Page 16 of Stone Rules

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.

---