Mason doesn’t have his headphones in, which to me is like not putting a sock on the door. He's available for company and deep conversation. I turn my body toward him and start in on a slight whisper.
“Psst.”
His handsome face turns toward me, and he slants his eyebrows, obviously already annoyed. I've said one word to the man. What the hell? His eyes focus on his tablet, bringing his concentration back to whatever he was doing.
I continue to watch him, unwilling to give up on the chance of a conversation. The silence that filled the cabin since take off had begun to suffocate me, and I needed human interaction. He doesn’t respond, so I try again.
“Mason?” I ask in a half-whisper, half-yell, cupping my hands around my mouth. “Psst. Are you busy?”
Alma makes a sound and moves her shoulder but otherwise stays asleep. Mason winces, looking over at Alma, then meeting my eyes. Damn those green eyes and all the golden flecks. It's as if he’s tipped a kaleidoscope up toward the light and all the vibrant colors fell directly into his irises.
“I’m working,” Mason finally answers, in a clipped tone. This attitude of his won’t do.
“Did you grow up in Ireland?” I ask with my largest grin. His jaw ticks, and I can easily see how annoyed he is with me. Something deep inside me, however, doesn't seem bothered by this fact. He watches me and shifts in his seat to where he is facing me more fully.
“Yeah, until I was about twenty or so, then I moved to America.” He seems slightly annoyed with my insistence to interact, but at the same time, something behind his eyes tells me he's relieved to have a distraction from his work.
I nod and tuck my hair behind my ear. He tracks the movement of my hand and meets my gaze. My brain must be misfiring because I stare back, getting lost in his gaze. His eyes dart to my lips, and I resist the urge to slip out my tongue out to wet them.
“What made you want to leave?” I ask, scratching my neck and flicking my eyes back and forth between Noodge and Mason.
Those oddly perfect lips twist into a smirk, and I swear a small laugh leaves his lungs before he responds.
“I moved to America for work… became an accountant, and moved out West, toward Los Angeles.” He sighs and lifts his shoulder in a half shrug. “Followed my dreams like all Americans do.”
I blink and again compress a very deep and primal urge to laugh. Why did everything Mason say sound so utterly ridiculous?
He must see my internal struggle to hold myself back because he narrows his eyes for the hundredth time.
“What’s so funny?”
Unable to contain myself, I let it all out and don’t care who hears me. I laugh until tears stream down my face. I'm not sure what’s gotten into me. I feel free. I feel like letting loose and finally allowing myself to have fun.
Alma stirs and slowly wakes up. Mason jerks his head toward Alma, then glares at me.
“Good going. Now you’ve woken her.” Frustrated with my lack of restraint, he turns away from me.
“Oh honey, it wasn’t you.” Alma pats my arm in reassurance. “I need to use the jacks.” She stands and shuffles around me, heading down the aisle toward the back of the plane. I glance over at Mason who's clenching his jaw, watching me.
“You’re infuriating, you know that?” he asks in a clipped, irritated tone.
I roll my eyes. “Let me explain, Moon Boy. Don't get your panties in a twist.”
His head rears back, and his glare turns to ice. Great, at this rate, he's going to file a restraining order of some kind.
“I’m sorry I laughed." I sigh, leaning over Alma's chair. "It’s just, who on earth travels to America to go to school, only to become an accountant? Better yet,"—I hold up my finger to make a point—“who moves to L.A. to become an accountant? When people follow their dreams and move somewhere like Los Angeles, they go on the Voice or act as an extra in a film, hoping for their big break. They wait tables while they attend film or dance school. Something that requires skill and a shit ton of luck.”
Mason lets his eyes lazily roam over my features again but before he can say anything, Alma is back. Instead of immediately returning to her seat, she stands at the end of the aisle beside me, looking at Mason with pleading eyes.
“Could you trade me places, dear? The wall would help me rest a bit.”
Mason’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second. Several seconds pass before he finally smiles at Alma, resolving to give her his seat. He scoots over, making sure to take Noodge with him. As soon as he sits down and the three of us make ourselves comfortable, his warm arm unintentionally rests against mine.
Shit. Being next to him was not going to be a good thing.
He situates his tablet on his new tray table like it was before. Alma snuggles herself against the wall, still using her neck pillow and gently pulls an eye mask over her eyes. Mason looks at Alma and reaches into his backpack, pulling out a light blanket, quietly draping it over her. My ovaries nearly explode, watching him being so gentle, so caring. I continue to watch him as he turns back toward me. He looks tired. His hooded green eyes are darker under the dim overhead lights. He doesn’t answer my curiosity about him becoming an accountant and moving to the United States. Instead, he pulls out a white headphone splitter.
“Do you have headphones?”
I nod, not certain what he's suggesting. He holds out his hand, gesturing for them. Bending over, I reach into my oversized purse resting between my feet and tug them free, placing them in his palm and watch as he untangles the small knotted mess. He attaches my headphones to the splitter and plugs the splitter into his tablet. Putting his own headphones in, he raises his eyebrows at me, waiting for me to follow. Smirking, I slide my earbuds in.
Mason holds the tablet between us and selects a movie from his home screen. His finger hovers over the play button, but I stop him, placing my hand over his. His eyes immediately dart to our touching hands. Shocked at myself, and as if I had unconsciously touched a burning flame, I jerk my hand back and clear my throat.
“What’s a jack?”
“What?” he asks, pulling out one of his earbuds. I’m not exactly sure why he does this because we haven’t even started the movie yet.
“What Alma said when she got up,” I explain, nodding toward the front of the plane. “She said she had to use the jacks. What did she mean?”
Laughing, he shakes his head. “It’s what us Irish folk call what you Americans so gracefully refer to as the bathroom.”
“Oh.” I raise my eyebrows and frown in thought. Tilting my head, I add, “Calling it a jack is no more sophisticated sounding than calling it a bathroom.”
His eyes light with amusement, a small smile spreading across his beautiful lips. He doesn’t speak another word before he replaces his earbud and taps the play button on his tablet.
The movie is something a bit older. My heart nearly skips a beat when I see the beginning credits for Tommy Boy. It is definitely one of my favorite movies of all time. Or in my top five at least.
Mason lifts the armrest between us and sidles up next to me until we're practically cuddling. My heart is thundering in my chest. What am I supposed to do, turn down the generosity he is so obviously extending with this gesture? No, Mason was offering an olive branch, and I’d be damned if I turned him down. So, I snuggle into his side and quietly watch as Chris Farley makes a fool of himself on the screen. I just hope I don’t fall asleep—sleeping this close to Mason while I was having not so platonic thoughts of him would be monumentally bad.
Fucking catastrophic.
***
I feel warm and perfectly comfortable. I don’t want to wake up. Who knew sleeping on a plane could actually be comfortable? The only thing I don’t understand is why the armrest keeps pulsating and getting firmer by the second. It seems strange, but my still half asleep brain rationalizes my situation. My hand flexes, squeezing the armrest harder. Was this some weird alternate dimension where I felt things but couldn’t really feel
them? Come to think of it, the entire armrest feels off.
“Fucking hell. Wake up, Charlotte.”
Mason’s voice rumbles above me, and I freeze in place, hand on the armrest that's pulsating and twitching. Quickly, I snap open my eyes. My hand isn’t on the armrest. It is, however, in Mason’s lap. More specifically, it's on his thigh, and I'm literally gripping his junk. I sit up so fast, my head hits Mason’s chin.
“Fuck,” he groans, jerking his head to the side.
I bring my hands to my hair, frantically raking my fingers through the tangled mess, attempting to correct the disheveled mass. Embarrassed, I mutter an apology. Actually, I mutter a thousand apologies. My face is on fire, and my chest is tight. Did I just cheat? Was I a cheater now? I swore I’d never be that person in the relationship, and now, maybe I was. Oh, shit.
I correct myself in the seat and reach for my water bottle. Tipping it back, I take a long drink, forcing myself to remain calm. Mason has one hand over his eyes and one arm resting over his thigh—where my hand had been just moments ago. He’s obviously trying to cover up the erection I had unintentionally given him.
God, this was embarrassing.
I search the cabin, attempting to gain my bearings. The sky is still dark and most everyone is asleep. More importantly, Alma's still fast asleep and most likely didn’t witness my grope-fest. Finally calm enough to form a real apology, I shift in my seat a fraction.
“Uh, sorry about that.” Unable to look him in the eye, I glance at Mason’s lap and hope he will just forgive me and move on. I hope we can somehow forget this little incident ever happened.
He lets out a low chuckle and lowers his hand from his face, gracing me with a brilliant smile.
“Trust me, I’m not actually complaining about that almost hand job you gave me,” he jokes with a crooked grin. “I only woke you up, so Alma didn’t have to witness it.”
Something churns in my stomach at his comment, and like a sliver in my skin, it irritates me.
“For the record, I was not giving you a hand job,” I clarify, hoping to knock that egotistical grin off his face. “I did not mean to touch you like that.” I know my voice has suddenly grown louder, and I hope I'm not disrupting the other passengers, but I can’t seem to contain myself.
How could he have thought I was flirting with him? He must have, otherwise, he’d just brush off what happened and not talk about me giving him an almost hand job through his jeans.
His face falls a bit at my clarification, and his chauvinistic smirk takes over.
“No need to be shy about it. It’s not like I didn’t enjoy the view of those perfect breasts while you passed out on my shoulder.” His gaze briefly lowers to my chest. I follow his eyes, wincing at how loose my shirt has become. He probably had a fantastic view of my teal striped bra and ample cleavage.
“Well, I wouldn’t get too excited about my hands being on you.” His comments make my anger burn a little hotter. “I was thinking and dreaming about my boyfriend. Fucking fantastic sex dream, thank you very much.” My face burns at the lie spilling from my mouth—I hadn’t been dreaming about my boyfriend.
In fact, I was dreaming about Chris Farley, but not in a sexual way. In this dream, we were eating cookies while driving the car that was in shambles in Tommy Boy. If anything, I was overly excited about the chocolatey goodness I was experiencing.
Mason’s jaw ticks a few times as he studies me, then returns his gaze to his backpack. Ignoring me, he pulls out his phone and headphones.
I almost think that's it—end of conversation, end of humiliation. He proves me wrong when he lets out a sigh.
“You have a boyfriend?”
The genuine concern in his question shifts something in my chest. He isn’t being a dick about it, just honest and real. I nod my head, ashamed of myself, for some reason. Had I led him on?
Mason gives me a side smile, successfully catching me off guard.
“Next time you flirt with a random stranger,” he states, “ you might want to disclose that little tidbit of information. I’d be fucking pissed if my girlfriend acted like you just did.” The words drip from his mouth, and my chest pounds with an unfamiliar pain.
His words have hit me like a ton of bricks, picking at an old scab that hasn’t fully healed. I am not a fucking cheater.
“I wasn’t flirting with you. I’m sorry I touched you inappropriately, but I wasn’t flirting. I was being nice,” I breathlessly try to defend myself, my face flushing and my heart thundering. Mason smirks again, popping his earbuds back in. I'm thoroughly convinced I see him roll his eyes.
“Whatever you have to tell yourself,” he says, lowering the armrest down with a hard thrust, obviously using more power than necessary. The armrest lands back in its original position with a loud smack. In one smooth move, he tilts his head back on the headrest, completely shutting me out, presses his lips into a thin line, and closes his eyes.
The rest of the plane ride is spent in silence, tears springing in my eyes on more than one occasion. I’m not sure whether the tears are from the guilt I feel for almost cheating on my boyfriend or from the way Mason’s eyes drop to me before he closes them, refusing to allow me to see them the rest of our flight.
Everyone frantically packs up their bags as the Captain comes over the intercom, declaring our descent. It's as if everyone thinks they'll win some kind of prize for being the first ones off. I power on my phone, verifying Sam still going to pick me up and let him know my flight is landing on time.
Me: Flight’s on time. You still picking me up?
Sam: Yep, all ready for you.
I shut off my phone and try to relax as the plane draws closer to land. This is a foreign country. This is something I’ve never done before, and I have no idea what I’m getting myself into. But Sam was born and raised here and would be my guide. I silently send a thank you to my mom for watching out for me. I desperately wanted to make this trip, but not knowing anyone here or anything about the country would have been a big deterrent, especially now that my stupid boyfriend wasn’t here with me. The plane begins its descent, and my stomach flips and turns. I try to look out Alma’s window, she has the shade open.
My heart nearly bursts as Ireland comes into view. From here, everything still looks like perfectly sequestered squares with black dividers as roads. There are wheat fields and the ocean. I instinctively try to lean closer, but Mason clears his throat. Dammit. I give him a side look I wish could kill. I want to see more but instead, fall back into my seat and let out a sigh.
I don’t say anything to Mason as our flight stops and the passengers fill the aisle, waiting to get off. I don't say anything to him as he follows me out of the gate, seemingly headed in the same direction. And I definitely don’t say anything to him as I wait for my larger suitcase at baggage claim. Even if I had wanted to, he ignores me, immersed in his phone.
I'm mad at myself for leading him on. I want to apologize, but the vibe he kept giving me was basically to fuck off. So, I leave him alone.
I inhale a deep, refreshing breath, determined to leave this small blip behind me forever and never see him again. I’ll never hear about Noodge or why Mason followed his dreams to become an accountant. I will never see Mason McConnell ever again.
Finally, as the baggage carousel begins to move, I grab my large black suitcase off the belt and head outside. Fighting to push through my crappy attitude, I force a smile on my face for my boyfriend’s best friend, the same man who has become more like a brother to me.
The early morning sky is packed full of grey clouds, and the ground is soaked with rain. It's freezing. I hadn’t thought of how cold it would be here.
I scan the arrivals zone for the familiar dark hair and bright face. Soon, I find Sam, off to the side, pulled up along the curb.
“Over here, Char!” he yells with an enthusiastic wave.
I lightly jog over, pulling my carryon and rather large suitcase, eagerly throwing my arms around Sam’s nec
k.
He tightly hugs me back. “You made it.”
“I made it.” I let him go and beam at him.
He politely takes my suitcase handle and starts toward the back of his small car “Not sure how we will fit both your suitcases, but we’ll figure it out.”
I scrunch my face in confusion, about to ask what he's talking about when Mason's head pops up from the trunk of Sam’s car.
My jaw drops, staring at him, dumbfounded.
Surprisingly, he looks as confused as I do. He glances at Sam, then points a finger at me.
“This is Kyle’s girlfriend?” he practically yells.
I blanch and swipe at the rain pelting my face. I look at Sam who is just as confused as both of us.
“Yeah, this is Charlotte,” he says to Mason, holding a hand out toward me.
Nothing is making sense.
“Sorry, how do you know Sam or Kyle?” I ask Mason.
Mason rolls his eyes and angrily reaches for my suitcase, ignoring me still.
“Mason is my brother, Char," Sam interjects. "Do you two know each other then?” He gestures between me and Mason, amusement and curiosity flashing across his face.
Before I can answer, Mason shoves my suitcase into the trunk and growls, “Nope. We don’t know each other at all. She’s just a fucking stranger.”
Mason
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE fucking kidding me.” I rake my fingers through my hair and rest my elbow on the passenger door. Shaking my head, I bite my thumbnail, staring at the wide open, bright green fields stretching out for miles.
“Do you know any other word besides ‘fucking’?” Charlotte asks.
She’s sitting in the front seat of my brother’s car with her perfect hands resting in her lap. Staring at the pale pink nail polish painted across each of her nails, I remember how those hands were draped across my lap on the airplane. The only barrier between my growing erection and her hand had been the zipper of my jeans. With the frustration still settled in the bottom of my stomach, I keep my focus trained on the rolling fields of my homeland. Water droplets dot the window from the earlier rainfall.
What are the Chances Page 3