like now.”

  I could swear I see a blush creep across her face. Either that, or she’s freezing on this cold night. “I guess we all have skeletons in our closet,” she says. “Yours are just a little more on display for the world to see.”

  I cringe wondering just how much she knows about the things I’ve done. But that feeling is trumped by another one—curiosity, and maybe guilt, knowing she has skeletons, too, but that I wasn’t here when she might have needed me. “You have skeletons?” I ask. “Squeaky-clean Mallory Schaffer?”

  She elbows me in the side. “Maybe not so squeaky-clean anymore. And maybe not skeletons as much as regrets.”

  There’s that feeling again. A pressure from within, gripping my chest like a vise. She has regrets. Regrets over Julian? Over some other guy, perhaps? “I’m sorry,” I say, scooting closer to her so I can put my hand on top of hers. “Maybe someday we can share our secrets like we used to. I’d like that, you know.”

  She looks down at our hands and then up at my face. She looks at me like she can see my soul and extrapolate my secrets without me having to say a single word. Her eyes burn into mine. The soft flesh of her cold hand takes me back to old times. Times when we would sit for hours in her treehouse, barely saying a word yet always knowing what the other was thinking. Life seemed so much simpler back then. When we had each other’s backs through thick and thin. When it was us against the world.

  Suddenly, she jerks her hand away from mine, sitting up to wrap her arms around herself. “It’s getting cold just sitting here, let’s finish our game.”

  I spend the next twenty minutes getting my ass kicked in basketball by a girl. Not just any girl. The girl. I came here not knowing what to expect. But I’m leaving knowing exactly what I want. I want her. I’ve always wanted her. I’m just not sure what price I’m willing to pay to get her. Or better yet, what price she would have to pay to be with me.

  Chapter Six

  Mallory

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, alerting me of a text during my math lesson. I worry it might be an emergency because nobody I know would text me during school hours. I turn my back on the students and walk to the whiteboard, taking a peek at my phone. It’s a number I don’t recognize, so I slip it back into my pocket.

  I’m a little more here today than I was yesterday, although I’m still distracted by thoughts of last night. I’m still not exactly sure why Chad showed up on my doorstep. Maybe he didn’t know I lived there anymore and came to see my dad but felt obligated to hang out with me. Maybe after he saw me at the club, he felt the need to tie up loose ends.

  But the thing is, it didn’t feel like loose ends to me. Some of the things he said about him not being a stranger and about how he’d like us to share our secrets ‘someday,’ made me feel like maybe he wanted to rekindle our friendship. Which is ridiculous. He lives in L.A. and I live here. He’s famous and I’m a school teacher. Our lives are polar opposites. We’d have nothing in common anymore.

  After I walk the kids to the cafeteria for lunch, I head to Mel’s classroom to eat with her. Along the way, my phone vibrates again, reminding me of the earlier text I need to read. I reach Melissa’s classroom before she does, so I get out my turkey wrap and start munching on some grapes as I read my missed messages.

  310-555-0186: Can I take you to dinner tonight?

  I don’t recognize the number and I have no idea who it is, although part of me knows who I want it to be. A very reluctant part of me. There is another text from a few minutes ago from the same number.

  310-555-0186: Is that a no or are you making me sweat it out? I was hoping to do a little more groveling over say, pizza? It’s still your favorite, right?

  I smile. It must be him. And the fact that he’s afraid I’ll refuse his invitation is mildly endearing. I find it amusing that his area code matches that of the show he once starred in—Malibu 310. Guess that’s where they got the name. I tap out a text.

  Me: Who is this?

  I quickly program his phone number into my contacts and put my phone away, knowing a busy guy like Chad probably doesn’t have much time for chitchat.

  Melissa walks in the room, complaining about having to meet with a parent of a misbehaving student. She immediately stops rambling when she looks up at me. “Why the cheesy smile?” she asks.

  My phone vibrates and I can feel my smile widen even further. I resist looking at it straight away. “Just happy to see you,” I say.

  “Bullshit.” She sets her salad down, eyeing me skeptically. “You are still reeling over last night, aren’t you?”

  As soon as Chad left, I was on the phone to Mel, spilling every last detail of what happened as we analyzed each conversation I had with him. I swore her to secrecy of course. Not that I needed to, she’d never use my past with Chad as a way to get attention. Luckily, I’ve been blessed with friends who are anything but attention whores. Well, maybe I have one friend who is an attentio
n whore, but whether or not we are friends anymore remains to be seen.

  “He texted me today,” I tell her, popping another grape into my mouth. “Asked me to dinner.”

  Her squeals bounce of the classroom walls. “What? Oh, my God, Mal, he asked you out?”

  I shake my head. “No. He asked me to dinner.”

  “Same difference,” she says. “Oh my God, you’re going to be on TMZ. You’ll be famous. And I can say I knew you when.”

  All of a sudden, a sick feeling washes over me. I didn’t even think about that. What would happen if we were seen in public together? Every woman he’s seen with becomes his reported girlfriend. I’m sure he doesn’t want that—to be seen with a teacher, a nobody. And I don’t want that either. He has a bodyguard for Christ’s sake. He’s that famous. Why would he even want to risk his reputation by having dinner with me? “It is not the same, Melissa. He just wants to get together and talk.”

  “Where is he taking you?” She holds her hand out to silence me before I say anything. “No, let me guess. Eleven Madison Park? Or maybe Masa? Jesus, you’re lucky.”

  “First off, I’m not accepting his invitation. And second, really?” I stare her down as she bounces around on her chair like one of her second-grade students.

  She stills in her seat. “Sorry. I forgot that he’s an insensitive prick and that we hate him.”

  “Well, maybe hate is too harsh a word,” I say. “But the jury is still out.”

  I pull out my phone and check the new message.

  Chad: Should I be concerned that you might have more than one random guy asking you to dinner? It’s Chad.

  Without thinking too much about it, my fingers start tapping out a text.

  Me: Oh, Chad! You mean the guy whose butt I kicked in HORSE last night?

  Chad: One and the same. I want a rematch by the way. I’ve been practicing.

  Me: You’ve been practicing? Since last night?