Текст книги "Sweet Obsession "

Автор книги: J. Daniels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

BROOKE

The line at Rosie’s café is already wrapping around the building when I arrive this morning.

Typical, and why I didn’t argue with Mason when he suggested meeting so early last night. I’m used to grabbing something to eat after I arrive at the bakery, which isn’t until eight-thirty. Waking up any earlier for any reason isn’t something I’ll easily agree to, but if you’re going to eat breakfast at Rosie’s, you need to beat the crowd.

I move past the line and step inside the café, shifting my attention around the crowded room.

“Brooke.” Mason stands from his seat at a booth in the corner. He looks almost relieved to see me.

I suppose I could’ve given him some indication last night that I was planning on showing up at seven o’clock today. But really, where’s the fun in that?

He kisses my cheek when I reach the booth. “Morning, gorgeous. I went ahead and ordered you some coffee and juice. It’s fresh-squeezed apparently.”

I giggle as I lean away.

“What?” he asks, eyes curious as we both slide into the booth.

I take a moment to stare at him before I respond.

His hair is still damp from a shower, the curls a bit more prominent now than when it’s fully dry, but still just as carelessly tousled on top of his head. Light from a nearby window catches on the stubble coating his jaw. It looks coarse, but I know how it feels against the skin of my cheek. A gentle, welcoming scratch. The crisp white T-shirt he’s wearing stretches deliciously across his chest and the muscles of his shoulders.

Damn. Even at this hour, he looks amazing. Would it be weird to order him for breakfast?

I bring the glass of juice to my lips, swallowing a taste as my eyes slowly take their time reaching his face. “Nothing. I just think it’s cute how you bring that to my attention. Like I’d send it back if it wasn’t freshly-squeezed. I’m not a snob.”

“I wasn’t implying that.” He eyes me guardedly. “I just appreciate good quality juice.”

“Mm. Figures. You probably own a juicer, don’t you?”

“No.”

I raise an eyebrow. No way does this guy not own every health conscious piece of equipment invented.

He smiles, tasting his own juice. “I may have left it in Alabama. It was rooted. I should pick up a new one, now that you mention it.”

“Ah. See.” I point a finger at him. “I got you all figured out.”

“Yeah? Think you know me, do ya?”

“Yup.”

He leans forward, placing his hand on top of mine. “What do you know, Brooke? Do you know I thought about you until I fell asleep last night? That that’s quickly becoming a routine of mine, and I’m not ashamed to admit it?”

My breaths grow heavier as I stare back at him.

Shit. What does he mean he thinks about me until he falls asleep? Sexually? Like, is he jerking off to images of me in his head before he passes out, because I’m pretty sure that’s a normal response for most men in this zip code, and not necessarily a declaration that should make my heart thunder against my sternum.

“I know you like my sounds. And that you were attacked by a rogue koala when you were a kid, which I’m still having trouble believing,” I finally reply after sliding my hand out from under his and grabbing a menu.

If I let him, I think he’d try and hold my hand this entire meal.

He grins, reaching for his own menu. “I more than like your sounds,” he corrects me, lowering his gaze. “What’s good here? Anything you’d recommend?”

“Everything. I told you, this place will change your life. The pancakes are amazing. That’s what I’m getting.”

Our waitress arrives, placing silverware in front of us and a stack of napkins. “Have we decided?” she asks.

Mason motions for me to order as he continues surveying his options.

I hand my menu to the waitress. I barely even needed to glance at it. “I’ll have the bacon and apple pancakes.” My mouth stretches into a grin when Mason gives me a wide-eyed look.

Welcome to America. We put bacon on everything.

He glances once more at the back of his menu, then places it into the waitress’s hand. “Eggs Benedict. And if it isn’t too much trouble, instead of the hash browns, can I get double sausage?”

“Sure,” she replies, stepping away with our order.

I grab two sugar packets and empty them into my coffee. When I glance up after stirring in some cream, I catch Mason’s eyes on me, and I wonder how long they’ve been there.

He leans back with a warm smile. “So, Brooke, tell me about working at the bakery.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Do you make everything you sell? Or are you strictly in charge of cupcakes?”

I chuckle against the lip of my mug. The steam billowing from my coffee evaporates into the air. “I’m not in charge of anything. Dylan is. I just do some of the baking for her. Everything except the wedding cakes. That’s all her.”

He looks surprised. “Why don’t you do those?”

“Because it’s a wedding cake. I don’t want to be responsible for something people pay hundreds of dollars for. And have you ever seen a pissed off bride? No way am I risking ruining someone’s big day.” I take a sip of my coffee. “I occasionally help out with the actual assembly of the cake, but all of the big detail work I am nowhere near skilled enough to do, Dylan handles. She’s amazing.”

“I bet you could do it,” he says. “Those cupcakes you gave me looked pretty complex.”

Complex? Compared to a wedding cake? This man is crazy.

“Yeah, okay. Have you ever seen a wedding cake? I can’t do that. We don’t even take requests for them when Dylan goes out on maternity leave. She meets with brides. Not me, and definitely not Joey. He’d end up somehow weaseling his way into the wedding party.”

Mason quietly laughs before taking a drink of his coffee. When he lowers his mug back to the table, he keeps his gaze on me, so plainly attentive, as if nothing could pull his eyes away.

My hands tangle together in my lap.

Have I ever been looked at like this before? With such raw interest, and not with some blatant underlying motive to get me naked and beneath whoever is staring at me?

Probably not, unless I’m related to the person.

We talk until our food arrives, and in between my massive bites of the best damn pancakes in Chicago. Mason polishes off his breakfast minutes before I’ve even made a dent in my tall stack. He drinks his coffee and freshly-squeezed juice while I finish off my plate, and after paying the check, he asks me what my plans are tomorrow morning.

“Sleeping,” I answer, smiling behind my glass when I pick up on his meaning. “No way am I waking up early again tomorrow. I don’t think you realize how vital my sleep is.”

He scratches his jaw. I can practically hear his mind working this out. “Okay. Friday then?”

I shake my head.

“Come on.”

“Why?”

“Because I like having you this early. And I think you had a nice time too. Stop fighting me. It’s just breakfast.”

I stare at him across the booth.

Just breakfast. Somehow, it seems like a lot more to Mason than just sharing a meal at the earliest part of the day. Will this become something regular, a routine we fall into where he orders for me before I even arrive? Not just beverages, but my food? Will he know what I like and how I like it, and on what days I want pancakes with blueberries instead of bacon?

More importantly, do I want him to know it?

I rub a hand down my face. As my eyes scan the table riddled with napkins and half-empty glasses, I spot an advertisement stuck between the salt and pepper shaker. My stomach makes an embarrassing sound as I look at the picture. How did I forget about this? I pinch the laminated picture between my fingers and hold it up for Mason to see.

“I’ll give you Tuesdays.”

He leans forward, taking the picture from me and staring at it. “All you can eat deep-fried stuffed French toast. Wow. Is that . . . Captain Crunch, the cereal? They put cereal on it?”

He looks adorably baffled, like the idea of using crushed up cereal on anything is the strangest suggestion.

“It’s out of this world, and extremely popular. You can only order it on Tuesdays and people will actually call ahead to secure their plates.” I snatch the picture from him and drop it between us. “You want me this early? You can have me on Tuesdays . . . only. Take it or leave it.”

He drops his elbows onto the table and presses his mouth against his hands. “You drive a hard bargain. I was hoping for multiple mornings.”

I shrug, studying my nails and the chipped polish on my thumb, looking anywhere but his face until his foot nudges against mine.

Our eyes lock. He shakes his head, then smiles at the frown pulling down my lips.

Fuck.

“Jerk,” I mutter. Of course I have to react to his phony rejection. I can’t just sit here and feign indifference. Now I look like the one who suggested this.

Well played, you gorgeous bastard. Well played.

He stands and tugs me to my feet, kissing my lips and murmuring, “I’ll take anything you give me, Brooke. Anything.”

I keep my hands tucked into the pockets of my jeans the entire walk to the bakery.

I haven’t sat down once today.

I can’t.

I’m full of nervous energy. Restless. Buzzing around my room like this is my first rodeo, and it’s not. It’s so not.

I’ve been on plenty of dates. Hundreds. Well, okay, maybe not hundreds, but enough where I shouldn’t be this anxious about one freaking dinner. Guys ask me out all the time, and who am I to turn down a free meal before we get down to business? I love to eat. I really love to have sex. Putting two of my favorite things together makes for one very happy Brooke. And hey, if the sex is lousy, at least I get an enjoyable meal out of it.

But that’s just it, right there. A meal is guaranteed tonight, but I have no idea if I’m getting laid. Dinner is pretty cut and dry, but after?

What the hell is happening after?

I, for one, feel like Mason and I know each other well enough for sex, based on his guidelines. More than well enough based on mine. We’ve talked, information has been exchanged. He knows more about me than any other guy I’ve been interested in recently. But is that enough for him?

He said he wants more. How much more? How much does he want from me?

I’ve seen Mason practically every day this week, between breakfast, coincidental, but maybe not so coincidental coffee-shop run-ins, to the occasional treats delivery, which I can’t seem to stop myself from doing. Christ, it’s like a damn compulsion. Even when he pops into the shop for a brief hello I’m shoving a bakery box at him like he’s one of those malnourished children you see on the UNICEF commercials.

Here! Eat this! You poor thing, you’re starving!

It’s his reaction that gets me. That’s why I do it. He takes that box and studies my creations like they should be displayed in a museum somewhere. Like they’re some precious gift. Like I’m giving him something amazing.

Call me crazy, but I’m beginning to feel like maybe I am giving him something more than just a pastry or a cupcake. Maybe he looks at my treats as another piece of me? The more he’s after?

Yeah . . . crazy. That line of thinking right there is completely fucking crazy.

They’re treats. Damn good ones. And he’s just a man who enjoys his dessert.

Period.

As I’m sliding up the zipper on my black pencil skirt, my bedroom door bursts open.

Joey walks in like he owns the place, which, if we’re being technical, he doesn’t. The condo belongs to Billy. But this is Joey, and I’ve learned since moving in here that the concept of knocking before a grand entrance is not something he is privy to.

I’m fully dressed, but it wouldn’t matter. I couldn’t care less if he sees me naked. But at night, when I’m more than likely to engage in a little me time, my door remains locked.

His gaze sweeps over my attire, slow moving and encouraging. He plops down on the bed. “You look hot to trot. What shoes are you wearing with that?”

“Those.” I point to the Steve Madden’s on the floor by the closet.

Okay, okay, so I seriously need to return them to Dylan. And I will.

Next week.

“Earrings?”

I hold up the silver hoops I’ve set out for tonight.

“Lip gloss or lipstick?”

I pull the tube of MAC’s Vegas Volt out of my makeup bag and wiggle it in the air. Joey nods approvingly.

“What’s this?” he asks, plucking the small gift bag off my night table.

Shit.

I move like lightning, snatching it from him before he has a chance to peer inside.

He stares at me, startled. “Jesus. What the hell?”

Clutching the bag against my chest, I hurriedly explain, “It’s nothing. It’s a joke between me and Mason. You wouldn’t get it. Stop snooping around my room and asking me a thousand questions. God.”

I toss the bag on top of the dresser.

My breaths come hurried, air moving in and out of my lungs with desperation. I probably look psychotic.

Maybe he won’t notice? He’s not that perceptive, is he?

“Mm.” Joey lays out on the bed, tucking his hands behind his head and crossing his bare feet at the ankles.

He looks positively delighted.

He noticed.

“Interesting. So you and Mason have inside jokes already? After only knowing each other for five days and one earth-shattering orgasm? Seems a bit fast, don’t you think?”

I roll my eyes, sliding one earring through my ear and moving on to the next.

Earth-shattering? I never said it was earth-shattering.

It was so fucking earth-shattering.

I could ride that man’s long, thick fingers every day and twice on Sundays.

“Do you want to keep him, Brooke?”

My head whips right. Keep him? Is that what he just said?

“Are you high right now? Do we have weed in this condo I’m not aware of?” I step closer, my voice lowering as my eyes shift around the room. “No, seriously, do we? I could really use some.”

A few hits would surely mellow me out a little.

Of course, if I knew what to expect tonight, I wouldn’t be so wound up and wired. Sex doesn’t make me nervous. I own that shit. I can work it in my sleep if I have to. But dinner and the unknown with a man who would rather talk than fuck?

What am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to prepare for that?

Joey laughs under his breath. “When was your last actual boyfriend, Brooke? College?”

“High school,” I answer, picking at my thumb nail. “I played the field in college. Literally. I think I was one defender short of bedding the entire lacrosse team.”

Joey punches his fist into the air. “Go Blue Demons.”

“Why?” I stick my hand on my hip. Joey trains his eyes on the ceiling, obviously avoiding.

“Mason isn’t my boyfriend, Joey. I’m not in a relationship with this guy.”

He wiggles his body, settling between two pillows. “Then what are you doing spending time with him?”

“Hello!” I slap my thigh.

What, has he suddenly been living under a rock? He knows exactly why.

“I’m trying to have sex with him! In order to do that, I have to talk to the guy a little. Share some personal shit. Build a friendship. Then, and my God, will this be so worth it, I get to feast on that glorious appendage I’m actually concerned might not fit inside me.”

“Shut up,” Joey spits, grimacing. “How many dicks have you had? There’s no way you aren’t well prepared for a third leg.”

“Joey.”

I hold my hands out, measuring a very, very impressive distance between the two.

My mind becomes flooded with flashbacks, images of Mason working that gorgeous piece of flesh behind a curtain of water and steam.

He was so raw in that moment. Stripped down to the point of depravity as he sought his release. As he pursued it with urgency. Beautiful. God, he was beautiful standing there, the muscles of his back and shoulder working simultaneously. His head bowed as he slowly unraveled. The sound of skin moving over skin.

I wanted to watch him come.

I wanted to feel him come.

I still do. Now, maybe even more. I’m like a child who has been told they can’t have any candy.

Fuck that. I want that candy.

In my mouth.

Joey slowly sits up, mouth falling open, drool pooling on his tongue. He looks from my hands to my face, back to my hands again.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I would never.”

“He’s that big? How is he walking?”

My phone beeps on the dresser. I shrug, turning around and padding across the room.

“How the hell do I know how you boys manage to tuck and move?” I ask, swiping the phone and staring at the unknown number glowing on my screen.

“Shit. You might want to pop some Ibuprofen before you go down that road, or sit on an icepack. Numb it up a little. I’ve heard about cases where you ladies rip something. That can’t be pretty.”

I chuckle at Joey, storing away his advice because I may seriously need to consider some sort of preparation when that time comes. I’ve been with my fair-share of well-equipped men. I’ve had a few surprise me when that zipper comes down. But Mason . . .

He might take the cake on this one.

Oo, cake. I’ll definitely be ordering dessert tonight.

I move my thumb over the screen, bringing up the text message.

Unknown: Hello, gorgeous. Do you want me to come up?

I slowly lift my eyes to Joey.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, giving me a look that tells me exactly who gave Mason my phone number.

Why am I surprised?

He stands, stretching his arms above him. “He was adorable asking for it,” he mumbles before exiting the room.

Adorable. I’m sure. Lots of ‘yeahs’. Numbahh. Even I would’ve given it to him once he started talking.

I program Mason’s number into my phone and quickly type my response.

Me: Stalker. Do you know my blood type yet?

Mason: Working on it. Give me a few more days.

I chuckle softly.

Mason: What’s your condo number? I’ll come up. I feel like a tosser waiting for you out here.

Me: I bet you look sexy. A sexy tosser is better than a regular one, right?

Mason: Either way I’m an arsehole.

Me: Why?

Mason: This is a date. I should come to your door. Walk you out.

I step into my heels, typing with one hand.

Me: Relax. I’ll be out in a second.

Lord, the manners on this guy. Is he always like this?

The last time I was picked up at my door for a date was prom. Most guys are too busy tuning to their favorite Pandora station to bother getting out of their vehicles. Or, I don’t give them the opportunity and insist on meeting them out somewhere.

The end of the night though, that’s a different story.

Men will almost always walk a woman to their door. They want that invite inside. The open door offer of sex.

“I had a lovely evening. Would you like to see my mattress? It’s a feather-top.”

Sticking my phone into my clutch, I grab the gift bag and exit the bedroom.

Joey is standing in the kitchen, watching Billy cook something on the stove-top, his chin resting on Billy’s shoulder, his arms tightly curled around his waist.

Cute. They’re so domestic.

They both turn their heads at the sound of my entrance.

“You look hot, Brooke. Where are you and Mason going? Do you know?” Billy holds a spatula in one hand. His other arm wraps around Joey’s back.

I keep moving toward the door. I feel like I’m on autopilot.

“No idea. Somewhere with food. Hopefully a place that serves up a little under the tablecloth action.”

God, wouldn’t that be fantastic? A repeat of the other night as an appetizer. Mason’s massive cock for dessert.

It’s a wonder I’m not sprinting out of the building.

I wave a hand over my head. “Don’t wait up!”

The door closes behind me. I take the elevator down to the bottom floor and push through the revolving door.

Mason is parked at the curb, his tall frame leaning against his car. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a black fitted shirt with a collar. His hair is wet, a few curls spilling onto his forehead. The rest is haphazardly combed back.

He straightens when he sees me.

As I move closer, I can see that he’s shaven. His smooth, chiseled jaw is free of stubble.

He looks younger.

He looks edible.

He closes the distance between us with two long strides.

I want him to grab me and kiss me. I want him to throw me down and man-handle me in front of anyone and everyone.

Tear my clothes. Take me with desperation. Press those dirty words he likes to spill against the soft skin of my thighs.

Instead, with what has to be the sweetest smile I have ever seen, he bends and lightly brushes his lips against my cheek.

“You look beautiful, Brooke.”

I inhale a lungful of his cologne before he leans away.

Yum.

With the hand holding my clutch, I motion in front of me. “Thank you. I like this get-up you got going on. You clean up nice.”

His smile gentles. “Shall we?”

We move together across the sidewalk, his hand resting lightly on my lower back. He opens the door for me and I climb inside.

“What’s that?” he asks, poking a finger at the gift bag in my lap after he settles in his seat.

I look down at the top of the bag. A fuzzy ear peeks out between tissue paper.

Oh, my God. What am I doing? What grown man wants something like this?

I quickly stow it on the floor by my feet. “It’s stupid. Sorry. I . . . I was out, and I saw it and I wasn’t thinking and bought the damn thing. But now I’m realizing how dumb it is.”

“Can I have it?”

“What?” I turn my head. His hand is outstretched. Did he not hear me?

“Really, Mason, it’s stupid. You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“Did you buy it for me?”

“Yes.”

“Well . . . give it up then. It’s mine, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t drop his hand. It hangs in the air between us as he moves his attention between my face and the bag he could very easily grab if he wanted. It’s within his reach.

But he waits for me to pick it up and pass it to him.

I look straight ahead at the busy street. No need to watch this humiliation unfold.

Tissue paper rustles as he digs into the bag.

My hands knot together in my lap. “I saw it and it made me laugh. You don’t have to keep it. Really. I think I still have the receipt somewhere in my room.”

A muffled, barely audible chuckle comes from my left.

“My nemesis. We meet again.”

I turn my head and watch Mason study the small stuffed koala with engrossed curiosity. He probably thinks I’m strange for giving him a children’s toy.

I am! He’s not a toddler. Why did I think this was a good idea?

I want to look away. I need to before I end up fleeing the vehicle, but I can’t stop watching him stare at this thing as if he’s actually charmed by it.

He runs his hand over the fur between the ears, chuckles again, then pats it gently on the head.

We lock eyes.

“It’s dumb,” I tell him.

“It’s not.”

“You don’t have to keep it.”

“I’m going to keep it.”

He sets the bag and koala on the floor behind my seat, then captures my lips in a fleeting kiss. “Thank you,” he murmurs against my mouth before leaning back.

“Mm. Yeah, sure.”

My shoulders drop with a heavy sigh as we pull away from the curb. I didn’t realize how tense I was during that inspection.

Serves me right.

Mason stares straight ahead while he drives, keeping one hand on the wheel and the other on the console between us. “Do you like Italian food? I saw this spot the other day when I was driving around. Giovanni’s. You ever been?”

I search my memory. The name doesn’t sound familiar. “No, I don’t think so. But I like all food. You really can’t screw up here.”

He reaches for my hand, confidently holding it between us.

The conversation with Joey in my bedroom from minutes ago plays back in my mind. Him, accusing me of dating Mason. The underlying implication that he’s my boyfriend. The ridiculous ‘do you want to keep him’ question.

My stomach clenches.

I pull my hand away and go for the stereo, turning up the volume. A song I don’t recognize fills the car. The guy sings about love and wanting. I hate it immediately. I go through all of Mason’s pre-programmed stations, trying to find something I like, but also, keeping my hand busy and not idle in my lap.

“You all right?”

I give him a quick glance. His eyes are serious. “Yeah . . . yeah, I just wanted to listen to something. I like background noise. I always have music playing in my car when I drive. It’s comforting.”

He seems satisfied with that explanation and turns back to the road ahead.

“Is the restaurant far from here?”

If it’s more than a few blocks away, I’m totally screwed. I’ll look like I’m having a nervous breakdown if I scroll through stations for more than a minute. Maybe I can adjust his audio settings? The bass does seem a bit overpowering.

“Ten minutes,” he replies.

Shit.

I adjust the balance, the treble and base settings. I change the station again when a song by The Fray seeps through the speakers.

I do not need to hear their shit right now.

Mason’s hand circles my wrist after a few minutes of this madness. “Why do you keep fading the music to the front or rear speakers only? What are you doing?”

I hesitate responding. I’m a horrible liar.

“Um, just . . . I’m just trying to give you the best listening experience. Relax. I know what I’m doing.”

I have no idea what I’m doing.

“Brooke.”

We stop at a red light. I look over at Mason, and suddenly feel guilty for pulling away from him. He doesn’t look angry, or annoyed, or even like a person who just witnessed an act of insanity.

His eyes are tender, full of understanding.

I feel like I want to crawl under my seat and hide. I can’t remember the last time I felt this uneasy.

“I don’t have to hold your hand,” he tells me, smiling ever so slightly. “I wanted to, but I don’t have to. You can go easy on my audio settings. It’s okay. Really.” He moves my hand back to my lap and releases me, only to rest his hand on my thigh. “But, I do want to touch you somehow while I drive. Just a little.” He gazes at my body. “God, you look incredible. I’m trying to be decent and not throw you in the back, but it’s bloody torture with you in this skirt.” He slides his hand a bit higher, inching it closer to the apex of my thighs.

Throw me in the back? Yes! I want that! Screw decency!

I suppress a moan, trapping it on my tongue. I don’t want to sound too anxious, even though I’m close to jerking the wheel and pulling us off the road, which will in turn free him up to focus solely on me.

He gives my thigh a gentle squeeze. My toes curl. Desire blooms low in my belly.

“Did you wear this so I could slide my hand between your legs? I think you did. I think you wanted to drive me a little mad, yeah?”

I watch the path his hand is taking. “Yeass,” I breathe. My mouth falls open.

Yeass? Did I really just combine yeah and yes? Think before you speak, Brooke!

He chuckles as the car rolls forward.

I try and spread my legs, grant him access, ease the ache I’m feeling that’s now pulsing with a demanding rhythm, but my legs are pinned together, restricted by the form-fitting motherfucking material of my bloody skirt.

I grunt in frustration, until I remember the use of my own hands.

Do I mind sitting bare-assed in Mason’s vehicle? Nope. Not one damn bit. And now would be the worst possible time to start feeling shameful about anything.

I grip the hem of my skirt and ease it up my legs. I’m expecting Mason to dive right in, but before I can reveal the fact that I’m going commando under this thing, he slides his hand in the opposite direction it needs to be going and thwarts my progress, smoothing out my skirt and resting his hand back on my thigh, closer to my knee, far, far away from where I need him.

“What? Come on. You can’t be serious.” I turn my head. His hand goes stiff when I try and pry it off my leg. “Give me your hand. I want to hold it.”

His profile lifts as he stares ahead at the road. “Yeah? You want to hold it?”

“Yes.”

“With what? That sweet little cunt you were just trying to show me?”

I gape at him. Good Lord. Did he just say . . .

That accent, paired with anything even remotely filthy is enough to put me in the record books as the first woman in history to ever have an orgasm without any touching. I am now officially the wettest I have ever been in my entire life. No panties? What a dumbass decision. If I get up and there is a damp spot on this seat, I’m never showing my face around this man again.

He briefly looks at me. “Well?”

I shoot him a steely look. “You have no proof of that. Maybe I just remembered how much I liked holding your hand . . . with my hand, pervert. Okay? Maybe I miss it.”

He squeezes my thigh. “I think I’m going to keep it here. I like it here.”

I slump back against the seat like a child on the brink of a tantrum. “Fine. I like it there too, so . . . whatever. Do what you want. I don’t care.”

I drown out his laugh by cranking up the volume on the stereo again.

By the time we park and walk to the restaurant, everything south of my waist seems to be back in check. I’m no longer ready or willing to beg for some sort of physical contact. And fuck! I should be the one driving him crazy with lust. Teasing him. Making him so fucking hard he can’t see straight.

Well, the night is young, and I plan on regaining some of my feminine power and working him up. If he thinks he’s getting through this meal without getting an erection, he’s sorely mistaken.

Giovanni’s is a dimly lit restaurant in the heart of the city. I was right, I’ve never been here, and I think that’s because it is a lot fancier than any place I’m used to dining at. Mason checks us in under our reservation while I admire a piece of artwork on the wall. My nephew can manipulate a paint brush and create something similar. Three colors congregating in one messy swirl. I’m betting this thing costs more than the rent I couldn’t afford in my old apartment.

We’re seated at a table draped with a white, crisp linen by a large window. A small vase containing a beautiful arrangement of flowers sits in the center, which Mason quickly slides to the side so that we can see each other better.

I admire the mural painted on the ceiling. The chandelier lighting. The attire of the wait staff.

“This might be the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. Are you trying to get laid?”

Mason glances up from his menu. I immediately lose the smirk when he doesn’t mirror my playfulness.

Shit.

A deep frown settles between his brows. He looks put off. “No. I thought it looked nice. I wanted to take you here the moment I saw it.” He pauses, leaning back in his chair. “I’m curious, Brooke. Do you always go out to eat with the expectation of sex afterwards? Do you never just sit and talk with someone? Learn about them?”

My face heats. I swear the temperature in the room spikes ten degrees in this moment.