Inevitably, he felt her stare and opened those fathomless blue eyes, put his arm around her, and told her without words how ridiculous she was being.
But that stopped too. When Lisa’s ad gave her hives and Kirstin couldn’t sleep at night, Mason had stopped waking up. He’d been so exhausted from late night design benders that he failed to notice how very much she needed the feel of his strong arms to give her confidence.
To make her remember that above all, nothing in this world was more important than the time they had together and there was always room for a few minutes of togetherness.
Didn’t think you’d want it sitting around when you had clients over.
Why hadn’t he mentioned that? It was such a simple thing. Not like a proposal of marriage—Mason couldn’t have begun to get those kinds of words out. She’d always known that if they ever got engaged, she’d have to do the proposing. Mason couldn’t cope with emotion. But saying he had moved a falling apart recliner because he was thinking of her didn’t come anywhere close to that kind of impossible feat.
Her gaze strayed to the narrow window that faced her old house, and an uncomfortable tightness settled into her chest. Maybe for Mason, the recliner came closer to proposals than she’d realized.
Kirstin laughed to herself. Right. She was doing it again—justifying his behavior so it didn’t hurt so much. Mason hadn’t moved that recliner out of consideration for her potential clients. He’d never expected her to have that many clients anyway. He had stuffed the orange eyesore in the basement so he didn’t have to look at it.
Sighing, she reached across the twin-size bed and turned off the lamp. The lack of light didn’t make closing her eyes any easier. Though she shut them, unruly dark waves and a lopsided grin flashed against her eyelids. His mouth moved with words she couldn’t hear, words she couldn’t remember. But the sensual play of his lips sparked an ache down deep in her womb. God, how she wanted him.
Stretched out on her side, she ran her hand over the empty covers, the absence of his warm body something she’d never get used to. Even after all the heartache he’d put her through, she craved the steel and sugar scent of Mason’s skin. The firm press of his weight as he sank into her arms and escorted her to bone-deep satisfaction.
Damn shame great sex couldn’t hold them together. If it could have, she’d be in their bed, not a virtual cot in the Roberts’ basement. And she wouldn’t be questioning how she’d make it through a full day of working with her ex.
****
It required immense effort to pull himself out of the recliner, but Mason sucked up his willpower, shoved with his legs, and managed to escape the well-worn cushions. He stood still, afraid that if he attempted walking while the room was still bobbing on an invisible touch-sensitive axis, he’d pitch face-first over his feet.
Never should have had that fifth beer. At four, he’d been blissfully numb. Five, however, pushed everything over the edge. Aside from the fact he felt like a Weeble Wobble, his senses were in overdrive. All the blurry snapshots of his life with Kirstin sharpened into digitally precise pictures. The most prominent—their third date in that damn chair and the way she’d straddled his thighs, oblivious to the fact anyone passing his apartment window could see every gift Mother Nature had given her, and rode him to cataclysmic release.
Now, he was drunk, hard as a rock, and he wanted her in his bed.
Hell, if going to Sam’s didn’t involve two flights of stairs—one to get to the patio and the second to the basement where Kirstin was staying—he’d have been just as happy in her bed.
Finding the ability to move one foot in front of the other, Mason trudged toward the hall where he could use the wall for support. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so damnably aroused. No, wait—that was easy. She could light him up with a simple touch of her fingertips on the back of his neck. What he couldn’t remember was the last time he’d been so aroused without a means of spending his desire.
The glow of the monitor in his office drew him to a slow stop, and he braced his hands on the doorframe. Earlier, he’d intended to do something in here. Back around beer two and a half. But…what?
He squinted at the three dimensional skateboard on his monitor. Touch up color? No, that didn’t feel right. It had something to do with the project, but what?
Stumbling forward, Mason made his way to his desk and frowned at the clutter. Something about Kirstin. He’d meant to get up, drag his sorry ass in here and…
His gaze canvassed the desktop organizer where he kept his hard copy DVD portfolios. He’d need the one from Bartlebee’s tomorrow. They’d done a game segment where the hero kid had to ride a skateboard through a maze while dodging hot lava rocks. He wanted to get Kirstin’s opinion on the rendered motion.
He reached for the drawer the DVD was in, pulled it open, and stopped. His stare locked on the reason he’d intended to come in here tonight—the diamond ring he’d convinced Kirstin’s father to surrender last month. No way in hell would he let her know he had finally found the guts to ask her to make this a permanent thing…four days before she walked out.
Mason picked up the ring, let it settle on his index finger, and flipped off his monitor.
The walk to the bedroom was like balancing on a beam. He had to catch himself on the wall at least twice to keep from doing a face-plant on the hardwood floor. By the time he reached the bed, he flopped onto his stomach, unconcerned with the fact he was still dressed. When had he become such a lightweight?
Probably when Cheez-Its became dinner.
This sucked.
Last night he’d been perfectly convinced another handful of days, and Kirstin would get over whatever had her all riled up. She’d come home. They’d go out to her favorite restaurant—his way of apologizing—and then they would forget about the argument. She wouldn’t force him to grovel. He would know she understood he hated fighting with her. Every time, it chewed him up on the inside. One of the reasons he made it a point not to argue.
Now, the faint scent of her perfume that lingered on the pillow beside his was agony.
What the fuck had he done to piss her off so bad?
Careful not to move his body, he shifted his gaze to the phone on his nightstand. He was half-tempted to call her cell. Waking her up wouldn’t get him into her good graces, but if he could make his tongue work right, he might find a few answers.
Screw it. Even sober he had about as much chance of putting those questions together as he did winning the lottery. He’d say something that made it worse. Some asinine remark meant to lighten the mood that came out all wrong and didn’t just put him in the doghouse, but chained him there.
Oh wait—evidently, he’d already done that.
Mason let out a sigh and shut his eyes. Some time ago, he’d learned the folly of drunk dialing. He’d ask her tomorrow. When his head didn’t feel like his brain was swimming, and the effort of picking up the phone didn’t seem quite so monumental.
Besides, midnight problem solving wasn’t her thing anymore. He could still sense when she woke up in the middle of the night—the sudden jostle of the bed got him every time. He could be dead to the world, and one twitch from her side of the mattress pulled him into wakefulness faster than the morning alarm. But Kirstin hadn’t reached out for his comfort in a long time. Come to think of it—it was doubtful she even needed comfort. She wanted out. She’d made her decision, and he wouldn’t make a fool out of himself by begging her to reconsider.
As if his limbs had turned to fine porcelain, he carefully rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Five years. For the first time in five years, he was really, truly alone. Sure, business forced him to shack up in a motel overnight now and then. Two years ago, she stayed a week with her mom, just before Lucinda Jones gave up her six-month battle against cancer. Even then, though, he hadn’t been alone. There’d always been a homecoming around the corner. A late night phone call to tuck each other in.
He couldn’
t stop a wry smirk. A couple late night phone calls they’d done far more than tuck each other in.
It just didn’t seem possible that five years could vanish overnight.
Hell, on her birthday two months ago, he’d finally realized that her piece of shit Mazda was really falling apart when he’d taken it in to have the transmission adjusted. He came home, not with her ten-year-old Mazda, but a brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee. She’d been happy then. Squealed so loud his eardrums nearly burst.
What had happened between then and now?
Lisa Bennet hadn’t been in the middle of things. She’d been done and gone—he’d thought forever.
Mason tossed his arm over his forehead to stifle the racket against his skull. He’d damn sure missed something. Life needed signs. Great big neon flashing signs that made it impossible to miss, Danger Ahead.
That or a translator.
Funny thing, though, he’d felt pretty secure in his ability to translate Kirstin. Make that super proud he’d accomplished such a monumental feat without inadvertently creating an avalanche in the process. He’d come close a few times—like when he missed her birthday their first year together and failed to understand It’s okay held a vastly different meaning.
It had taken all his creative energy to pull off flowers, gold bracelet, and dinner theater the following night in a way that expressed his true intent to celebrate her birthday because he wanted to, not because he was trying to make up and get himself out of trouble. Truth was, he’d planned it on the wrong night all along. Man, they had a good laugh over that several weeks later when she discovered the receipts that were dated well in advance.
And for a little while, he’d been on top of the world. All errors forgiven. All faults accepted.
“Ah, baby,” he mumbled into the quiet. “What went wrong?”
You’re always too damn busy.
She’d told him. But no matter how he analyzed her explanation, that answer didn’t make sense. He’d never been too busy for her. She was the one who drew into a shell, seemingly disinterested in sharing herself with him. She’d even stopped asking him to come to bed with her. When he heard the light click off while he was still working, he never thought beyond the fact she was tired, and he wasn’t going to disturb her.
Maybe he should have paid a little more attention to that subtle click.
Chapter Four
At ten fifteen the next morning, Kirstin stumbled through the damp grass to her—make that to Mason’s—back patio door. It stood open, the heavy scent of bacon grease and fried eggs wafting out to blend with the lingering chill that drifted off the nearby lake. Her stomach rumbled.
She pushed the door open and fled the cool morning air. The last thing she expected to see, however, was Mason still at the skillet, dressed in only his boxer-briefs, his hair as disheveled as if he’d just rolled out of bed. For him, ten-fifteen was going on lunchtime. He was up and moving like clockwork, at five, even on the weekends. By the time she found the ability to confront morning, he’d taken a run around the lake, showered, and managed to crank out three good hours of design.
He glanced over his shoulder at the same time he flipped an egg. “Morning.” He gestured at the coffee pot with his head. “It’s fresh.”
Doing her best to ignore the broad expanse of his muscular shoulders and the way jersey cotton hugged his tight butt, Kirstin trudged to the coffeepot. She plucked a mug off the cup-tree in the corner and filled it to the brim. Slowly, she turned around, sipping the piping hot brew as she leaned against the countertop. Her gaze traveled over Mason’s backside, untamed butterflies stirring in her stomach.
The last time she’d been up for his definition of breakfast had been in that tiny apartment. She’d forgotten how simply amazing he looked in the morning. How incredibly nice it was to wake up to the flutter of her heart when she realized she’d succeeded where no other woman had. She won Mason. Without even really trying. They’d met through a friend, and from the night he phoned to ask her out a week later, they’d fallen into each other naturally. Yet, it had never failed to make her pulse skip when she stopped to acknowledge plenty of other women had flitted through his life, bending over backwards to convince him to stick around.
She’d been lucky. He stuck for five years. Five incredible, frustrating years.
Realizing she was staring, and he couldn’t possibly be ignorant to that fact, she cleared the cobwebs of sleep from her throat. “You’re quiet.”
He tossed her a lazy grin and gestured at her coffee cup with the spatula. “How many is that this morning?”
Her brow furrowed. “My first. Why?”
“Your inner bear doesn’t sleep until after two.”
Was she really that bad in the mornings? She’d never enjoyed getting up, true. But by the time she had coffee in-hand, she was usually sociable as long as it wasn’t some ungodly hour of morning.
“I’m fine,” she mumbled as she took another sip.
“You’re better after two.” Turning, he passed her a plate filled with two eggs, wheat toast, and three slices of bacon. “And even better with something in your stomach.”
Kirstin blinked. Uncertain what to make of that remark, she accepted his offered breakfast and moved to sit at the small table near the wide bay window. Did it really take two cups of coffee to shed her morning grumpiness? How could Mason know that, if she’d never stopped to count?
Keeping with his conviction of silence, he joined her at the table and took the seat across. As he dunked one corner of his toast in his coffee, he used his free hand to spread open the morning paper. While he read, absorbed in the business headlines, she picked up her fork and stabbed into her eggs. Gooey yolk spread over her plate—heaven. Three bites and the cramping in her stomach eased enough she didn’t feel the need to shovel in food. She looked up through her eyelashes and studied the lines in Mason’s face.
Fine wrinkles set in around his eyes, the only hint he’d turn thirty-five this year. Grey hadn’t set into his dark hair, and though stubble shadowed his chin, his face still held boyish youth. He looked tired.
Probably up late working on some new game.
Typical Mason.
With a soft sigh, she scooped up another bite. This time, when the flavor soaked into her tongue, she stopped chewing at the subtle taste of garlic. Her mouth watered in an instant. Eggs without garlic just weren’t eggs. They were poor substitutes, flat and otherwise unexciting.
That Mason still knew how she preferred her eggs despite the fact they hadn’t shared breakfast in years, wasn’t lost on her. The discovery ranked right up there with his comment about the recliner—and caused the same uncomfortable tightness around her lungs. In one hasty gulp, she downed the rest of her coffee and scooted out of the chair to refill her mug.
Mason didn’t notice when she bought new clothes, but he remembered how she liked eggs. Weird. Too weird.
“Mason?”
The paper rustled. “Hmm?”
“What’s my favorite color?”
Returning to the table, she held his deer-in-the-headlights stare. Thank God. That was normal. The eggs were just a fluke, or rote habit. Not some signal he actually paid attention to the little things. The fist around her chest relaxed, and she sat to finish off her bacon while he floundered for some logical explanation about why he didn’t know and how colors weren’t important. Or even better, how she changed her mind every month.
“You don’t have one,” he answered with a one-shoulder shrug.
Bacon halfway to her mouth, Kirstin froze. Her world tipped sideways, and those fingers around her lungs inched closed.
“You wear purple when you’re happy. Red when you’re annoyed.” He nodded at her comfortable old t-shirt. “Green when you need confidence.”
Kirstin laughed. She did not need confidence to meet with Mason over a design project. For God’s sake, he knew her limitations and her abilities better than anyone. She didn’t need to try to impress him, and admitting she
couldn’t do something was perfectly okay. The T-shirt, with its stretched out collar and ratty hem, was comfortable.
Why then, did it feel like he’d dragged soul secrets out into the open?
Wanting nothing more than to escape this meeting as soon as possible, she dropped the bacon on her plate, pushed it aside, and clasped her hands together on the tabletop. “Have you had a chance to think about how long this project will take?”
****
Something buried deep inside Mason that he couldn’t name flinched at Kirstin’s abrupt question. For a moment, things had been so normal he’d almost forgotten the grogginess that clung to his bones and the way his head pounded. But the sharp edge to her voice brought everything back front and center, and the utter lack of warmth in her green eyes stirred a chill through his veins. She’d been here all of fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes and was already looking for a speedy exit.
As the thud thud took up residence straight behind his eyes again, he picked up both their plates and dumped them in the sink. “Why? Got a hot date?”
“Mason.”
Her voice held unmistakable warning—if he continued he’d regret it. He didn’t particularly care. “What? None of my business?”
She drank from her coffee, her eyes holding his, her silence signal enough that he’d gotten beneath her skin. He could either provoke her into a full-blown fight, or he could back down now, his pride a little bruised, but the rest of him not yet bleeding.
When it came to arguing with her, he’d rather sacrifice a few blows to his pride. Sighing, he pushed a hand through his disheveled hair and dragged his gaze away from her heart-shaped face. “I figure we can have a working prototype done in a couple days. Run it past Lisa and finish the final design in a week.” If things went the way they had last time, anything longer than a week with that she-devil, and he’d likely end up in jail.
“A week? Really?”
Misunderstanding Mason Page 3
