She takes a sip of wine and then answers, “Writing.”
“Writing?”
“I like to go to Central Park to write,” she says easily, slipping her hands into her lap and leaning forward.
“Are you a journalist?”
“No,” she says and shakes her head, “I’m an author.” She takes a sip of wine again and I watch as she fiddles with the stem and continues. “I’m not well known or anything. Just poetry.” She tries to wave off her insecurity then adds, “It doesn’t really make much money, but it’s the career I chose.”
She’s already justifying herself and I don’t like it. She should be proud.
“I think that’s wonderful. It takes a lot of work and diligence to write a novel of poetry.”
Her eyes light up and she visibly relaxes as she says in a delicate voice, “Thank you.”
“Who’s your favorite poet?” I ask her.
“Robert Frost,” she answers quickly. “Hands down.”
“I’ve read a bit of Frost.” It’s true, albeit years and years ago in grade school and I’m pretty sure I hated every minute I was forced to read it. It doesn’t matter, though; my remark makes her calm and that sweet smile comes back.
I clear my throat, smoothing the napkin on my lap and trying to remember what Mrs. Harper said. “‘Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought,’” I say as I look into her eyes and try to say the second part correctly, “‘and the thought has found words.’ I believe it was Frost who said that.” Her entire demeanor changes to one of surprise and ease. I’m shocked that I remembered it myself.
A surprised grin looks back at me. It’s amazing how something so small can make her genuinely happy. She nods and says, “Yes, I do believe you’re right.”
The moment between us is filled with comfortable silence as we each take a sip of our drinks.
“So you’re in construction, I believe?”
“I’m a developer,” I say, hoping she won’t ask too many questions. I don’t think she has any idea of the connections. I don’t intend to lie to her, but I don’t need to give her anything that would help her put the pieces together.
“In the city, right?”
“Brooklyn mostly, although we’re currently under contract with the city to renovate and rebuild some properties in Manhattan.”
“What’s that like?”
“Being a developer?” I’ve never had anyone ask me before and I take a moment to consider my reply. “It’s challenging at times and it pisses me off most days. A lot goes wrong and hardly anything goes the way it’s planned.” I smirk at her as she laughs into her glass at my answer. “Isn’t that what all jobs are like, though?”
She nods her head, setting the glass down but then her expression changes. “I’m not sure I should be doing this,” she tells me with her forehead scrunched.
“Doing what?”
“This,” she says and gestures between the two of us.
“We’re just having dinner.”
Her eyes narrow and I ignore the accusatory stare, picking up my bourbon and taking an easy drink of it. It burns just right on the way down, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
“I just want to feed you,” I say in a tone that I hope comes out somewhat innocent.
“And fuck me,” she whispers so softly but with a roughness I haven’t heard from that sexy voice of hers. I stare into her gorgeous gaze, daring her to blush, to be embarrassed by it, but she only stares back with desire in her baby blue eyes.
“Yes, and fuck you,” I say. It doesn’t go unnoticed that she clenches her thighs. “You want that, don’t you?”
“I’m not sure I should be sleeping with you,” she says simply but with a firm resolve in her voice. My heart beats in a way that makes it feel tight. Like there’s not quite enough room for it to beat again.
“Are you seeing someone else?” I ask her. My knuckles brush against the white tablecloth as my hands start to fist. I stop them and try to keep my body from showing what I’m really feeling. She better not be fucking anyone else.
She loses the conviction in her voice when she answers, “No.”
“Then why shouldn’t we?” I say, glancing at the waiter as he makes his way toward us.
“Because—” Jules stops as soon as she notices him. She plasters on a fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and waits patiently for him to address her.
“Are you ready for me to take your order?” he asks me but I gesture to Jules, taking another sip to settle my irritation.
“For you, miss?”
“May I have the herb-grilled salmon, please?” She passes the menu to him and rests her hands in her lap, giving him her full attention. Meanwhile, I can’t take my eyes off her and wondering why the hell she thinks she shouldn’t be seeing me.
“Are the grilled vegetables all right with that?” he asks her.
“Yes, they’re perfect.”
The waiter scribbles on the notepad in his hand then turns toward me.
“Sirloin, medium rare. Vegetables are fine.” I preemptively answer his unasked question, still staring at Jules. The waiter takes the hint, nodding once and immediately leaving us.
“You were saying?” I say, picking up my bourbon.
“I—” Again she hesitates, sensing the change in my temperament. “I don’t know if I should really be seeing anyone.”
I wait for more, taking another sip.
“I’m not sure how to,” she says, waving her hand in the air, at a loss for words. “I’m still—” She can’t put a sentence together.
“I want to fuck you, Jules. Give me one good reason why there’s a problem with that.” I hold her gaze listing all the reasons in my head, but ignoring every last one of them. She needs someone to fuck, to hold her, someone to make her smile. I can do that; I can be that person.
“It’s just sex?” she asks and from the look in her eyes, I don’t know what answer she wants in return.
Fuck, I wish it were. I can’t explain why I want her this badly. It’s more than the physical attraction, but I’ll never admit the truth to her.
“Just sex,” I lie. “If that’s what you want.”
She licks her lush lips, peering down at her silverware and then up to me. “I’d be using you,” she says as if she’s confessing a sin.
A bark of a laugh leaves me and my tense muscles relax.
“Use me, Jules.” I stare into her blue eyes flecked with silver, feeling the tension between us morph into something sweeter, something darker and depraved. “I want you to.”
Julia
It starts with a kiss.
Then dinners and dates.
It starts with a smile.
Your evenings run late.
It tempts and teases.
And makes you want more.
But it’s not how it starts,
When it can only end in war.
There’s something about him tonight. Something darker that I didn’t see before. It’s the way he looks at me like I should be running from him. It both scares me and lures me in.
Lifting the glass to my lips, my one and only glass, I finish off the sweet wine.
“Did you write today?” Mason asks. We’ve made a bit of small talk and light conversation. I’m still feeling him out. I thought I wanted this thing between us but the air changed a bit ago, and the tension is something else now. Like we’re at war, although I don’t know why.
“I did, yes.” Every bit of it was about Jace, though. Something I’d rather not bring up with Mason. I pick up my glass again, finding it empty and cursing internally.
I head off whatever other questions he has for me by saying, “Why dinner tonight and not just drinks after?” My voice is low, nearly accusatory, but unlike what happened earlier, he doesn’t seem to mind.
It takes a moment for him to respond, but he does. “Because I had to eat and so did you.”
He takes another bite of his steak and then asks, “Would you rather
we were just having drinks tonight?”
“Yes.” My answer is immediate. He doesn’t seem taken aback. He’s calm, unmoving and unbothered.
“Why’s that?”
I can’t look him in the eyes as my fingers nervously move up and down the silverware. I don’t know how to put it out there. “How did you know my name?” I ask him.
“From the papers,” Mason says and then quickly takes a sip of his drink.
I nod my head. That’s how everyone knows me. “The papers?” I say, hoping he’ll elaborate.
“I’ve read a few things.”
“Then you may have me at a disadvantage. The papers know far too much about me,” I joke, seemingly innocent, but I’m sure he’s aware that I’m prodding.
“That’s possible, probable even.” He smirks at me, his brilliant smile adding to his charm. I try not to let it affect me, but I’m at his mercy whenever he looks at me like that. I consider the facts and list out all the reasons I have to end this. Maybe the conversation with Kat got to me more than I thought.
I’m vulnerable. Check.
I’ve never done this before. Check.
I don’t know that I’m okay with this. Check.
And a man like Mason could crush me. Check a thousand times.
“Well, all I know about you is that you’re a bit of player,” I say and dare to hold his gaze.
“I used to be, yes.”
“Used to?” There’s a tension between us. It’s hot to the touch and it makes me want to move closer to him, but I know that I need to keep my distance right now.
“Yes, used to. I mean it. I used to be … more unattached, then I met someone.”
“Oh.” I’m surprised by his confession and also by the immediate reaction I have to him meeting someone who made him want to settle down. Maybe all the thoughts and emotions are playing on my face, because Mason continues.
“She’s not in the picture anymore and it wasn’t anything serious at all.” He answers my questions before I have to ask them and I’m grateful for that. “It just changed things for me.”
I wish I could keep my expression neutral but I’ve never been very good at hiding what I’m feeling, and this mix of curiosity and even jealousy surely isn’t becoming. “So now you want someone to fuck and take to dinners?”
A deep rough chuckle vibrates up his chest and the way he smiles at me does something to me that makes me reconsider my list of reasons.
“Someone, no.” His eyes heat and he licks his bottom lip as he adds, “You, yes.”
I huff out a small breath and peer down at my nearly empty plate before looking back up to him.
“I want to take you out, bring you back home and lay you down in my bed.” He holds my gaze as he says the words so calmly. I fight the urge to look around the room filled with families and couples to make sure no one’s heard us. My body is on fire with the thought of him doing just that, over and over. But the part where he talks about taking me out … that makes this seem serious. It practically begs for drama, given my history as a socialite. Whatever this is between us … I don’t want that out there for all the judging eyes.
“I feel …” I trail off as I realize I don’t know how I feel, and with that frustration I lay down my silverware.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t really like going out anymore.” I blurt out the confession and feel sick to my stomach.
“You don’t like going out?” He frowns.
“It just makes me anxious because of something that happened. Something that maybe you read about?” It would be a blessing if he already knew. If he could understand that privacy is an issue for me and this is something I would greatly prefer to keep private.
He stares at me for a moment, although his eyes flash with a knowing look.
I don’t want to say it out loud and I wait for him to answer, but he doesn’t.
“It’s just,” I say as my voice gets tight and I choke on the words, but only for a moment, “my husband passed away and it’s hard for me to deal with moving on with someone else.” I stumble over my next words for a moment when I say, “Because people …”
“Will read about it in the papers?”
“Yes. It’s hard going out and not being with him. That’s difficult for me.” It feels like a massive weight off my chest to just say it out loud. “I don’t know how to handle everyone’s expectations. It could go over very poorly.”
Mason’s next words come out hard, a command if I’ve ever heard one. “Fuck their expectations.”
I’m shocked by how blunt Mason is. I don’t think he understands. “I just don’t want to be judged—”
“Fuck. Them.”
I stare back in disbelief, thinking he can’t be serious but he is. His eyes hold an intensity and his hard, muscular arms are corded. He clenches his stubbled jaw and then seems to relax slightly, but I’m still caught off guard. Mostly because I want to obey him. I want to eat up every word he’s saying as if it’s law and bow down to him.
“You’re entitled to feel and do whatever you want. It’s no one else’s business. Their perception of you is their responsibility. Not yours.”
I take a deep breath, hating that he doesn’t understand. “Maybe I’m just shallow.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but I did. My breath leaves me and I pick up the empty glass again. Before I have the chance to let out the exasperated sigh begging to choke me, the waiter comes to my rescue, the bottle of chardonnay in his hand.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully.
The second the waiter leaves, taking both our plates with him, Mason says, “We can play this however you’d like.”
“I don’t really want to go out yet. I’m just not ready.” I realize he has a point but he doesn’t understand that I welcomed these people into my life, and shutting them out now would be like a slap in the face.
“Is it because you loved him?” Mason asks, his forehead wrinkled and his brow furrowed. He can’t even look me in the eye. “You loved him and they think you can’t move on? Or that you shouldn’t?”
“I loved my husband, but that’s not why.” I take a sip of wine and staring at the glass I answer, “I just don’t know how to not feel guilty about being okay and I’m worried because I don’t know how it will be taken.”
The words came out easier than I thought they would.
“So you’re all right?” Mason asks me and he’s so genuine with his concern that I could practically cry.
“Some days are better than others, but it’s hard because I wasn’t much without him.”
Mason takes my hand in his at my comment, squeezing it and opening his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. I’m surprised at how deep our conversation has gotten.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head and pulling my hand away. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop apologizing,” he tells me in a tone that makes all my worries vanish. “I asked you, remember?”
I nod my head and utter a small response, although I don’t remember how the conversation started.
“Tell me something that will make me smile,” he says.
A grin plays on my lips at the thought of him smiling and I say, “You’re a very handsome man. Very charming. Obviously successful.” I lean in slightly and let the tips of my fingers play along his large knuckles as I add, “and I really, really liked last night.”
I accomplish my task and sit back in my seat, staring at his handsome face.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He keeps his eyes on me as we both sip our drinks. “I would have liked to have had you this morning as well.”
I almost choke on my wine but luckily I save myself, swallowing it down and taking a moment to get myself together.
“About that …”
“I imagine you’ll make up for it tomorrow morning.” He says it like it’s a statement but I hear the question.
Another night with Mason Thatcher.
“I did say I was ju
st along for the ride,” I say, reminding him and myself.
Mason
Pretend it didn’t happen.
Don’t let the truth show.
Curiosity will lead you.
Just where you should go.
She’ll lure you and tempt you.
And bid you farewell.
It’s only then you’ll realize,
You’ve wound up in hell.
I could blame the first night on shock and alcohol. The second on curiosity. But this pattern of behavior, this deep-seated need to watch her, to touch her, to have her … there’s no fucking excuse for it.
I stare at the computer screen mindlessly. The office is empty; even Liam’s gone home, leaving me here alone with simple tasks that should have already been done.
My to-do list consists of analyzing this inventory and comparing the replacement materials Liam thinks will be suitable. It’s crucial to our budget that this works and I need to make the decision today. Every penny is accounted for and spent, all except for this last purchase. All of it for one massive project. And all of it I owe to my father.
It’s been hours and I’m purposely dragging my feet. I want all this to stop so I can hit pause. Instead I’m falling down a black pit, forced to make a choice of what will happen when I crash at the bottom.
Sitting forward in my chair, elbows on the desk, I nudge the mouse to my computer and it lights up the screen once again. Two gorgeous blue eyes stare back at me. Her long, thick lashes frame them perfectly. Her skin is flawless, with only a hint of color in her cheeks. But it’s her expression that had me staring at her picture all morning. Her lips are parted as if she’s about to smile. So close to happiness, but the photo caught her before she could have it.
It’s only been two days since I’ve last seen her, but each night I’ve felt compelled to message her and make sure I knew where she was. The insecure side of me wanted to ensure she wasn’t with someone else. That’s the truth of the matter. I trust her when she says she’s not involved with anyone. However, I know all too well what loneliness can do to a person and I want her completely to myself.
You Are My Reason (You Are Mine Book 1) Page 8
