by Jayne Denker
He paused and looked down at the counter. “Ah.”
It was the longest few seconds of my entire life. My stomach dropped and my heart seized up as I waited for the confession. If he wasn’t married, wouldn’t he deny it right away? Well, wouldn’t he? What was he waiting fo—
“Um, I was married. ‘Was’ being the operative word here.”
I let out a small breath. My heart started up again, albeit tentatively. My stomach climbed back into its proper position. “What happened?”
He shrugged. “I was married. Now I’m divorced. Happens to the best of us, doesn’t it?”
I ignored any implied jab about my mom’s multiple marriages. I was not about to be sidetracked at this point. “Okay, that’s the short version; now give me the long one.”
Mason settled himself sideways on one of the tall chairs at the island and took a sip of his coffee before he began. “Okay. We were married for three years. It wasn’t a good idea from the get-go, but I can only say that in hindsight. I think we knew at the time we weren’t right for each other, but we went ahead with the wedding anyway. Big ceremony, huge reception, all our friends and relatives. Hence all that ‘wedding swag’ there. I got the job at the college, she had a job at the Air Force base. We bought this house, set up housekeeping. The nice décor you mentioned last night? Her handiwork. We lasted for a while.”
“And then . . . ?”
“And then . . .” Another pause, as he chose his words carefully. “She fell in love with someone else—for real, not the ‘playing house’ stuff we were doing. Now she and her new man lead drum circles and tours of the petroglyphs in the desert outside Sedona. And they’re very happy. And I’m happy for them.” My skepticism must have been showing, because he added, “No, really. I mean it. Now . . .” Mason stood up and rounded the end of the counter to stand squarely in front of me. “My question for you is . . . why do you want to know?”
He was close. Really close. And staring at me like he did the night before, like he’d done so many times since we’d met. That peaceful, direct gaze that turned my knees to jelly every time.
I had to work hard to even make a sound. “Just . . .” was all I came up with, and then I fizzled out, my throat dry.
“Why, Faith?” It was more of a demand than a question.
“Um . . .” Gee, I was a font of wisdom this morning. Couldn’t shut me up.
“Why?” he demanded again.
But if he wanted to get something out of me, he was going to have to put those hands away. Those hands that had just reached up and cradled my cheeks, with those long fingers that crept into my hair at the back of my neck, with those thumbs that caressed my jawline, gently, but persistently. I couldn’t help it; I pressed my cheek against his left hand with a sigh and closed my eyes.
“Maybe,” I started slowly, “maybe I want to know if you’ve got an opening for something a little more intimate than just guest lecturer.”
There was a smile in his voice when he said, “Why? Would you like to apply for the job?”
I opened my eyes to stare back at him. “How are the benefits?”
“Really,” he murmured, coming much closer, “really great—”
I tipped my head back, bringing my lips to his, my heart pounding. This. This is what I wanted, what I needed . . . This. Him. Mason—of all people. He kissed me, gently at first, then deeper, then deeper still, and I gave in. To all of it. Suddenly everything was clear; this was the only thing that made sense. I clung to him as tightly as I could, my arms around him, his hands deep in my hair now, pulling me even closer. Nothing existed outside of us—nothing.
Mason stepped back, staring into my eyes once more, his breath ragged. “What happens now, Ms. Sinclair?”
“Oh, I’ve got a few ideas, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell.”
He ducked his head toward me once again, nuzzling my ear just as a knock sounded on the front door.
“Expecting someone?” I breathed, as his lips made their way from my jawline down the length of my neck.
“Nope,” he murmured between kisses. Then, “Oh crap.”
“‘Oh crap?’”
He took a step back. “Kaylie. I told her to—crap.” Kaylie? What the—? He shouted over my head, “Come on in!”
I crossed to the sink to hide my flushed face as she entered the room.
“Hi, Mason. Hi, Ms. Sinclair.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I managed to say, “Hi, Kaylie. What’s going on?”
She dropped a backpack on the floor. “Mason asked me to get you some clothes and bring your SUV back. I had the R.A. let me into your room. I just took a guess at what you needed.”
“I’m sure what you brought will be great. Thanks so much.”
“Yes, thanks, Kaylie,” Mason added, leaning on his elbows at the far end of the kitchen island. I smirked; judging by what I felt a moment before Kaylie came in, he was using the counter to hide something. I turned on the faucet and washed my hands, just to have something to do, as he said, “We’re, uh, making waffles. Would you like some?”
What? Inviting Kaylie for breakfast? After what had just happened—er, almost happened? What should be happening right this minute? It occurred to me that although Mason had told me he didn’t have a wife, we hadn’t discussed a girlfriend. He had said there was nothing between him and Kaylie, but I just couldn’t be certain. Time to leave these two alone for a minute and see what happened. I scooped up the backpack by the straps.
“I’ll just put these away,” I said over my shoulder as I left the room.
In the guest bedroom, I tossed the backpack onto the bed and stood there, taking some much-needed steadying breaths. I listened intently, trying to hear their conversation. If there were a lot of heated whispers, I’d have my answer.
But instead, I heard Mason say, “So, how about it? Waffles?”
And then Kaylie answered, just as clearly, “No thanks; I ate already. But would you mind if I used your bathroom?”
Hardly a lovers’ quarrel. My concern eased up somewhat. When I heard Kaylie coming down the hall, I busied myself unpacking my clothes.
Then, instead of going into the bathroom, Kaylie appeared in the guest room doorway.
“Thanks for the clothes,” I said again. “I appreciate it.” And I handed her the empty backpack.
“Look,” she snapped, coming close to me. “I don’t really care about bringing you your clothes. I only did it because Mason asked me to. And because I wanted to talk to you privately.”
“What about?”
“I just want to say . . . just . . . stay away from him, all right?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
She put on her tough-girl face, which had absolutely no effect on me.
“Well, that’s kind of difficult. It is his house and all.”
Kaylie frowned at me. “What are you talking about?”
“I get it,” I said with a labored, dramatic sigh. “You have a crush on Mason—”
“I—”
“—and you want him to be your boyfriend and everything. But I’m here to tell you, it’s not really a wise choice—”
“Ms. Sinclair, are you out of your mind?” Kaylie interrupted. “Mason’s . . . old!”
I bristled. “He’s not old!” At this point I didn’t know what side of the argument I was on. “He’s just older than you—wait a minute. Then who are you talking about?”
She rolled her eyes and whispered, “Alex!”
“Alex? Why are you—” Then I stopped, realizing. “Ohhh. Oh, honey, no. Don’t do it. Trust me on this. Just—”
“Ms. Sinclair,” she interrupted again. “Please.”
“That’s why you’re so adamant about protecting him from me? It’s a personal thing?” And then I realized something else. “Oh wait—that’s why you gave me the bogus directions Friday night? You didn’t want me to be in the same place as Alex?”
She dropped her gaze to the
carpet. “I’m sorry about that. Really. I had no idea you were sick . . . I just thought you’d drive around for a while and then give up. But yeah. So you wouldn’t be there. Because of Alex.”
Bluntness was my thing today, apparently, because before I knew it, I was demanding, “Kaylie, are you Mrs. McNulty? The blogger, I mean. Not actually . . . you know.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
I studied her closely to see if she was lying. She seemed sincere. “She’s the blogger who leaked the news that Alex was attending college and that I was trying to get him back on Modern Women. I have to ask—nobody else knows about this whole thing except you, me, and Mason. And one other person back in L.A.,” I added, remembering that it was Jaya’s idea in the first place.
“No,” she corrected me, “the only people who knew about it were you, Mason, and the other person. I didn’t know about it till just now.”
“Mason didn’t tell you?”
“Of course not.”
“Not Alex either?”
She looked at the floor again. “No. He didn’t tell me.”
“If the two of you are, you know, involved, don’t you think it’s odd that he didn’t tell you?” Her pained look drew a pitying sigh out of me. “I’m sorry to break the news to you like that. But maybe you should take this as a sign of whether Alex feels as strongly about you as you do about him. I mean, if he couldn’t even be bothered to tell you . . .”
Kaylie’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Why are you trying to get me away from him? Do you think he won’t go back to do the show if we’re together?”
And now I felt like a complete shit. “No, Kaylie,” I said as gently as I could. “Because I know that he willgo. If not back to the show, then off to Tibet. Or Argentina. Or . . . some other place that pops into his head. And if he does stick around here, that doesn’t mean he’ll stick with you. He goes through women like squares of toilet paper—and for the same purpose. That’s what you need to keep in mind. I know you’re an adult, and you can make your own decisions. I just thought you should have all the information before you fall for him completely.”
She hesitated, then asked, “Did you?”
I decided to continue my blunt streak. “I had my head turned for a little while, yes. It didn’t go anywhere, and now I’m grateful that it didn’t.”
“So you’re telling me to get out while I still can.”
“Pretty much.”
Her tough-girl look resurfaced. “What if I don’t want to?”
“You care about him that much?”
Kaylie nodded.
“Then just . . . consider yourself warned. Don’t get too attached.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“You know, nothing would make me happier. Honest, Kaylie.” And I meant it.
“I’d better go. I’ve got a bus to catch.” She dropped my car keys on the bed beside the pile of clothes.
I picked them up again, handed them to her. “Take my car. I’ll get it tomorrow. And . . . Kaylie?” I called her back when she turned to leave.
“Yeah, Ms. Sinclair?”
“I’m still going to try to convince Alex to leave. Don’t take it personally, okay?”
She nodded, and even smiled, as she slipped out the door. I think she saw that as a challenge.
When I heard the front door shut, I made my way back down the hall to find Mason locking the door behind her.
He turned around with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Weren’t we in the middle of something . . . ?”
“Waffles, wasn’t it?” I teased, backing into the kitchen as he advanced on me.
He pressed me up against the island. “Really? Waffles?”
“Pretty sure,” I said as he grasped me by the hips and lifted me onto the counter.
“No, it was definitely something else . . .”
And he kissed me, leaning me back a little; I wrapped my legs around his waist. I couldn’t get enough of this, and judging by his response, neither could he. Our tongues mingled again, and he groaned deep in his throat as he inched his hands under my T-shirt . . . well, his T-shirt.
“God, Faith,” he groaned again, his face in my neck. “You’ve been driving me crazy. Especially since yesterday.”
“Oh really?” I managed to say, although I was short of breath. His lips on my throat were driving all logical thought right out of my head. “Feeling’s mutual.”
“Not exactly mutual. You in my T-shirt, without a bra . . . You have no idea . . .”
The notion that my nipples had been distracting him made me laugh—that, and the tickle of his stubbly beard under my ear.
“It’s not funny!” he protested. “You’re going to have to keep that shirt. I’ll never be able to look at it again without getting . . .”
“One of these?” I reached between his legs, ran my hand up the conspicuous bulge in the front of his jeans. That got the biggest groan out of him yet. “You were the one who said my clothes weren’t salvageable. You made my bra disappear.”
“What if I told you I did that just so you’d have to go around without one?”
“I don’t believe you. You’re too much of a gentleman.”
“Not always.” And he pulled my—his—T-shirt right off me and tossed it away. It caught the carton of eggs, which went flying off the counter and landed on the floor with a series of cracks in quick succession—crkcrkcrk. I barely noticed, because his lips started working their way downward, which set my head spinning.
I gasped out, “I see. Don’t ask me about how I’ve been wearing your sweatpants, then.”
Immediately, his hands caressed the small of my back, then snuck down the waistband. A little farther . . . a little farther . . . “Faith . . .”
“Mm?”
“Are you telling me . . .”
“Mm.”
“Oh God. Right. That’s it.”
And he gathered me up, my arms and legs still wrapped around him, and carried me off to his bedroom.
Chapter 19
“You know, we really should get up sometime today.”
I nodded distractedly, preoccupied with running my fingers through the blond chest hair scattered across Mason’s wonderfully broad, solid torso. “Hey, I thought college professors were supposed to be all . . . you know . . . doughy and pale.”
“Ah, another one of those clichés, like the elbow patches on the blazers, right?”
“I guess.”
“And I thought all you Hollywood types were supposed to be stick insects, addicted to kale smoothies and endless yoga sessions.” He cupped my rear end under the sheets, to illustrate the contrast.
“Not me, bub. Sorry.”
“Sorry? I say thank God.”
He turned toward me and, stroking my hip, kissed me again.
“I suppose,” I forced myself to say when we came up for air, “that I should get back to campus sometime.”
“No, stay here. I mean,” he rushed to add, “if you want to. You don’t have to.” I laughed at how flustered he became, but I didn’t interrupt. I figured I’d let him wear himself out; he’d stop eventually. “But, you know, I’ve got decent food, no plague-causing viruses, and showers that you don’t have to share. You can even stay in the guest room—I’m not . . . not saying . . . you know . . .”
“Would I have to? Stay in the guest room, I mean.”
“Entirely up to you.”
“Do you snore?”
“No. Do you?”
“Like a grizzly bear.”
“So, socharming.”
I kissed him for the hundredth time. “Tell me again about those private showers. There’s no sharing? Really?”
“Well. Not unless you want to, that is.”
I felt him stirring against my hip. “Oh, I want to. Let’s go.”
* * *
When the hot-water tank had refilled and Mason was back in the bathroom taking an actual shower, I went into the guest room to clean out all the sickroom detr
itus—half-empty cans of soda, sticky glasses, plates filled with cracker crumbs. A crumpled napkin tumbled to the floor; I sighed, plonked the stack of dirty dishes and glasses back on the nightstand, and bent down to pick it up. Another one was sticking out from under the bed, so I got down on all fours, peeked under the quilt, half of which had slid onto the floor, and grabbed it.
It turned out not to be a napkin, but a piece of paper. It was quite clear, even from a quick glance, that I was holding a page of a script. I didn’t intend to sneak a look at Mason’s things; I knew I should push it back under the bed. But I was nosy. So I read it.
Of course, just one page of a script with some intriguing dialogue only piqued my curiosity, so I lifted up the quilt and pressed my temple to the rug to see what else was under there. My eyes widened at the sight of a large plastic bin full of papers—loose sheets, like the one I had in my hand, and stacks of informally bound pages. I pulled on the bin, and the lid slid off and down the other side. Well, that was a sign, I figured, like the writing gods were telling me to have a good, long peeksie.
Twenty minutes later, Mason found me sitting cross-legged on the guest bed, surrounded by stacks of his writing. He appeared in the doorway, saying, “Hey, are we going to go get your car or—” and cut himself off with a faint, “Oh. Uh-oh.”
I looked up from the script in my lap to see that, in his inimitable way, Mason wasn’t shocked or angry, just surprised. And uneasy—that was clear from his nervous fidgeting, the way he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. But nervous was the absolute last thing he needed to be.
“These,” I said firmly, looking him straight in the eye so he could see I wasn’t bluffing, “are fucking incredible.”
He let out a breath, dragging his fingers through his hair, and his face flushed a bit. “Come on . . .”
“Mason, I mean it. And I’m not saying that as the woman you just banged senseless in your shower, either; I’m saying it as a producer. These. Are. Fucking. Incredible.”
Reddening even more, he protested, “Please. They’re not—”
“I’m telling you they are. So okay, I haven’t had time to read each and every one, but from what I’ve seen so far, I want to. And it’s my job to know these things, so shut up and accept it.”