Of Stone and Sky

by Charissa Stastny

  Gemma

  The morning’s mortification curdled in my stomach as I sat at the breakfast nook. What in dreqin was wrong with me? Why had I thought Lincoln would welcome my advances after he’d rejected me soundly the night before? I’d practically thrown myself at him in bed this morning, curling into his bare chest when he’d climbed in next to me. He’d been utterly handsome, with his hair mussed from sleeping, the shadow of scruff on his jaw. But he hadn’t hopped into bed because he’d wanted me. It’d been an act. For his mom.

  “May I join you?”

  I put a hand on my heart as Lincoln’s sweet grandpa appeared. “Please do. Can I get you some coffee?” I needed more.

  “That’d be wonderful, dear. I like mine black.”

  “Because you’re already sweet.”

  He grinned. “My grandson’s a lucky man.”

  I set a mug in front of him. “I keep telling him that, but I don’t think he believes me.”

  “He does.” Lincoln made me jump as he pulled up a stool beside me. “Hey, honey.” He kissed my cheek and whispered near my ear. “I’m going to tell him we’re moving up the date. You good with that?”

  I nodded and let him take my hand.

  “How’d you sleep, Gramps?”

  “Not well, but that’s not anyone’s fault but my own. The book I’m reading is riveting.”

  Lincoln grabbed my coffee and took a sip.

  I glared at him. “Do you need your own?”

  “No. I’ll share yours.” He nuzzled my nose, bringing me up short. “Do you want to tell Gramps the good news, or should I, sweetheart?”

  “Why don’t you.” My heart beat too hard to think of words to say.

  “What good news?” Gramps asked.

  “Gemma and I are moving up our wedding date.”

  His grandpa’s eyes shimmered. “For real?”

  I hugged the adorable man. It might kill me to marry Lincoln just to end it later, but I’d do it to give Gramps peace. I’d do it to secure Wilder’s money for Lincoln.

  “We want you to be there with us.”

  He swiped at his eyes. “That’s wonderful, sweetheart.” He put his hand on mine. “Are you sure though? I don’t want you to change your plans just for me.”

  Lincoln put his hand on ours, making my heart race triple speed. “We’re sure. I can’t wait to tie the knot with this amazing woman.”

  If only his words were true.

  His words weren’t true because all Lincoln wanted to do was change me. You’d think he would give me the choice of wedding colors or flowers. Shoot, I would’ve been content just to pick out my freaking wedding gown. I had one on Pinterest that was gorgeous. And not too expensive. But Lincoln had taken even that decision away, telling me that condescending Casey would handle everything.

  We chilled in our bedroom before dinner. Lincoln’s publicist had sent me five dress choices, and I’d resorted to playing eenie-meenie-miney-mo to decide which I hated least.

  “You should marry Casey, not me.” I shoved my phone in a pocket.

  “Just play along.” Lincoln winked, making my insides do the tingly-squirmy dance. “Casey’s doing us a huge favor getting everything ready last minute. Besides, it’s not like a dress really matters.”

  That was easy for him to say. He’d look all debonair in his tux while I’d resemble Betsy the plow horse, pulling my long train behind me down the aisle. But he was right. I shouldn’t care about my wedding since the groom didn’t love me.

  Lincoln sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ll look beautiful in anything.” He took my hand, tugging me toward him.

  I lowered my gaze, feeling bashful at his words. Feeling guilty that I wanted to throw myself into his arms and kiss him until I ran out of air to breathe. Never had I believed I would like kissing, but I despised the space between us.

  But I had to resist.

  “Stop thinking about the wedding.” He squeezed my shoulder, sending swarms of butterflies throughout my body. “Tell me about your family. Is Altin’s mom your mom?”

  I longed to tell him the truth, but I couldn’t let him charm me into giving up my secrets.

  None of this was real.

  “No, thank the gods. Altin’s mom didn’t care for anyone but herself.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “Dead.”

  He blinked. “I’m sorry. How long have you been on your own?”

  “A couple of years. No big deal.” Lies, lies, lies. He needed to stop getting personal. And I needed to pull away from him. But having his arm around me was heaven.

  “Where did you live before you came here? You have a slight accent.”

  Crap, dung, and doo-doo. He was too observant? I pulled away and stood, putting necessary distance between us. No one had mentioned my accent before. Baba had worked hard to ensure I sounded American.

  “I lived in the hood in Chicago for a while,” I said, walking over to the closet to rummage through the awful clothes Casey had made me buy for this weekend. “The ghetto creeps out at times.”

  “You sound anything but ghetto. Where’s your family originally from?”

  “Chicago.” Best to keep lies simple so I didn’t get tangled up in them.

  “No, I mean your roots?”

  I froze, knowing he was trying to figure out my brown skin. I wasn’t super dark like Engjell, but I wasn’t European white either. Lincoln wasn’t dumb. He knew I was an outsider. He was just trying to figure out how outside I was.

  “My dad’s people are Scottish,” he said. “My mom’s great-grandparents came from Norway.”

  Of course he would have a perfect Aryan bloodline.

  He returned to my side and took my hand.

  “Uh,” I stammered, “my dad’s from Canada. Mom’s Indian.” Close enough.

  He ran his fingers through my hair. “It’s a stunning mix.”

  Whew. He’d swallowed my lie. “So is the Scottish-Nordic mix.”

  He smiled, and my heart was lost when he leaned forward and pressed a sweet kiss to my lips. “I’d like to keep learning more about you, but we’re going to be late for dinner.”

  Thank the gods for meal times. More questioning might make me lose my lunch. Or my secrets.

  27

  Lincoln

  My head throbbed from a few too many drinks. That’s what came of staying up after the women had gone to bed to play poker with the guys. I crept into the room, not wanting to wake Gemma. But the lights were on and I spotted her pacing out on the balcony. I smiled. Maybe I could learn more about her now. Or kiss her. I’d wanted to kiss her earlier, but had resisted. She wasn’t attracted to me. But in my inebriated state, I didn’t care.

  I joined her on the balcony. “What’s wrong?” I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close since the mountain air was chilly. I wasn’t quite drunk but was buzzed enough to be turned on by her fruity scent.

  “Casey just texted that the dress I chose won’t be ready in time. He’s ordered that chucking Cinderella dress.”

  “You’ll look stunning in it.” I nibbled her earlobe.

  “But I hated that one most.” She pushed me away.

  “Hey, your dress doesn’t matter to me.”

  “It matters to me. Shouldn’t I like my own wedding dress, even if none of this is real?”

  Ouch. I rubbed my arms. “What kind of dress would you choose?”

  She smiled, and the hope in her eyes made me understand why she drew others to trust her, to give their money to EcoCore, to kiss her when they had no business doing so.

  “I saved a dress on Pinterest. Want to see?” She pulled out her phone.

  “Sure. But inside.” I was getting chilled.

  She followed me inside, and we sat beside each other on the couch. I longed to pull her close and kiss her but knew I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. If I started something, I’d finish it.

  Her thigh rubbed against my leg. “This is my dream dress.” She handed me the phone.r />
  I gazed at the model in the picture, having no trouble visualizing Gemma in the Cleopatra-style gown. I leaned closer.

  “You’d look sexy in that.”

  She shoved me. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

  What the hell was I doing? She was my employee. But my body didn’t care. I pulled her closer and words slipped off my tongue.

  “Maybe. But I’m not blind. You’re the most beautiful woman alive. And I want you.”

  Shut up, shut up!

  She scooted closer. “You won’t remember any of this in the morning, will you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What was the name of your Jeep in high school?”

  I wasn’t that drunk. I closed the distance between us, and she met me halfway, brushing her hands through my hair. I pushed my hands up her tank, caressing the silky skin of her back, wondering if I dared explore her front. We connected like the last two pieces of a complex puzzle. Perfection. She sighed, and I rolled her onto her back.

  Gemma was beyond hot. I’d wanted her almost from day one, wild braids and all. Each day spent with her, especially in close quarters, was exquisite torture.

  I straddled her, turned on like a nuclear reactor. I wanted her. Needed her. We kept kissing and touching, temperatures rising. So much potential pleasure within my grasp, our bodies in meltdown. She didn’t like me, but she wouldn’t stop me.

  But I stopped myself as I seemed to awaken from a trance. A small part of my brain still worked, and it scolded the hell out of me. I slipped off her, realizing my head was throbbing. I could ignore that pain for the pleasure she promised. But I couldn’t ignore my conscience.

  “I’m going to puke.” I stumbled to my feet, sickened by what I’d been ready to do. What I still wanted to do. The more we kept playing pretend, the more real my feelings were becoming. Not good.

  I escaped into the bathroom, wishing there was a freaking door on the toilet area. I fell to my knees and hung my head over the rim, hating myself for leading her on. She was an innocent, going by her genuine reactions.

  The lights turned off in the bedroom. Thank God. I couldn’t face her. How could we pull off this ruse and seek an annulment, pretending nothing had happened between us? Because that was the greatest farce of all. Something had changed between Gemma and me. If we stayed together and played this out to the end, something more would happen. And one or both of us would be hurt. Likely me, since she didn’t seem invested.

  I stayed in the bathroom until I was certain she’d fallen asleep. When I stretched out on the couch in the darkness, something hard jabbed my thigh.

  Gemma’s phone.

  I entered her ridiculous password, and Pinterest popped up, her dream dress displayed. The Egyptian-style gown seemed more costume than wedding attire. Yet I could picture Gemma in it easily. And it wasn’t an unpleasant picture.

  I sent a screenshot to my phone before turning hers off and curling up on the couch with my pillow. Too bad there wasn’t time to give Gemma her dream dress.

  She’d look amazing in it.

  28

  Saemira

  Age 14 – Fushë Krujë, Albania

  AUTHENTIC: true to one’s character.

  The work was done. Saemira and Engjell had cleaned the school from opposite ends since Baba still wouldn’t allow them to spend time together. Her friend had taken Baba’s anger hard. So had she. Not having anyone to hang around with on her off-time was boring.

  She peeked inside Baba’s office and blinked when she saw Engjell there.

  “Come in, Saemira.” Baba waved for her to enter.

  Not daring to sit by her friend, she threw him an apologetic look as she sat two chairs away.

  Baba folded his arms. “I’m tired of being upset with Engjell for taking advantage of you.”

  He hadn’t taken advantage of her. Engjell had been polite, asking permission to kiss her. But not wanting Baba to think she was bad, she remained silent.

  “You two may resume your friendship, on one condition.” He stared hard at Engjell, who squirmed.

  “Anything, Mr. Nikolla.”

  Baba pushed his glasses up his nose. “Be authentic with each other.”

  “I can be authentic,” Engjell said.

  “Me, too,” Saemira said, though she couldn’t remember the exact meaning of the word. She’d look it up later.

  Baba turned to her. “Being authentic means being honest and telling Engjell how you felt about him kissing you.”

  She froze. No. Not that.

  His stern gaze softened. “Saemira, you do yourself and Engjell no kindness by being dishonest. Silence is another form of lying.”

  She chewed her lip and faced her friend. “I…” She turned beseeching eyes on Baba, but he gestured for her to continue. “I didn’t like kissing you.” Her friend slouched, and she added, “But I love you.”

  Baba growled.

  “You said to be authentic, and I do love him.”

  Engjell’s expression brightened.

  “As a friend, not a boyfriend,” she clarified.

  He pouted, but Baba had said to be authentic. That seemed to mean being honest.

  “You’re like my brother. I hated kissing Esad, too, and he has no scars. This isn’t about your looks.” She tapped her lips. “There must be something wrong with me. Maybe I’m bad at kissing. But I’m glad we did it, or we’d never know how we felt, right?”

  “Since we’re being authentic, I’m glad we kissed, too, for I will remember our kisses all my life. You are not bad at kissing, Gem.”

  She grinned, grateful to know she wasn’t deficient in some way.

  Baba cleared his throat. “No more talk about kissing. As I said, I want you both to be authentic. You now know my daughter didn’t enjoy kissing. Promise to be her friend without pushing for physical affection.”

  Engjell hung his head. “I promise.”

  “Honor her. Be her protector and brother.”

  Engjell winced. “I will never be her brother.”

  “Then her protector and friend.”

  “I will always be those.”

  “Very well.” Baba brushed his hands together. “You may resume your friendship.”

  Engjell and Saemira smiled at each other. Then she pulled out her black light.

  “Race you to the clubhouse.”

  Gemma

  Lincoln entered the bedroom, and my equilibrium flew out the window. Why did he always make me crazy? Wilder had taken the men out to the shooting range while my two moms had taken me to the spa. Lincoln looked as if he could’ve used the spa as well. He was sunburnt and appeared exhausted.

  He threw himself onto the couch.

  “Was shooting that bad?”

  “I hate guns,” he said. “They’re loud, have a bruising kick, and shoot my self-esteem to hell. Kind of like my father.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Meh,” he said. “It is what it is.”

  He needed cheering up. I hurried into the bathroom and returned with my hair pulled into a towel-turban.

  He squinted. “You doing a face mask or something?”

  “No.” I knelt on the plush carpet and took his hand. “I’m Madame Saemira,” I said in a dramatic voice. “I’m going to read your palms.” I caressed his hand, trying to ignore how my body pulsed with desire and fear. I’d just told him my real name. “I see that you’re at odds with the spirits.”

  He tried to pull his hand away. “Stop being ridiculous.”

  I rubbed the lines of his palm. “I see you’ve conquered an army today.”

  He snorted.

  “And you have hayfever, no?”

  He tried to pull his hand away again. I stroked his palm, and he stopped resisting.

  “You’re upset with your father, no?”

  “How did you deduce that, Einstein?”

  My lips twitched. “Madame Saemira, not Einstein. You are like your father, yes?”

  He yanked his hand from mine, throwing m
e off balance. “I’m nothing like that man.” He stalked over to the mini-bar and poured himself a drink. “Stop acting like a damned gypsy.”

  Ouch. That hadn’t gone well. “What do you have against gypsies, besides a few misdemeanors? You can’t judge a whole race by a few.”

  He tossed back a gulp. “They’re not a race, they’re criminals. Like pirates. Just because movies and books have romanticized them, doesn’t make them noble. They’re a—”

  “What?” I stood. “What are they, Mr. Judgy-pants?”

  He tossed back another shot, escaping into alcohol because the subject had turned uncomfortable. He was good at that.

  “Your attitude’s appalling,” I said. “This is how racism thrives, because of good people like you who put another group down because of preconceived notions when you understand nothing about them.”

  “I’m not racist.”

  “You called all gypsies worthless criminals. What if I had gypsy blood? Would you call the cops? Have me arrested?”

  “You’re not a gypsy.”

  “What if I was? Would you have even hired me if I had Romani blood?”

  His brow furrowed.

  I threw my hands in the air. “You don’t even know what Romani is, do you? FYI, it’s a race of people. The Roma were dispersed from Northern India between the sixth and eleventh centuries and are scattered worldwide. Some call them gypsies or travelers. Pirate is another word for gangster. Pirates can be from any race or nationality. Gypsies are a race. They have a culture, a language, traditions, feelings. I’m offended on their behalf that you demean them without understanding who they even are.”

  Lincoln wasn’t alone in his ignorance. I’d faced outright persecution in Albania because of who my mama was. Angel had faced daily bullying because of who his mama wasn’t. I’d come to America, believing this to be a melting pot where everyone got along. But I’d been quickly cured of that false notion. Racism existed here in subtle, more dangerous attitudes most people weren’t even aware of. Almost everyone thought they were better than someone else because of wealth, political views, culture, race, religion, sexual orientation, gender, or the music they enjoyed.