“Yes, you do.”
“No,” I say. “I really don’t. Rings? Necklaces? Tiny crowns? I’m new to this fantasy.”
Her eyes warm. “Not crowns. You’d ruin the vibe.”
“That feels rude.”
“It’s accurate,” she says, staring at me for a long moment, her expression turning thoughtful instead of teasing. “No, I know exactly what stone you’d be.”
I lean back against the counter, curious despite myself. “Go on, then.”
“Onyx,” she says.
I lift a brow. “That sounds ominous, and we’re not talking about Pokémon, right?”
“Wait, you know about the Onix Pokémon but not the stone?”
I laugh.
A small smile touches her mouth. “Anyway, back to the onyx.” She wipes her fingers on a tea towel. “Onyx looks simple at first. Just dark, smooth, almost severe. Then you hold it properly and realize there’s more to it than that. It has protective, grounding, and strong energies. It doesn’t need sparkle to make an impression.”
I stare at her.
She keeps going. “People use it for those properties.” Her eyes flick over my face. “That feels like you.”
I have no real knowledge of stones. Couldn’t have picked onyx out of a lineup five minutes ago. But the way she says it, with that calm certainty, like she’s been paying close enough attention to translate me into one of the beautiful things she makes, gets under my skin fast.
Because now I can see the stone through her eyes, and I decide that an onyx is my favorite stone, that it suits me, and I can’t think of anything else being a better fit. I push off the counter and step into her space, not enough to trap her, justenough to let her feel the heat of me there. “You imagining me in things you make, Adelaide? That’s very thoughtful.”
Her breath catches, and her gaze drops to my mouth for one fatal second before climbing back up. “I’m talking about jewelry,” she insists.
“Sure you are.”
Her cheeks turn pink, and she hates that I see it, as she tries to glance away, which only makes me want to crowd her closer and kiss that smart mouth until she forgets every sharp reply she’s got lined up.
Instead, because I’m making a heroic effort to behave, I brace one hand on the counter beside her and keep my other at my side.
“You should do it,” I say more quietly. “The store. The pieces. All of it.”
She searches my face, like she’s trying to work out whether I’m just saying what she wants to hear.
“If you made something for me,” I add, “I’d wear it.”
She smiles then. It’s pretty and dangerous in its own way. “Even if you hated it?”
I dip my head, close enough to catch the warmth of her skin and that maddening, sweet scent of hers. “Sweetheart, if you made it, I wouldn’t hate a damn thing.”
She grins—the same expression from the plane—and it knocks the breath out of me. She dips under my arm and strolls over to the sink. I watch her walk away in those tiny shorts, hips swaying.
Days of her padding around the house with us, laughing at something Luca says, leaning against North’s arm during a movie without seeming to notice she’s doing it. Her in the ocean, the way she reads a wave before she rides it, that specific focus she applies to anything she enjoys.
And then the moments like this, where she’s three feet away and her scent tugs at my chest and every rational argument I have about patience vanishes.
She’s been holding back. We all have, in truth, because she’s scared and we don’t want to rush her.
As she washes her hands and dries them, I move but pause right behind her. Her shoulders drop a fraction, and her breathing speeds up.
“Adelaide.” I keep my voice quiet. “How much longer do you think you can keep doing this?”
