by Bru Baker
ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 5:10 PM): I may have had something to do with that. Check your office door.
ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 5:10 PM): And why is it all right for YOU to use caps lock but not ME? MasonPike (09/08/2012 5:11 PM): Oh, very nice. Is that supposed to be me in a coconut bra and a grass skirt? I had no idea you had such a high opinion of my physique. Tend toward the more muscle-bound types, do you?
MasonPike (09/08/2012 5:11 PM): And it’s because I know how not to abuse it, Parker. Caps lock is a privilege, not a right.
MasonPike (09/08/2012 5:12 PM): Hey. That’s not a company mug shot. Where did you get that photo?
ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 5:12 PM): Facebook, of course.
MasonPike (09/08/2012 5:13 PM): I knew accepting your friend request was a bad idea. ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 5:13 PM): You have NO IDEA. MasonPike (09/08/2012 6:01 PM): I got the one in the staff room, the one on the outside of my door, and the one on the men’s bathroom door. Any others?
ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 6:14 PM): Other than the one I tagged of you on Facebook, you mean?
MasonPike (09/08/2012 6:14 PM): Parker. ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 6:15 PM): Why would I tell you and ruin all my fun? MasonPike (09/08/2012 6:23 PM): Unless you want a worm in your back door, you’ll tell me where the other copies are.
ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 6:24 PM): That sounds like an invitation, not a threat. MasonPike (09/08/2012 6:27 PM): Saying I’ll tell your father about your appalling lack of professionalism, not to mention the fact that you used a company graphic artist to do it—and I know you did, Parker, I talked to Liam—would be a threat. The worm is a PROMISE.
ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 6:28 PM): Oh, Mason. You say the sweetest things. Don’t you think we should have a date first before you prod me with your worm?
MasonPike (09/08/2012 6:31 PM): If I say I’ll take you to dinner, will you tell me where the other ones are?
MasonPike(09/08/2012 6:45 PM): Parker? Don’t leave me hanging here. ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 6:47 PM): Fine. There’s one more and you can’t have it. It’s in a frame on my desk.
MasonPike (09/08/2012 6:48 PM): That’s… brilliant, actually.
ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 6:49 PM): So. Dinner?
MasonPike (09/08/2012 6:50 PM): What, tonight? ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 6:53 PM): Don’t tell me you need to go home and shave your legs or something.
MasonPike (09/08/2012 6:55 PM): I’ll have you know that my legs are nowhere NEAR as hairy as the guy in that picture.
ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 6:57 PM): I’m sure you’d do a grass skirt much more justice with your girlish figure. Now, dinner?
MasonPike (09/08/2012 7:01 PM): Well, when you ask so nicely, how can I say no?
ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 7:02 PM): Hey! You were the one who did the asking, thank you very much.
MasonPike (09/08/2012 7:04 PM): Tales of your chivalry have been vastly exaggerated. Lobby in 20?
ParkerAnderson (09/08/2012 7:05 PM): It’s a date. THE date, as it turned out, was a disaster. Mason was far quieter in person than he was on IM, and the cheekiness he’d demonstrated on their first meeting seemed to be completely gone. They’d hardly exchanged ten words on the walk to the restaurant, a nearby Italian place that Parker frequently sent Luke out to for takeout. Mason had given the sign a mistrustful look on the way in, but Parker hadn’t gotten a chance to question him on it before the hostess descended on them, taking their coats and fussing over Parker, calling him one of their best customers.
“I’m not, really. I do eat at other places,” Parker said with a disgruntled look when she’d finally bustled off, promising to return with a bottle of the Chianti Parker always ordered when he actually came in.
Mason merely smirked and shook his head, then picked up the menu and studied it with abnormal scrutiny. Parker wondered if Mason was a picky eater or if he was just nervous and using the menu as something to hide behind.
“I recommend the bolognese,” Parker said, smiling at the waitress who brought over the Chianti, which tumbled in a graceful arc into the decanter she’d placed on the table. “It’s to die for.”
Mason’s lips turned down a bit at that, and Parker’s jaw tensed. His charm had never failed to put a date at ease; why was Mason different?
“I think I’ll go with the carbonara, thanks,” he said, handing the waitress his menu. Parker arched a brow at him, and Mason just shrugged. He handed his own menu to the waitress, who winked at him as she swept away.
“Are you ever not difficult, Mason?”
Mason grinned, waggling his eyebrows.
“You enjoy the challenge, I’m sure.”
They fell into small talk about the company as they waited for their food and sipped at their wine, making Parker realize he didn’t know much about Mason outside of work. He tried to ask a few leading questions about his family and personal life, but Mason’s answers were vague, and he kept lapsing into silence.
“You really did get all of them, if that’s what’s got you worried,” Parker drawled, nudging Mason’s foot with his own under the table and drawing him out of his reverie.
“Hmm? Oh. The photo. Very clever, by the way. No, I was hung up on a bit of code earlier, but I think I might have figured it out.”
Mason looked up at him, but Parker could see his gaze wasn’t quite focused. His gorgeous brown eyes were slightly squinted, making the corners crinkle in a way Parker was slightly appalled with himself for finding adorable.
“Do you even see me, or is my head just a giant computer terminal to you right now? I can tell you’re coding. My father used to get the same look.”
Mason flushed guiltily.
“Your head is enormous. I could probably run 1600 by 1200 on it, no problem.”
“Cute.” “So I’ve been told. Other popular adjectives used to describe me include intelligent, witty, handsome, wellendowed—”
“Mason!” Parker couldn’t help but indulge in a scandalized grin. “We’re in public. Do try to act like you weren’t raised in a barn.”
Mason beamed, the first genuine smile Parker had seen all night.
“We had a barn, but I assure you, I lived in the house.” “A house? You’re shattering all my preconceived stereotypes about communes, Mason.” Parker left his foot leaning against Mason’s under the table, pleased beyond measure when Mason made no attempt to move it.
“You did your research, I see. I did too, I should warn you. I have ninja Google skills.” Mason’s smile grew, his eyes twinkling.
“Ninja Googler. Got it. Maybe you should add that to your business card.” Parker laughed at the thoughtful look that crossed Mason’s features, as though he was considering Parker’s suggestion seriously.
“Commune?” he prodded when it became clear Mason wasn’t going to offer more information. “Yes, but only in name. It’s really more of a collective— ten houses on a big plot of land out in the middle of nowhere. Every family has its own house, and no one other than the animals lives in the barn,” Mason teased.
“A collective? Does that mean they grow their own food?”
Mason shrugged. “Herbs, mostly. Some vegetables. My dad used to keep sheep, but my mom got rid of them after he died.” Mason paused, as though he was uncomfortable with the amount of information he’d just given away. “Anyway, it’s nothing fancy. My Uncle Albert lived there with us, and he liked to think he was some kind of old-school apothecary. Up until he died, people in the town would come to him for herbal blends for minor illnesses. My mom started making cosmetics out of the herbs after he died a few years ago, and now that’s the collective’s main business.”
Parker’s brow furrowed, and he dug in his pants pocket for the tube of lip balm Anna had given him a week earlier. She’d told him it would come in handy, and he’d thought she’d meant his lips were dry. It was good stuff, thick but not sticky, with a pleasant vanilla odor and no tint. He held it up in the light of the candle on the table, squinting as he read the
label. Nature’s Magic, manufactured by Pike Family, Inc. in Millersburg, Ohio.
Mason gave him a quizzical look, so Parker showed him the tube in his hand. Mason’s eyes widened, and he laughed. “Anna,” Parker said by way of explanation, tucking the tube back into his pocket.
“She’s the reason I asked you to dinner, actually,” Mason said, the tips of his ears turning red. He looked away, his free hand worrying at the hem of the tablecloth. “I’m not very good with, er, dating. And reading signals and whatnot. That’s more Alan’s thing. I just, you know.”
He coughed, and Parker thought he must really be lost if he could find the stammering, blushing man in front of him gorgeous.
“Anyway. I didn’t realize you two were related. You look nothing alike,” Mason said, his tone almost accusatory, as if Parker had orchestrated a plot to hide the fact that he and Anna were cousins. “I figured you were just, you know. A flirt. I remember the stories that went around after Clark left, and of course I heard about Scott.”
Parker’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move his foot from where it was still touching Mason’s. “And, uh, Charles. He and I, we, er, dated for a bit. Nothing serious, mostly screwing around on the awful couch in my office when we were working late and needed to work off the tension.” Mason trailed off, looking up to meet Parker’s eye, his expression slightly mortified. “Er. You probably didn’t need to know that.”
Parker shrugged casually, trying hard not to look as jealous as he felt. It was irrational. Parker had slept with Charles—of course he had. They’d dated for four months. But the thought of Mason sleeping with him made Parker want to wrest Charles limb from limb. Or, at the very least, burn Mason’s sofa.
“It’s always good to hash out old partners before letting someone stick their pen drive in your USB,” Parker said nonchalantly. Mason’s nervous expression disappeared instantly, his eyes crinkling again as he laughed.
“That was horrible. And who says I’m going to be the USB port?” Parker shrugged again, smirking as he caressed Mason’s leg with his foot. Mason jumped at the unexpected contact, and Parker let out a satisfied chuckle.
“Who says we both can’t? Computers these days have lots of slots.”
“Check, please,” Mason squeaked when the toe of Parker’s shoe nudged behind his knee. Parker laughed, returning his foot to the floor. His smile grew when Mason twined his leg through Parker’s under the table, his knee sandwiched between Parker’s strong thighs. Parker’s normal irritation at the restaurant’s small booths, which usually led to problems whenever he brought Luke or Greg or his other friends, was completely absent as he squeezed his thighs together suggestively, making Mason squeak again.
They talked about Mason’s childhood growing up in a commune and Parker’s summers at Anna’s house, sharing anecdotes until their food arrived. Mason seemed to enjoy his carbonara, but Parker couldn’t help but notice that Mason kept giving his bolognese strange looks whenever he thought Parker wasn’t looking.
Parker twirled up a forkful of pasta, holding it out across the small table in front of Mason’s mouth.
“Here. Taste. You’ve been looking at it all meal, and I told you it’s amazing. Try it.”
Mason shook his head, glancing from the fork to Parker’s face.
“No, thanks.”
“Mason, come on. You must want some, you keep looking at it.” “I—” Mason choked as Parker slid the fork into his open mouth. Parker watched as Mason’s eyes widened in horror when the pasta and sauce touched his tongue.
The reaction was almost instantaneous. Mason pulled back, and Parker’s fork fell to the table as Mason spit out the pasta and wiped at his tongue with his napkin.
“Allergic,” he gasped, his lips already starting to swell. He wheezed, his hand scrambling at his side for something but coming up empty. “EpiPen is in my bag.”
“In your office?” They were close enough for Parker to run back and get it out of Mason’s office, but Mason shook his head, already pushing his way out of the booth.
Parker stood, nearly tipping the table in his haste to get to Mason. Mason’s lips and tongue were noticeably swollen, and Parker could see his chest working harder to breathe.
“Tell me what to do.” Other diners were looking at them, but Parker didn’t care. His world had narrowed to Mason’s gasping breaths and the look of panic in his brown eyes.
“Hospital,” Mason panted, obviously struggling to breathe. Parker gathered Mason in his arms, ignoring the way Mason thumped his hand against Parker’s chest in protest at being carried. Parker had no doubt that if Mason could talk he’d be yelling at him, but Mason could barely breathe, let alone form words. Trying to keep his own panic at bay, Parker hurried out of the restaurant. He kept Mason cradled to his chest as though Mason weighed nothing, and told Mason to stay calm and concentrate on trying to breathe.
Mason rested his head against Parker’s shoulder, his hand braced against Parker’s chest, and Parker felt a twinge of happiness that, despite the awful situation, Mason apparently trusted him enough to at least nominally relax. He covered the two blocks between the restaurant and the nearest hospital in record time, and by the time he’d sprinted into the emergency room intake doors, Mason looked slightly blue under the fluorescent lights.
“Anaphylaxis,” Mason managed to rasp when the nurse ran up to them, and seconds later he was on a gurney, leaving Parker’s arms feeling a little cold and bereft without him in them. Parker knew he must look absolutely terrified, and he nearly grimaced when Mason raised his head slightly, giving him what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile before the nurses started jogging toward the door.
Chapter Four
ALANstood in Mason’s office, brow furrowed as he looked at Mason, who was dancing around with barely contained glee. “He nearly killed you, and then he bought you a… sofa?” Mason rolled his eyes.
“He didn’t nearly kill me,” he said, sighing when Alan glared at him. “Well, not on purpose. How was he to know I’m deathly allergic to tomatoes? And he was really very sweet. He carried me to the ER, and then he waited there for hours until someone finally let me know he was there, and I told them to bring him back. It wasn’t his fault that I forgot my EpiPen.”
Parker had been beside himself, apologetic to the point of nauseating. Mason had been exhausted and strung out, both from the reaction and the epinephrine, and it had been hard to talk around the breathing treatment they’d given him. Mason stopped trying to respond after the first time he’d pulled the mask away from his face to try to talk, his voice hoarse and rough. Parker had looked even more horrified and guilty at that, so Mason had replaced the mask and tried to convey how much he didn’t blame Parker solely through expressive use of his eyebrows and squeezing Parker’s hand, which had clenched viselike around his own the moment he’d come into the room.
“It’s kind of funny, actually. When he ordered it, he told me it was ‘to die for’.” Mason laughed, huffing out an exasperated breath when Alan refused to join in. “Get it? To die for?”
“I get it, Mason. I just don’t think my best friend nearly dying is funny.”
“He didn’t know, Alan.”
“Who forces food into someone else’s mouth, though? Hmm? That’s—it’s irresponsible, it’s—”
“Romantic, in most circles,” Anna said from the doorway, startling both men. “Exactly,” Mason said, crossing his arms over his chest. He’d had to spend the night in the hospital, but they’d let him out in the morning. He’d taken the next day off work, but he was back today, bright and early. Alan had tried to convince him to stay home, but Mason hadn’t much liked being treated like an invalid.
Anna looked at the new sofa that took up most of Mason’s tiny office, a smile playing over her lips.
“Oh, Parker,” she muttered, shaking her head with a fond sigh.
Mason grinned. “Isn’t it awesome?” He sank into the plush cushions, bouncing up and down for good measure. Not only
did the springs not squeak and groan in protest like his old one had, but no dust billowed up either.
The sofa had been there when Mason had let himself in that morning, complete with a large, garish red bow on it. Parker had included a handwritten note of apology, which was tempered by the EpiPen and a MedicAlert bracelet he’d tied to the ribbon, taking a tongue-in-cheek shot at Mason’s allergy. Mason had been completely disarmed.
“I liked your old couch,” Alan said sullenly, kicking at the new sofa’s leg.
“You did not. Remember the time a spring broke through the cushion and poked you in the—”
“Hey!” Alan yelled, indignant. He nodded meaningfully toward Anna, glaring at Mason.
Mason merely grinned, spreading his arms out so they rested against the back of the cushions. “Recovered, I take it?” Anna asked, perching on the edge of the sofa. She glared at Alan, who made a childish face at her and then stomped off, slamming the door behind him.
“Mostly. How’s Parker?” “Nervous. He thinks you’ll never want to speak to him again,” she said, petting the sofa’s fabric. “Nice.”
“Isn’t it?” Mason gushed, patting the cushion fondly.
“He didn’t want to send flowers or chocolates, not knowing what else you’re allergic to,” she said, slanting a glance at Mason.
He blushed, touched that Parker had put that much thought into it. Despite the absolute catastrophe later in the evening, he still recalled telling Parker about what he and Charles had gotten up to on his old sofa. He was sure the gift had something to do with that as well.
Anna hummed, not bothering to hide her interest in the note and the other gifts tied to the ribbon. She flashed Mason a grin when she read it, her fingers lightly caressing the stylish leather cuff that had a silver MedicAlert tag woven into it. Mason had never seen anything like it; he’d gone through dozens of the regular sort, but he invariably lost them because he took them off so often, hating the way they looked.
She looked up at Mason, brow quirked in silent question, and he held his hand out dutifully, letting her fasten the cuff on his wrist. She leaned back when she was done, nodding in approval.
