"What's wrong?" My father asks with a fair amount of concern.

"Nothing."

"Did he say something to you?"

Always my superman.

"No, Dad."

"I know you were never a hundred percent on board with this plan, hun, but give Stone some time. Life has dealt him a shitty hand."

"You've made that abundantly clear the hundreds of times we discussed this."

"Your mother always opened the house to friends and family in need. It's the Christian thing to do."

"You haven't been to church in twenty years. Now stop talking. It isn't good for your throat."

I put my hand on his forehead to check his temperature.

"Of course, if he gets out of pocket, let me know. You know I don't play that mess."

"Calm yourself, Rambo. He's fine. It's just...I don't know what to say to him. I'm saying all the wrong things."

He relaxes his face.

"Oh, is that all? Just be yourself, baby girl. That's all you can do. I bet he'll be in a much better mood after he eats some of your cooking. I swear it smells just like your mom's soup. You get closer and closer to her secret recipe every time you make it."

I do my best to smile in response to my father, but it's getting more difficult, not easier, as the years go by without Mom. I know he genuinely meant what he said about the soup as a compliment, but it doesn't feel that way. It feels like a backhanded compliment. Like I'm not doing a good enough job filling her shoes.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that I'm doing a really piss poor job of filling my mother shoes. Probably because I don't want to fill them. I shouldn't have to. I'm not his wife. I'm his daughter and her death has left me with my own hollow parts to fill. Her passing was senseless, painful, and I'm never going to accept it.

Unlike my mom, I'm serving the chicken soup with a few fresh herbs on top as a garnish and warm rosemary olive oil bread in the same way I've seen some of the chefs do on the Food Network.

Stone finally returns from the second floor and stops at the entrance of the kitchen and watches me silently. I'm starting to think that he likes to observe. Like I'm an animal in the zoo. A very odd and clumsy animal.

I turn to see what he wants, but his intense glare almost causes me to drop one of my mother's handmade ceramic bowls on the floor. His eyes are the color of a full moon.

"You need help?" he asks. Shocking the shit out of me. I didn't expect him to be...helpful.

I shake my head no. "Uh-uh."

He ignores my response and starts opening up cabinets anyway. He finds and grabs three spoons and drinking glasses. Making sure to rinse and wipe each of them down with a clean paper towel.

"Stone didn't eat much on the way here, so make sure to fill his bowl," My father calls out from the den.

"I don't eat much," Stone says with a curtness. "Don't fill it."

And oh hell, I swear his voice just dropped about ten octaves when he gave that almost angry order. Stone has a very deep, rich, and distinctive voice. In a crowd of ten thousand men, I could pick him out. It's a sumptuous and heavy voice, and any other day I'd be turned on by it, but not right now.

Right now, I'm trying to understand why he sounds so indignant, and he's literally only been in our house for ten damn minutes. What the hell did we do to him? I know he's been through a lot but sheesh.

"Then don't eat," I say with a bit of edge to my voice.

I don't even have to see him; I can feel my father reprimanding me from the other room.

"Or maybe just eat a little bit," I say trying to clean things up. I make sure to keep my back toward him. "I'll go grocery shopping after I liberate my car tomorrow and get you some of the things you like, if that would be better for you. Just make a list."

"Liberate your car?"

"The police impounded it after I was arrested."

"What kind of car."

"An old BMW wagon."

It was my mothers.

"You drive a station wagon?"

I feel a lot of judgment in the air from someone who probably hasn't driven in five damn years.

"I'm sorry but what exactly are you driving?"

His mouth stays firmly shut but his eyes.

They're rippling.

Like molten silver.

"I don't need anything special from the store," he says with a clipped voice. "Whatever you cook is fine. Where are the napkins?"

Jackass.

"I've got 'em," I say dismissively. "Just get out of my kitchen and go sit down."

* * *