by Kristie Cook
He slid his arm around my waist and pulled me up against his side, and then we headed for the restaurant doors. A rush of noise hit us when we entered, and I could have kissed him again for bringing me to a bar-grill kind of place rather than another fancy steak house. It was happy hour on Friday, so a large crowd packed the bar area, and Mason took my hand to lead me through it. We stopped at a six-top bar table, and Mason began introductions. Three guys, three women, all older than me and dressed smartly for business, though their top few buttons were undone and their ties loosened in a display of freedom for the weekend. When Mason took two beers out of the bucket on the table, I realized these weren’t mere acquaintances. Good heavens, he was introducing me to his friends!
I wanted to return to the steak house. At least we were alone there. These people wanted to talk, the girls especially. They practically attacked me with all kinds of questions, particularly where I was from (because, being Yanks, they adored my accent) and what I “did” (as if I “did” one particular thing).
“So you’re putting yourself through school while bartending and waiting tables?” one of them asked as her professionally manicured fingers twirled the straw of her Cosmo. Her tone sounded genuinely curious … and genuinely presumptuous so it was barely even a question. I didn’t have a chance to answer before she added, “What are you getting your degree in?”
“Um …” I blinked, trying to control the swirl of emotions running through me that made it impossible to think. A master’s in none-of-your-fucking-business, I wanted to say, but these were Mason’s friends. I’m sure I was embarrassment enough without making it worse for him by letting my Southern redneck show even more.
“Bex’s future plans are on hold right now,” Mason answered for me as he turned toward us girls. I didn’t think he was listening, absorbed in his own conversation with the guys. He took my hand and squeezed it. “Unlike you, Natalie, she’s too smart to spend five years in school on a degree she’ll never use. How are things at Bloomingdale’s, anyway?”
Natalie narrowed her eyes for a moment, then put on a fake smile that would have made my Grams proud and launched into a ramble about her “private clients.” I couldn’t figure out what she did for them, except to bring them clothes and accessories and sometimes even food to the fitting rooms. She sounded like a glorified sales clerk, if you asked me. Still, judging by the designer clothes and the jewelry she wore, and how her hair was perfectly styled, she made a ton more money than I did.
“Sorry about Natalie,” Mason said later as he walked me to my car. “I think she grew up in a country club and has no clue of the real world.”
I simply nodded.
“Everyone else was nice, though, right?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said as I focused my attention on unlocking my car door. He grasped the handle before I could and pulled it open, then turned me to look at him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, the space between his eyebrows creasing.
“Nothing,” I said, putting on my most important accessory. “What now?”
“That smile doesn’t fool me.” He grasped my chin and ran his thumb over my bottom lip. “Did something happen?”
I sighed, but didn’t let go of my smile. “It’s really nothing. I didn’t fit in, is all. But it’s over, and I’m fine. It’s just you and me, now, right?”
He chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really fit in with them, either. I’ve just known most of them since I moved down here, so they’re kind of friends by default. Haven’t had time to make others.” He leaned in and brushed his lips over mine. “And yeah, just you and me now. Do you want to go somewhere else?”
“I don’t really know where there is to go.”
He left his hand against my face as he considered this. “There are plenty of places around here, but let’s take your car back to my place so we don’t have to caravan around town. Follow me?”
I nodded, and he gave me another kiss as though he were saying goodbye for a week rather than a few minutes. I followed him to a large, upscale condominium complex, and then toward the back. Finally, he stopped and stuck his hand out the window, waving me forward. I pulled up next to him and rolled down my window.
“Park in space 66,” he said, pointing at the one to the front of my right bumper. “I’ll take the visitor’s spot.”
I parked and slid out of the driver’s seat, then reached to the backseat for my overnight bag.
“Now that’s what I call a view,” Mason said from behind me, and I jerked upward, hitting my head on the doorjamb. I yelped, and he swept me into his arms. “Oh, precious, I’m so sorry.”
He peppered kisses all over my face.
“I’ll live,” I said, giggling at his overreaction. “I happen to know this hot doctor who will take good care of me if it’s serious.”
“Damn right,” he murmured as he used his body to push me backward, up against my car, where he proceeded to give me another bone-melting kiss. “Let’s take your stuff inside, then we can decide where to go.”
He grabbed my bag from me, locked and shut my car door, then took my hand and led me up the stairs to his third-floor unit. I’d never seen a home so immaculate and … boring. Gray walls, black, boxy furniture, white tile floors, glass and marble tables, but no knickknacks, no snapshots on the walls or end tables, nothing that made it feel like a home. Not even a throw pillow, for heaven’s sake. Mama’s hospital room had been homier than this. The only “adornment” on the walls was the one in the dining room covered in a floor-to-ceiling mirror—as if reflecting the barren room made it any more interesting.
“Do you live here?” I asked as I walked past the bright white kitchen that looked like it had never been used and into the open dining room/living room area. Not a single thing said this was Mason’s place—not a hat, a set of keys, a phone charger cord, nothing.
“Most people would say I live at the hospital,” he said, “but I do hang out here once in a while. I’m usually unconscious, though.”
“What about your brother?” No evidence he even existed.
Mason shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Fraternity brother. And he went back north last week. We didn’t make good roommates.”
Something sounded a little off, but I still wasn’t ready to pry into his business. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. Or when things got really serious—like a proposal—he’d have to fess up then. Whoa nelly, did I really just go there? Nothing like getting a little ahead of myself.
Mason set my bag on the floor next to him, glanced at it, puckered his mouth as though he sucked a lemon, and picked it back up. He nodded to the door on the right side of the living room.
“Guest room,” he said, and then he tilted his head toward the door on the left side of the room. “My room.”
He was asking me to pick where I wanted to sleep tonight! I lifted a corner of my mouth, walked over to the guest room, and opened the door. More gray walls, a black bedspread, and white furniture made it as plain and stark as the rest of the condo. Nothing to show that anyone had been living here a week ago. I sauntered over to the bed, sat down and bounced a few times.
“I guess this will do,” I said when Mason stood in the door.
I watched his face carefully, keeping my own straight. His eyes tightened in the slightest way before he set my bag down on a chair that appeared to belong with the dining room set.
“Do you need to freshen up?” he asked, his voice hesitant.
I couldn’t help the burst of laughter. He’d been acting so gentlemanly and now this?
He smiled. “I mean before we go out.”
“Oh.” Why was he acting so weird? So formal and uptight?
I kicked off my shoes and moved backward on the bed. His eyes never left me. I leaned forward onto my knees and hands. He still stared, crossing his arms ove
r his chest.
“What if I said I’m ready for bed?” I asked.
“I’d say you’re lame,” he replied. “And a liar.”
I pursed my lips together, trying not to smile. “What if I mean I’m ready to play in bed?” His eyes grew the size of sliced pickles, the reaction I wanted. I sprang to my feet and jumped on the bed. “Like this.”
He watched me jump a few times, open and closed his mouth, and blew out a breath. Then without warning, he lunged for me. I leapt out of his way, laughing hysterically and still jumping. He reached again, and I hopped back. He threw one of the pillows at me, and I caught it. With a devious look in his eyes, he grabbed the other pillow and jumped to his feet. We both swung at the same time, and we both ducked simultaneously, too, dodging the hits. I swung again and the momentum of the pillow took me down with it. Mason’s pillow hit me on the ass, knocking me over. I grabbed for his legs and pulled him down with me. We both crashed to the mattress, unable to breathe through the fits of laughter.
Panting, I tried to roll to my back under Mason’s weight. He shifted just enough so I could, and when I landed, I stared straight up into those mesmerizing, silvery-green eyes. He braced himself on his elbows over me, his gaze sliding over my face until it reached my lips, where it once again became stuck.
“Do you really want to go out again?” I asked, my voice low and hoarse from the squeals and laughter.
His eyes came back up to mine. “Only if you want to. I didn’t want you to think I only wanted you to come here because I expected something.”
“Mason,” I said, quietly but firmly. He ceased all movement, even his breathing, as he stared down into my eyes. “I am expecting something. In fact, I’m expecting quite a lot.”
He studied me for a moment, then a slow smile stretched across his face. “A lot, huh?”
He ducked down and swept his lips over mine.
“A. Lot.” I confirmed.
“Is that a challenge?”
“Are you up for it?”
He didn’t answer me with words, but with actions. Lots of actions. On my lips, my chin, my neck, my collarbone, and everywhere further south. He kissed me, caressed me, stroked me, and performed all kinds of beautiful acts until he left me screaming and panting his name at the same time, my hands clawing into the bed. And then he hovered over me, tribal tattoos on his bare chest and a savage look in his eye, right before he thrust into me and had me screaming all over again until we climaxed together. He collapsed on top of me, still shuddering.
“Did that meet your expectations?” he asked after a few minutes, when both of us were able to breathe again. He shifted to the side of me, removing his full weight from my body, but leaving his arm draped across my chest.
“Mmm … it was good,” I said, running my fingernails lightly over his back.
He lifted his head to look at me, his eyes glazed and the corners of his mouth turned up. “It was more than good. Admit it.”
My eyes rolled up to the ceiling as I pretended to consider this. His hand slid down my side, over my hip and across my thigh until his fingers tickled my center. I was still so sensitive, my pelvis jumped at the light touch.
“Okay, okay, it met my expectations.”
“Only met?” He tickled me again.
My muscles clenched. “You keep that up, and I’ll be expecting more. Right now.”
I lifted his hand with my own and returned it to my stomach.
“Because it was so good,” he said lazily. “Say it. Say I far exceeded your expectations.”
I giggled, but when I looked back into his eyes, I couldn’t be sure if he was teasing or not.
“You have no clue just how far you exceeded them,” I said. He gave me an approving smile. “But … that only means I’ll be expecting more. Very soon.”
His grin grew. “You can count on it.”
He dropped his head next to me, and the weight of his arm grew heavier.
“Mason,” I said, “you do know I have no desire to sleep in here, right?”
“Thank God,” he muttered, but he didn’t move. Not for a while anyway. We both lay on the guest bed, still on top of the covers, Mason dozing while I stared at the ceiling. For the first time ever, I didn’t feel guilty about what just happened. Every other time, no matter who I was with or how good it was or how long we’d been together, something about it felt wrong. Or if not exactly wrong, at least neutral. No feeling at all. But this … with Mason … this felt right. Extremely right.
That’s when I began to seriously consider he was The One.
After his little catnap, he carried me into his room. Still no belongings out, no photos, no personalization at all. A nice, neat, clean place to lay his head was all it was. By the time we were done, though, the room looked as though a tornado hit with blankets and pillows everywhere. We rolled up in a sheet and passed out from sheer exhaustion.
I awoke to the fragrance of bacon cooking, and my mouth watered immediately. My stomach growled. I’d been too anxious to eat much of the bar-food appetizers last night, my insides twisted in knots while we were with Mason’s friends, and I’d certainly burnt all those calories after we came home. When I sat up, I gasped at how clean his room was already. He’d even properly arranged me in the bed where I belonged, rather than the upside-down, diagonal position we’d slept in. My bag sat on a chair identical to the one in the guest room. After a quick brush of my teeth and pat down of my hair, I threw on the pajama shorts and tank I’d brought and walked out to the kitchen. The clock showed 7:45. I had a couple of hours before I had to leave to get back to the office.
“I didn’t think you actually cooked here,” I said as I hopped up onto the counter. Mason gave me a strange look. Well, more specifically, he gave my ass on his counter a look, probably because a little café table sat in front of the kitchen window, but I wanted to be here, right next to him. He made no complaint, though, and handed me a cup of coffee.
“That’s part of my plan,” he said. “If I didn’t like you, I could have easily sent you on your way, and you wouldn’t have thought twice about no breakfast.”
“So since you’re cooking for me, that means you like me?” I asked as I watched him over my coffee cup.
His head turned to face me, and he leveled me with those stunning eyes. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to them. “I more than like you, beautiful Bex. If it were up to me, I’d be cooking you breakfast every morning.”
My heart stuttered. What was he getting at with that kind of statement? His cell phone rang at that precise moment. He glanced at the screen, then snatched it up. He’d barely left the kitchen when he jogged back in again.
“On my way,” he said, and he dropped the phone on the counter while reaching for the spatula. “Emergency. I need to go. Can you finish up here?”
Already turning for the doorway, he swung the spatula toward me, but it hit the carton of eggs. The whole kit-and-kaboodle tumbled to the floor with a bunch of splats as the eggshells broke. A great, gooey mess spread across the shiny white tiles.
“Son of a bitch, mother fucking bastards!” he barked, loud enough to make me cringe. “God damn it!”
I stared at him for a moment, shocked, and then jumped down from the counter, careful to avoid the smashed eggs. My heart pounding from the outburst, I pressed my hands on his chest. “Go. I got this. Don’t worry about it.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.” He sighed.
“I said don’t worry about it. Go on. You have an emergency, remember?”
He glanced at the mess on the floor. “You don’t mind?”
“No. Now go.” I shoved him out of the kitchen.
He was dressed in scrubs in two minutes and flying out the door. I mopped up the eggs, finished the bacon and made myself some toast to go with it. Then I cleaned the kitc
hen up before heading to the guest room. I figured I should toss the bedspread in the wash, but when I opened the door, he already had that room cleaned to perfection, too.
“Bit of a neat freak,” I muttered as I padded back to his room.
Once I was dressed and had my bag on my shoulder, I stood in the entranceway by the kitchen, unsure of what to do. He lived in a nice area, but I’d noticed last night that he’d had both the doorknob and the bolt locks fastened. I sent him a text, although I didn’t expect an answer. As I was about to walk out, planning to lock only the knob from the inside, I received a text back:
“Spare key in the junk drawer. I want you to have it.”
I opened a few drawers and found what I assumed to be the junk drawer, but I couldn’t help but laugh. If there was any junk in it, it was hidden between the orderly rows of containers holding rubber bands, batteries, pens, and other small items. Even his junk drawer was perfectly organized.
As I left, I wondered how he could stand to stay in my trailer the few days he had. I figured it was because he was a doctor that he kept things, even his home, practically sterile.
“I miss you,” Mason texted a few hours later, although I didn’t see it until I locked up the park office at precisely six o’clock. “Come back.”
An hour after that text, had come another: “I found a piece of eggshell on the floor.”
I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. Some kind of euphemism?
“Oh. Oops,” I texted back as I walked home. My phone rang almost immediately.
“Oops?” Mason asked.
“Oops about the eggshell.”
“That’s all you can say?” His voice did not sound at all like he missed me. More like a father’s to a misbehaving child. “You promised you’d clean it all up.”
“Hey, you knocked it over. The whole damn carton. Sorry if I missed a piece. Anal much? And is this really what you’ve been thinking about my visit?”
Silence came from the other end, then a sigh. “I’m sorry. Yeah, I can be anal. Raw eggs can contain salmonella, and being a doctor makes me a little germaphobic.”