Dating Dr. Dreamy: A Small Town Second Chance Romance (Bliss River Book 1)

by Lili Valente

  Before she can speak, I cup her face in my hands, brushing my thumb across her lips to keep her protest from entering the world. “We’re going fishing, and I’m going to answer every question you can think to ask me,” I say softly. “And then we’re going to talk about what I need to do to start regaining your trust. Think it over while I drive. Whatever you need, I’ll do it. I’ll learn to stand on my head and juggle flaming bowling pins if that’s what it takes.”

  Her lips part. “All right,” she whispers. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.” I smile.

  “I’m not saying I’ll come up with an answer, let alone an easy answer,” she warns. “Certainly not something as easy as upside down fire juggling, but…”

  But that’s a step in the right direction, I think as I help her into the car and trot around to the driver’s side, ignoring the redhead peering out the March’s front window with a frown on her face.

  I’ll have to win Aria over eventually—the March sisters are closer than most and I don’t want to be a source of friction between them—but for now I’m focused on Lark.

  If she can’t get past what I did, it doesn’t matter if the town of Bliss River declares me a hero and holds a parade in my honor, I’ll still be out of luck.

  Chapter 9

  Lark

  It’s a beautiful day—hot enough for the breeze to feel delicious, cool enough that the sun warms without summoning a sweat. Spring is my favorite season in Georgia, but I know perfect spring days like this are numbered. Soon, it will be so hot and humid that my neck will be perpetually damp and my hair frizzed into a blond fluff ball until cooler weather comes back around in the fall.

  I lie in the plastic recliner Mason has rigged into one side of his old boat, the sun warm on my legs, a bottle of lemonade cold in my hand, and the crisp mineral smell of the water a sweet prickle at my nose.

  If anyone else were sitting across from me, I’d be drifting off into a catnap with a smile on my face, thankful for a little taste of paradise.

  Instead, my body is humming, every inch of my skin sizzling with awareness as Mason’s eyes move between where his red and white float bobs in the water, and my bikini clad self. I hunted for one of my old one-piece suits, but the only thing I found was a two-piece from when I was nineteen and still living at home.

  I threw it on and dashed, not wanting to leave Mason alone with Aria for too long for fear of bloodshed. But now I wish I’d taken the time to hunt down that one piece I know is hiding somewhere in my old room.

  There’s a lot more of me for this bikini to wrangle into place than there was six years ago. I’ve gained twenty-five pounds and gone up a cup size since then, and the top of the suit is downright scandalous. I also have a pooch below my belly button that wasn’t there before—a testimony to my love of cheese in all its wondrous forms—but Mason doesn’t seem to mind that there’s more of me to love.

  Quite the opposite, in fact.

  The look in his eyes is enough to make my heart race.

  He’s not looking at me like a unicorn princess anymore. He’s looking at me like something he wants to taste, to savor, and, eventually, to devour. His eyes skim down my body from my lips to the tips of my toes, setting every inch of me on fire. I swear I can feel that look, like soft, hot lips trailing over my skin, leaving me breathless and wanting more.

  It’s that darned almost-kiss that’s done this to me, made it impossible to think about anything but how much I want to pounce on Mason. I’m sure his kisses can’t be nearly as wonderful as I remember.

  But then…what if they are?

  Stop thinking about kissing, psycho!

  I shift my legs, trying to ignore the ache building between them; Mason makes a pained sound low in his throat and jerks his attention back to the water.

  “So?” he asks, his voice rougher than it was a few minutes ago, making me think he’s finding all this “not touching” as torturous as I am. “Anything else you’d like to ask me?”

  I take a long, cold drink of lemonade, hoping it will clear my head. We’ve already talked about the girls he dated in New York while he was in med school. If he’s to be believed, there were three total, all of whom he only dated for a few months each, and none of the relationships evolved beyond the friends-with-benefits stage.

  Learning Mason has been intimate with other women wasn’t easy to hear, but it wasn’t a surprise either. He wasn’t a virgin when we met. He never pressured me to do more than I was comfortable doing when we dated, but I knew how much he wanted things to progress to the next level. I wanted the same thing, but years of promising my mother I’d wait until marriage had left their mark on my psyche. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with sex before marriage, personally, but I can’t stand lying to anyone, let alone someone I love and respect as much as my sweet mama.

  Still, there were nights, back when Mason and I were dating, when it wasn’t easy to tell him to pump the brakes. Nights when I wanted to pull him close and beg him to floor it. To keep going until we were as close as two people could get.

  I almost suggested we take that final step the night he proposed, in fact.

  Instead, I went home to tell my family, and thank God I did. It was hard enough dealing with Mason’s abandonment as things stood. If I’d lost my virginity to him the night before, it would have been even more soul-crushing.

  I hum low in my throat and take another pull on my lemonade.

  “Is that a thinking hum or a ‘no more questions’ hum?” Mason asks.

  “A thinking hum,” I say, shifting my legs again. Not even memories of the morning Mason left town are enough to kill the ache building inside me. I’m going to have to do something drastic to divert my thoughts, to keep from imagining Mason’s big hands circling my waist, his lips hot on my bare stomach as he—

  “I’m not a virgin anymore,” I blurt out because apparently I really suck at not thinking—and talking— about sex right now.

  “Oh.” Mason blinks. “Well, I… That’s good.”

  “Is it?” I challenge.

  “Well, no. I mean, I hope it was good…for your sake,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly.

  “It was acceptable. Could have been worse.”

  He nods and the knot forming between his brows gets knottier. “Right. Well, I wish it had been better.” He clears his throat again and moves his tackle box to the other side of his seat for absolutely no reason. “And I mean, of course I wish I…” He swallows. “But you’re twenty-five. It makes sense that you would have crossed that bridge.”

  “I am twenty-five,” I say. Being twenty-five and not married feels strange enough—when I was growing up, I always assumed I’d be married with a baby on the way by this point in my life—but twenty-five and still a virgin would have been downright sad. Not that there’s anything wrong with women who truly want to wait, but I didn’t.

  Like Mason said, I was ready to cross that bridge.

  Past ready.

  “Why did you tell me?” Mason asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It just…slipped out.”

  Mason nods, staring at the water for a long moment before turning his soulful blue eyes back to mine. “I wish it had been me.”

  My chest goes tight, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t started this conversation.

  I wish it had been him, too. I wish it was Mason’s smell I remember swirling around me the first time I was with someone that way, Mason’s hands that had smoothed over my body, making me ache and want and long for him to take the ache away.

  “Don’t say that.” I fight the desire simmering beneath my skin, hoping Mason can’t see me getting emotional behind my sunglasses.

  “I can’t help it,” he says. “It’s the truth.”

  The truth…

  Fine, if he wants to get to the truth, let’s go for it.

  “All right.” I take off my sunglasses, blinking away the wetness in my eyes as I pin him with a no bullshit look. “Her
e’s another question for you: Why didn’t you call or write?” He starts to reply, but I hurry on, “I know why you didn’t when you first left, but after a year or so, when you’d been in therapy and were feeling better. Why not call then?”

  Mason holds my gaze. “I wasn’t sure I was going to get my shit together and keep it together until early last year. By then, so much time had passed I thought… Well, I thought it was better to finish my residency first.”

  I snort. “Just waiting until it was convenient for you, is that it?”

  “Not at all, I…” Mason sighs. “I told myself it would be better if I was back here for good and settled with a job, but I think… Honestly, I think I was afraid.”

  I frown. “Of what?”

  “That you’d be in love with someone else,” he says. “Or that you hated me to the depths of your being. I was afraid you’d put me so far in your rearview that there wouldn’t be even the ghost of a chance of getting you back.”

  I’m quiet for a moment.

  A part of me is tempted to tell Mason that he doesn’t have a ghost of a chance. Even last night, I probably would have, but there’s no denying how much I’m enjoying his company. Or how much I want him.

  And though it’s probably a no good, very bad idea, I can’t stop thinking about what he said at my parents’ house.

  What would it take to make me trust him again?

  To get past how miserable and lonely and foolish I felt in the months after he left?

  A part of me wants to forgive and forget, to put aside my hurt and shame and give this thing with Mason a real chance. But how can I? When what he did loomed so large in my heart and mind for so long, casting a shadow so big I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely free of it?

  “What are you thinking?” Mason asks softly.

  “Who says I’m thinking anything?” I stare into my bottle, swirling the last of my lemonade around the bottom.

  “You’ve got your hamster wheel face on.”

  It’s another one of our old sayings—Mason always knew when I was chewing on a problem by the face I made—but I don’t smile.

  The comment only makes me think harder.

  Here is a man who knows me, really knows me. He’s committed my facial expressions to memory and can still read me like I can read a steak about to hit medium rare.

  And I can read him with the same accuracy.

  I can tell that this conversation is making him nervous, and I know he’s sincere about how much he wants a second chance. Mason and I have always shared a special connection. Four years apart damaged our bond, but it didn’t sever it. With a little work, we could fix this.

  Fix us.

  I just have to drop my guard and let him in. The thought is terrifying, but not as impossible to imagine as it was this morning, let alone last night.

  I glance at Mason, watching him watch me with those blue, blue eyes, unable to deny the attraction that lives and breathes in the space between us, becoming a third person in the boat, a being too big and loud to ignore.

  I want to touch him. So much.

  Mason is the only man who’s ever made me drunk and wild with wanting him. I want to feel that way again, to let Mason take me there, to that place where I’m shot through with starlight and his hands are everywhere I need them to be.

  The chances that I’ll be able to resist giving in to this attraction for five more dates are slim to none.

  Either I end things and run from Mason as fast as my legs will carry me—after I jump out of the boat and swim to shore, of course—or I accept that I’m taking the first step down a dangerous road. If I let myself touch Mason, let myself kiss him, taste him, remember how good it feels to be in his arms, it will only be a matter of time before my defenses crumble.

  I will fall for him all over again, and end up with my head and my heart at odds, tearing me in two different directions.

  Unless…

  What do you need, brain? I ask myself. What would it take for you to sign on the “Give Mason Another Chance” line?

  I think. And think. And think some more, while Mason sits quietly on the other side of the boat, reeling in his line and tossing it into another patch of shade beneath the trees on this side of the lake.

  He’s always known when to push and when to let me be, when to wrap his arms around me and pull me close, and when to sit back and wait for me to come to him. He’s a master of reading people, especially me.

  Aria calls him manipulative, but he isn’t, not really. He’s simply excellent at helping people get out of their own way and get along. He always said it was a side effect of being raised by a moody, unpredictable mom with even moodier, more unpredictable boyfriends. It’s also one of the reasons I always thought he would be a wonderful doctor. He’s empathetic, a natural leader, and absolutely worthy of the trust people will place in him when they put their health in his hands.

  But what if Mason wasn’t in charge for once?

  What if I was the one calling the shots for the next date? Would he be as willing to follow as he’s always been to lead? And would taking my turn in the driver’s seat satisfy my need to feel in control, to feel like giving Mason another chance is a logical choice I’m making instead of a bog of Mason quicksand I’m being sucked into against my will?

  The answer is…maybe.

  Definitely maybe.

  And that’s enough to make a smile curve my lips.

  “Worked things out?” Mason peeks at me out of the corners of his eyes.

  “I think so.” I stretch my legs, pointing my toes, my smile inching a little wider.

  “And…” Mason prods.

  “I’ll be organizing date number three,” I say breezily. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night.”

  Mason doesn’t miss a beat, just grins and says, “Okay. Where are we going?”

  “That’s on a need to know basis,” I say, wrinkling my nose and sniffing. “And you don’t have the need to know. Just wear something you don’t mind getting dirty and plan on going with the flow.”

  “Getting dirty, eh?” Mason asks, obviously intrigued. “All right. I’m staying at the Motor Lodge east of downtown. Room 214.”

  I pause, surprised. “Oh. So you and Parker aren’t…”

  “No we aren’t. We’re on the outs. Permanently,” Mason says, but the rage that so often simmers in his voice when he talks about his uncle is noticeably absent.

  “Good,” I say, proud of him. “Parker doesn’t deserve a nephew like you.”

  “Thanks.” Mason’s smile makes my chest feel tight in the best way.

  “You’re welcome. So, I’ll pick you up at the hotel tomorrow. At seven o’clock.”

  “Sounds perfect.” Mason cocks his head, and reaches out to capture one of my happily wiggling toes between his fingers, sending a shiver of awareness across my skin. “Does this have anything to do with what we talked about? About earning your trust?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.” I take another sip of lemonade, not surprised to find it suddenly tasting sweeter.

  Mood affects the taste buds. I realized that not long after I started catering. An unhappy bride isn’t going to like the cake, no matter how moist and delicious the insides or how perfectly light and fluffy the frosting, and a happy bride won’t even notice that the chicken is a little dry or the tomatoes in the salad have begun to pucker.

  The lemonade tastes sweeter because, for the first time in four years, I’m going to have a chance to make Mason Stewart play by my rules.

  And if he plays nice…

  Well, maybe then I’ll have a chance at something even better than calling the shots.

  Chapter 10

  Mason

  Date Three

  I answer a knock on the door to my hotel room the next night to reveal Lark, looking beautiful and…determined.

  “Turn around and close your eyes,” she says, spinning her pointer finger.

  “Good to see you, too.” I pause, taking in her t
ight jeans and fitted brown tank top. Seeing her in a bikini yesterday nearly killed me, but this woman in jeans…

  Damn.

  “Are you turning?” she asks, propping a hand on her hip.

  “Jeans,” I say, with a sigh.

  She arches a brow. “What about them?”

  “Jeans good. Me like.”

  Her lips quirk up. “Thanks, Caveman Mason. Now turn around.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we agreed I’m calling the shots tonight.” Lark gives a stern nod that makes her ponytail bounce. “So let me call ‘em, Caveman.”

  I put on my most serious expression. “Yes, ma’am. Just let me…” I dart back inside, grabbing my wallet from the table by the door and slipping it into my pocket. I took her order to dress in something I could get dirty seriously and am wearing my oldest jeans and a blue t-shirt made whisper soft with repeated washings.

  I emerge, shutting the door behind me with a clap of my palms. “Ready.”

  Lark holds up a hand, stopping me before I can step off the small patio in front of the room. “No, you’re not. You’ll be ready as soon as you turn around and close your eyes.”

  I frown. “Why do I—”

  “Seriously, Mason,” she cuts in. “Tonight is about following directions, and so far, you stink at it.” She props her fists on her hips, drawing my attention to the red bandana in her right hand.

  A blindfold?

  It has to be. Why else would she want me to close my eyes?

  I hesitate. I don’t like surprises. When you grow up never knowing if there will be food in the fridge, you learn to appreciate routine. Afternoons spent pacing the carpet inside our trailer after school, wondering if my mom was coming home from work or bailing for the weekend with whatever loser she was dating, leaving me to fend for myself when I was barely tall enough to reach the kitchen cabinets, soured me on surprises at a young age.

  I like routine.

  I like predictable things and predictable people.

  It’s one of the reasons I fell so hard and fast for Lark. She’s silly and playful when it comes to jokes and conversation, but in her real, day-to-day life she’s a creature of habit. She has a routine and she sticks to it religiously. She has a moral code and high standards for herself, and there’s rarely any doubt how she’ll respond in a given situation.