Once we’re upstairs, he doesn’t stop at the room I had laid down in earlier. Instead, he heads up a smaller, narrower set of stairs leading to a short, closed blue door. Standing behind him, I watch as he reaches out with his free hand and grabs the doorknob. Quietly turning it, he swings it open.
Inside is a small room, angled with the shape of the roof. I crane my neck and see another small door to our right, propped open. I walk in a little and see behind that door is a toilet, sink, and the smallest shower I’ve seen in my life. In the middle of the bedroom is what looks like a full or small queen bed, covered with a dark green comforter, two large, puffy pillows propped against the metal headboard. A small window, allowing a decimal amount of light from the sunset, sits above the bed, and a medium sized dresser is situated near the far wall, my luggage piled next to it. Apparently, so was Mason’s.
“Why is both of our luggage in here?” Confused, I narrow my eyes and point at the suitcases.
Mason clears his throat and nervously grabs the back of his neck.
“The Airbnb folks are already checked into the other rooms. This is the only one available.” He shifts on his feet and fluffs the pillow closest to him on the bed. “I would take the couch downstairs,” he adds, reading my thoughts, “but we’re supposed to stay out of their way a bit while they stay here.” He shrugs his shoulder, showcasing the defined muscle under his shirt.
I swallow hard and look around. There isn’t even enough room to make a bed on the floor, the free space around the bed definitely too narrow.
I release a heavy, frustrated sigh. I don’t even know where to begin. Should I be more angry with the man who stole my wallet or with myself for allowing it to happen? To add to my irritation, I’m upset with my asinine attraction to Mason. I can’t seem to shake him, no matter what I try to do. Feeling defeated, I fall back on the bed, landing on the soft mattress.
“So, we’re both sleeping in this bed then?” I risk a slight peek at Mason’s handsome face.
He flushes red and slowly nods. “Looks like it.”
Sighing, I close my eyes. “Fantastic.”
Several seconds pass, the silence in the room swells, and taking another chance, I open my eyes and prop up on my elbows.
“What is it?” He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing. The only difference is now he has his hands firmly planted on his hips.
“Are we not going to talk about what just happened?” he asks. His cheeks flash with red as he points toward the small window of our room facing the front of the house.
“I’d rather not.” Annoyed with this conversation, I fall back onto the bed again, too tired for a lecture.
“Fucking try again,” he scoffs. “When I have to give a stranger twenty euros because your wallet was somehow stolen, you’re going to start talking.”
“You didn’t have to give him that much,” I argue. “I only owed him five.”
“Are you joking me?” he asks, his tone taking on a higher pitch like he couldn’t really believe what I just said to him. He’s getting a strange twitch in his eye, and it makes me think it might be time to go. I’ve been back with Mason all of five minutes and already need some space. His mood swings are giving me whiplash. One moment, he’s concerned and sweet, the next he’s angry and demanding answers.
“I’m going to go change for bed.” I snag my smaller suitcase and cart it through the small door to the bathroom, avoiding Mason’s glare. Once I shut the door to the bathroom, I take a few seconds to calm down. I want to cry over having my ID stolen while I’m abroad. I want to cry over the fact I somehow feel further from finding my family than I did while I was in L.A. I want to cry over the fact I just sassed Mason after he bailed me out, paying for my beer. And I want to shrivel up into a ball and just quit at life.
Instead, I push back the shower curtain and turn the chrome knob to the right, waiting for the water to warm. I unzip my suitcase and angle it just right, so I can reach everything inside. The size of the bathroom is going to take some getting used to. It can maybe fit three of me, standing up. Once I step into the shower, I feel my body relax under the warm water. Shockingly, no tears come, no anger, nothing but exhaustion. So, I wash my hair and my body, then promptly get out and dress. Eyeing my pajamas in the mirror, I take a deep breath. Mason’s voice rings through my mind, accusing me of flirting and not making it clear I was with someone. He’s annoying. He’s opinionated. And he has infuriatingly burrowed deep into my mind. That same voice prods at me to grab more clothes and cover up, but the bitch inside of me, the one who had the worst fucking day, says screw it.
I like sleeping in short sleep shorts and a tank top. I like sleeping without a bra, and I’m sure as hell not going to tiptoe around Mason’s feelings. He knows I’m with someone, he can respect that. Not that he even wants me, anyway. If last night was any indication at all, he definitely doesn’t want me. No, I was the big, fat laundry bag. And this laundry bag was going to bed comfortable. Precious Mason could deal.
I braid my hair, zip my suitcase, and head to the bedroom where I hope, and nearly pray, Mason will be fast asleep.
Mason
I’M LYING IN THE middle of the bed, my arms crossed over my chest, my chin tipped up, facing the ceiling. The sound of the shower coming through the tiny door in my parents’ attic rings through my ears. I wanted to fall asleep the second Charlotte stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t stop the thoughts running through my mind. It wasn’t only the confusion I still felt over what had happened with the strange old man who had shown up at my door, a sad, reluctant Charlotte standing behind him, her hair a mess, still damp from the pouring rain. Luckily, she was wearing her tall rain boots, so I took comfort knowing she wasn’t completely clueless when it came to the unforgiving Ireland weather.
When the old man had told me the reason he had to bring Charlotte back to my house, my stomach dipped, causing my throat to constrict with an unfamiliar sickness. Some piece of shit human stole her wallet. I wanted nothing more than to get in my father’s car, drive down to the pub, find the man, and beat the living shit out of him—even if I was barefoot and only wearing my sweatpants and a t-shirt.
The longer I lie on the bed in silence, the more my anger grows at our situation. Charlotte screams tourist, not only with her thick American accent, but the way she carries herself. She’s apprehensive and cautious. Innocent. The thought of someone taking advantage of her causes my blood to boil.
My skin flashes with heat, and a thin sheen of sweat forms along my forehead. Sitting up, I frantically remove my t-shirt, hoping the cool air will calm me down. Feeling the cold air dancing across my skin, I lie back down on the bed, only this time, I turn on my side, away from the bathroom door. I cross my arms once again, hoping my anger with her will pass.
I lie in silence, thinking of all the things I have left to say to her when I hear the bathroom door swing open, listening to her small feet pad across the rug covering most of the hardwood floor. The other side of the bed dips slightly, and I feel her climbing under the covers, her movements rough. She jerks the blanket back, digging her legs underneath the covers, then jerks them back over her.
Pressing my lips into a flat line, I inhale heavy, deep breaths, forcing myself to remain quiet. Charlotte must think I’ve already fallen asleep because she doesn’t say a word as she shifts on the bed, making herself comfortable, her back briefly brushing against mine. I ignore the sudden rush of blood coursing through my body at her touch and focus on the white wall in front of me. The room is dim and the shadow of the moon, peeking through the small window above our bed, shines a white glow down on us. Her constant shifting causes me to bounce slightly on the bed, and my frustration with her becomes too much for me to keep my silence.
“Fucking Christ, Charlotte. What are you doing?” Turning around, I sit up and face her.
She’s still lying on her side, angrily adjusting the pillow beneath her h
ead. Her bare shoulder peeks beneath the fluffy blanket covering the lower half of her body. My fingers flex against the mattress at my side, realizing she’s wearing a small, thin strapped tank top. Fuck.
“I’m sorry,” she bitterly says. “Did I wake you?”
“No. I wasn’t even asleep. But do you have to move around like that? It’s obnoxious.”
Her body stills, and her eyes remain focused in front of her. Her shoulder rises and falls with her steady breaths, and for a moment I regret my words. Why can’t I ever be nice to the woman? She’s in a foreign country, and her wallet has been stolen, her first day here. I sigh and bend my leg, resting my arm over my knee.
“I’m sorry. I know you’ve had a bad day,” I say, hoping it will somehow make her feel better.
“I don’t need you to apologize. I’ll be fine,” she grits out.
I scoff in disbelief and shake my head—stubborn ass woman.
Suddenly, she sits up, turning to face me, her eyes narrowed.
I was right, she is wearing a thinly strapped tank top, and fuck if it wasn’t affecting me. Luckily, the blanket is still covering my lower half, hiding the evidence of what she does to me.
“What, Mason? Spit it out,” she yells.
“Nothing.” Laughing, I grin and shake my head again.
“Obviously, it isn’t nothing.”
Her wide eyes continue to stare at me, then she nods.
“I know exactly what you’re thinking, so I’ll go ahead and say it, spare you from having to scold me. I know you’re doing everything in your power not to say what you really feel.”
Refusing to meet her gaze, I hold out my hand, inviting her to continue.
“Enlighten me then.”
“Well.” She inhales a deep, dramatic breath and slowly breathes it out before she continues. “You’re going to tell me I should have listened to Sam and not gone out by myself. You’re going to say I should have paid closer attention to where I was and what I was doing.” She dramatically drops her hands onto the blanket at her sides and looks up at the ceiling. “Also, I’m obviously a tourist and people always try to take advantage of people like me an oblivious American. Does that sound about right?” Rolling her head to the side, she stares at me, waiting for me to agree with her.
I pause and allow the silence to fall between us. Looking away, I focus my attention on a loose thread in the blanket, twirling it between my fingers, refusing to allow her to be right.
“You forgot the part where you allowed a complete stranger to drive you all the way here.” Again, I’m not sure why I continue making these remarks. Something about pushing Charlotte’s buttons turns me on.
Feeling her shift beside me, a pillow suddenly smacks the side of my face.
“Holy hell.” I push back the pillow and watch as it falls over Charlotte’s lap and onto the floor. “What was that for?” I rub my cheek, but I find myself smiling.
“Why do you always have to be such an asshat?” The tops of her ears flame beneath her chestnut braided hair.
“Asshat?”
Shoving the blanket aside, she climbs out from under the sheets and spins around, firmly planting her hands on her hips.
“Yes, I called you an asshat. It’s an American term.”
“I’m fully aware it’s an American term,” I say, laughing under my breath.
Charlotte bends down to pick up the pillow she smacked across my face mere seconds ago. I bite the inside of my cheek, watching the fabric of her shorts ride up the top half of her thighs. I stare at her longer than deemed appropriate, and the longer I stare, the more I question whether she wore her outfit on purpose, just to mess with me. She could have easily worn a long t-shirt and the black leggings she wore on the flight. Instead, she’s standing in front of me, in the sexiest pair of shorts and tank top I’ve ever seen.
With her eyebrows furrowed, she throws the pillow at me again, this time, hitting across my arm. She stares at my bare chest momentarily, her throat dipping as she swallows before stomping across the two feet of free space in the room. Finding a pile of pillows in the corner of the room, she lifts the pile in her arms and carries them over to the bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Climbing under the sheets once more, she begins shoving the pillows up against my body, creating a wall.
“I’m making a wall. I don’t want you touching me while we sleep.” She doesn’t move her focus away from the pillows, ensuring each one is strategically placed between our bodies.
“You’re being ridiculous.” I roll my eyes and lie back down, making myself comfortable, feeling the wall of pillows make its way down my body.
When Charlotte’s finished, she remains sitting up, seemingly satisfied with the wall she’s purposely made to divide us. I ignore the pain growing in my chest at her need to make it a point not to touch me—even if it isn’t intentional.
“Was there really no other place for us to sleep?” she asks, still sitting up, staring me down. “Couldn’t one of us have slept in the other room? Isn’t there only one couple staying here?”
“No,” I sigh. Turning on my back, I look at the ceiling, raking my fingers through my hair. “Sam didn’t mention he’d booked two couples instead of one. One couple is staying in my parents’ room, the other in Sam’s and my old room. Like I said, I couldn’t sleep on the couch because we need to stay out of their way when they’re here. Do you know how awkward it would be when one of them wakes up and finds me laying out on the couch?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Charlotte looks down at her lap, her breasts pressed together as her arms rest against her body.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Finally lying down, she mimics me, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. My view of her is partially obscured, but I can see the side of her face. I silently thank her for not placing a pillow between our heads. The side of her gorgeous face is illuminated by the glowing moon still peeking through the window. I turn my head and close my eyes, hoping I can fall asleep and shut off all thoughts of Charlotte, but I fail when I hear her small voice fill the room.
“Mason?”
“Yeah?” I clear my throat, keeping my eyes closed.
“Thank you for paying Bern for my beer.”
Opening my eyes, I keep them trained on the ceiling and don’t say a word.
“And for giving him more than I owed,” she adds.
“You’re welcome.”
***
When I wake up the next morning, the first thing I think about is how warm my back feels. It’s strange and takes a moment for me to remember why.
Miraculously, all the pillows Charlotte had laid against my body last night have stayed upright except for the one by my feet. Groaning, I turn and stretch my arms out, allowing the pillows to fall to the side. My hands hit the metal bedframe and I look up, cracking my eyes open to see the morning sun peeking through the open window. Charlotte must have cracked it open to allow the fresh air to pour in.
I smile, feeling completely rested. I’m not sure if it’s because I hadn’t had much rest since the thirteen hours it took to fly here or if it was the fact, for once, I wasn’t sleeping alone. Last night was one of the best sleeps I’ve had in a long time. A tiny fragment of common sense tells me it was because I was sleeping next to Charlotte. Although I hate to admit it, her pillow wall had proven effective, preventing me from having any physical contact with her.
When I sit up, I realize I’m alone in the bedroom, and Charlotte isn’t in the bathroom either. The bathroom door is halfway open, her open suitcase still sitting on top of the wicker hamper on the far side of the wall.
Climbing out of the bed, I find my discarded shirt from the night before on the floor and quickly throw it on, anxious to find Charlotte. As I make my way through the hallway and down the stairs, I wonder how she’s feeling. I’m all too familiar with the feeling of being in a strange new country, and on top of that, I can’t imagine how it
feels to have your wallet stolen within the first twenty-four hours.
I wanted to press her for more details. I wanted her to tell me how in the hell she managed to allow herself to become so vulnerable, but I couldn’t. After she threw the pillow against my face, before she built a physical barrier between us, I knew she needed space. But now, as I make my way downstairs and into my parents’ kitchen, my questions about how last night came to be gnaw at my brain.
I’m rubbing the remaining sleep from my eyes when I find one of Sam’s Airbnb guests slicing a banana into his oatmeal.
If I’m remembering correctly, his name is Danny. Danny and his husband, Richard, are on a short holiday getaway, visiting Ireland’s countryside. Last night, after checking them in, they told me they were celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary.
As I make my way into the kitchen, I notice Danny is dressed in an open, red silk robe, wearing a plain white tank top and striped pajama pants underneath. Breaking his concentration, he looks up when he hears me entering the kitchen.
“Good morning, handsome,” he sings. Sending me a wink and a smirk, he returns to his banana slicing.
“Morning, Danny. I hope you and Richard slept well.” I watch as he finishes the last bit and tosses the peel into the rubbish.
“We did. Thank you.” Glancing up, he sends me a smile before walking over to the small breakfast table situated in front of the window overlooking the garden. Stirring his oatmeal, he adds, “I thought I would let Richard sleep in a bit longer. He works so much lately, he deserves it.”
I nod and grin, happy to hear they’re enjoying themselves. Silence falls on the room as Danny eats his breakfast while I awkwardly stand in between the kitchen and living room. Scanning the living room and hallway, Danny’s voice catches my attention.
“Your girlfriend is out back in the garden, under the tree.” He’s chewing a mouthful of oatmeal, pointing toward the window with his spoon.
What are the Chances Page 6