by J. Daniels
Feel this. Do you know what this is, Brooke?
Panic collapses in on me. I gather a full breath into my lungs and push against his chest with every ounce of strength I have left. “Because I don’t know men like you!” I yell, my voice breaking and sounding as fragile as I feel.
Mason staggers back, eyes round and enthralling. The look on his face mirroring my own trepidation.
“I don’t understand what we’re doing and I just need a minute to breathe, okay?” Tears wet my cheeks. More threaten behind my lashes. “I need a minute,” I softly utter, wiping at my face and looking up at him.
God, what is happening to me? I’m yelling at everyone today.
He pinches his lips together through a tense nod, studying me with rapt attention. His eyes gentle yet gripping.
I try and compose myself. I manage to at least stop fresh tears from forming, but my chest feels tight and my hands are sweaty. I pray I don’t stroke out right here on the sidewalk.
Mason stares at me a moment longer, then looks over my shoulder and rubs at his jaw. “Why don’t we go grab some coffee? Sit down for a bit.”
I shake my head. “No. I need to get back to work.”
“Come on.” He reaches out for me, but pulls his hand back before he can touch my arm. He tilts his head with a tender grin. “Just a few minutes, yeah? I won’t keep you long. Just one cup of coffee.”
“I’ve already given you coffee today,” I reply, wrapping my arms around myself.
He seems to fight a much broader smile as he moves closer. “I know, sweet Brooke. But it’s either this or lunch, and I figured you’d be more agreeable to a quick beverage.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and jerks his chin in the direction behind me. “One more cup. If Dylan gives you grief about it I’ll say it was all my doing. That I kidnapped you and ignored your urgent pleas to return to work. You’ll look like the model employee, I promise.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and contemplate his request.
Coffee, then I can return to work. Do I even want to return to work? I’m beginning to think that maybe leaving the sanctity of my bedroom at all today was the biggest mistake of my life.
Everything seemed so simple this weekend. I was in my perfect little Mason bubble and everyone left me alone about it. I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone. I wasn’t being asked to define anything. Even though Billy and Joey were around Saturday night, they left the two of us alone and from what I can remember, I enjoyed myself. I usually do with Mason. But now the weekend is over. I’m being forced to analyze what I’m doing and what all happens in my perfect little bubble, and I don’t want to. I don’t even know if I can.
How am I supposed to explain this to people when I don’t know what’s happening myself?
I clear that question from my head and look up into Mason’s eyes.
He’s offering me a chance to delay further abuse from my co-workers. I’d be crazy not to take it right now.
On the other hand, agreeing to this means spending more time with the man I just stuck a label on.
My mind itches with hesitancy.
God, I seriously hate Mondays. I am never partaking in one again.
Wiping away another tear with the back of my fingers, I drop my arms and make my decision.
“Fine. Okay. One more cup.”
MASON
Brooke stares down at her fingers knotted together in front of her as I wait for our coffee.
She isn’t crying anymore, but she doesn’t look like my Brooke. No sweet-dimpled smile. No luminous spark in her eyes.
She looks unsettled. Caught up in some worrying thought she’s allowing to consume her. A stark contrast from the warm, gregarious woman I openly kissed and touched Saturday night.
The one who very openly kissed and touched me.
I allow my mind to go there for a moment. Be present with that Brooke. Feel her hands around my neck and her breath against my cheek. Remember her quiet words, the ones I’m not sure she even realized she was saying as I held her on the couch and enjoyed our time together.
With the softest voice, with her lips moving against my ear, she asked if I could stay a little longer, if I could hold her until her heart stopped racing. If mine was racing too, and if that was normal for me, because it wasn’t for her. She told me to kiss her, again and again, to move my hand a little higher and that no one could see us. That even if they could she didn’t care, and that she wondered what we looked like together, not just then but all the time.
“Do you think they know?” she whispered, her fingers filtering through my hair.
“Know what?” I asked, just as softly, pressing a kiss to her nose, the flush in her cheek.
“That you’re kind of my thing too.”
We laughed and talked until she fell asleep with her face pressed into my neck. I carried her to bed and lingered there. I didn’t want to leave. I was beginning to hate the moments I spent away from Brooke.
All of them. Each miserable second.
But I knew what would happen if I stayed. If I slid beside her and kissed her some more, touched her where we both wanted. If I allowed my urges to overwhelm me, I wouldn’t be able to stop. My resistance had been wavering all night and was close to being non-existent. And Brooke, among being unconcerned with her affection for me, was drunk.
She was open and comfortable, sweet and warm . . . and very, very drunk.
So I left, but fuck, it was bloody difficult, knowing the next time I saw her she would be different. Not as showy with her fondness. Still a bit tentative and unsure.
She seemed okay yesterday when we spoke on the phone. Hungover and regretting those cocktails, but still my Brooke. Laughing and willing. Even this morning when we met for coffee, there was no sign of the woman I’m currently observing.
I need to find out what’s gotten her like this. Why she’s so shut-off from me now.
What the hell could have happened in the span of five hours?
Taking the coffees as they are held out for me over the bar, I thank the barista and walk over to the seating area, moving between oversized lounge chairs and a leather sofa.
Floor-to-ceiling windows span across the front of the shop, offering a spectacular view of the bustling city, but I doubt she’s noticed yet. Brooke’s barely lifted her head since she sat down.
“Here you go, gorgeous.” I set her coffee on the round high-top table and claim the stool across from her. “I got you a mocha this time, since you had white chocolate this morning. Figured you’d be due for a bit of a change.” I take a sip of my black coffee and watch her above the brim.
Her hands slowly wrap around the paper cup. She clears her throat. “Thank you. How much do I owe for this?”
“Nothing.”
I give her a strange look when she finally glances up at me.
How much does she owe? Is she being serious?
Sighing, I set my cup down and brace my weight on my elbows. “You’re not paying me back for something I asked you out for, Brooke. That’s never happening. This was my idea. I will always treat you, yeah?”
“You shouldn’t keep paying for me when we do stuff, Mason.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it’s not like we’re . . .” she pauses, her lips pinching together through a frown. Her shoulders sag, then with a much quieter voice, she continues. “I mean, we’re just having fun, you know? When we hang out like this?”
I feel my jaw clench. I roughly scrub at my face, then stare at her, trying to figure out where this is all coming from. “Yeah . . . no, I don’t fucking know, Brooke. We’re just having fun? This is news to me.”
She leans back a bit. Her teeth drag across her plump bottom lip.
I take in a deep breath, remembering how all of this started for her. What she was solely after in the beginning before I got her to consider trying things my way.
Just having fun was her main interest then. A quick root and then nothing. I thought we were
past this absurdity.
“What’s going on with you? What happened?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even and not at all accusing.
She looks away. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Her worried eyes flick back to mine.
“Don’t do that,” I tell her, straightening up. “Don’t shut me out when something obviously happened, Brooke. You were just calling me your boyfriend and crying about it on the footpath, and now suddenly we’re just having fun. Help me understand why you’re being like this. Talk to me.”
She looks down at her cup, her hands still wrapped around it. She sighs through a heavy blink. “Everyone keeps asking me what we are, or what we’re doing. I don’t know what to tell them because I don’t know. I don’t know what this is.”
“Who is everyone?”
“Joey. Dylan.” She pops the tab on her lid but doesn’t take a sip. “They’ve been bugging me about it all morning. Non-stop. They want me to admit things. Label it. Us. I don’t feel like I should have to. It’s nobody’s business what I’m feeling, or what I’m not feeling.”
Our eyes meet. My hand curls into a fist on the table.
What she’s not feeling?
“That’s complete bullshit,” I want to say, but I don’t. I didn’t coax her to sit with me and practically beg her to talk just to have an argument.
But I know she feels something. I know this changed for her too. I don’t buy her denial.
She’s freaked out because she knows what this is. Not because she doesn’t.
Brooke looks away again, tapping her fingers on the cup.
I force my hand to relax and slide it into my lap. “All right, then don’t. Don’t explain it,” I suggest, catching her cautious attention. “Why do we have to be labeled anything? Why can’t we just continue doing what we’re doing, ‘cause I thought it was pretty fucking great.”
“But everyone . . .”
“Who cares about everyone?” I ask, my voice growing a decibel louder. “Am I asking you to tell me what this is? Or if you could start referring to me as your boyfriend?”
Fucking hell. Not that I don’t love hearing she did that. Why couldn’t I have been present for that little offhand comment?
She frowns. “No, but you’re asking other things of me, Mason. Things I don’t do.”
“And you’re doing them.”
“I know that!” She startles at her own voice, her eyes round and regretful as she looks around us, at the attention we’ve possibly drawn, but I wouldn’t know for certain if that’s the case.
I can only look at Brooke. The anxiousness radiating off her in thick waves. I can practically feel it on my skin.
She shakes her head, drops her elbows to the glossy table-top, and begins rubbing at her temple. “I know that. God, do you think I don’t?” she asks much quieter, looking across the small table at me. Her hands lower. “Do you have any idea how strange this is for me? How confusing this must be, for me? Do you? Or are you just caught up in getting me to do things your way? As long as I’m agreeing to shit, that’s all that matters, right?”
I give her a hard look. “What? No, of course not.”
“Yeah, okay,” she remarks coldly, averting her gaze.
My brow furrows as I observe her.
Jesus Christ. Women are mysterious creatures.
I force myself to calm down, once again. The beginnings of one hell of a headache builds behind my eyes.
Just pull her aside and tell her you love her.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Right. Because she’s not already freaked out enough. Bombarding her with that confession will surely do her in.
I absorb the idea of Brooke having a complete nervous breakdown. Right here. Right now. Being too distraught to talk or even move after I’ve divulged my deepest feelings for her.
Will I be permitted to visit her in the hospital while she’s under clinical observation? Surely the staff won’t know exactly why she’s in there. That is, if she isn’t talking . . .
Reaching out, I brush my fingers against the back of her wrist. Her eyes follow my calming gesture. “I see how hesitant you are, Brooke, but I also see how you relax around me. How playful and fucking adorable you get when we’re together, and not just when you’re pissed. Though I do enjoy that version of you a good bit.”
Her head lifts. She winces at the memory. “Christ, that hangover was epic. I thought I was dying.”
We share a brief, quiet laugh. Hers more fleeting than mine. She’s still too anxious to soften for me.
I slide my fingers lower and gently squeeze her hand. “I know I ask a lot of you. I know I have since the beginning, but I think you rather enjoy yourself when you stop thinking so much about what this is and just fucking be with me. Stop thinking, Brooke.”
“I can’t,” she whispers, tugging her hand away, her gaze drifting to the table. “I can’t stop thinking. Trust me, I’m trying, okay? But it’s not happening. Not today.” She bites at her lip and slouches against the back of her stool. “I just need . . .”
“A minute?” I suggest, drawing her eyes back to my face. I faintly smile.
I hear you, baby.
She stares at me, frowning. “Yeah,” she replies through a small nod, her voice incredibly quiet. “A minute.”
I push at her cup, sliding it closer.
An offer of coffee and company, minus the conversation. Somehow I think this is a better option for Brooke rather than what I’ve been working around to this entire time.
Talking until she understands how ridiculous her worries are. How she doesn’t need to label us if she doesn’t want to yet, just as long as she acknowledges and admits to everyone in this bloody coffee shop that she is mine as much as I am hers. Once she’s done that, we can take her announcement to the street, let the general population know. Venture out to neighboring cities and alert the media . . .
Okay, maybe that last part is a bit of a pipe dream. I’ll be fucking ecstatic with one broad declaration to the masses.
Or to me. Hearing her tell me will be enough.
Brooke regards the coffee, her expression soft and timid. Finally reaching out with both hands, she brings it to her mouth and takes a long sip. I do the same with mine, watching her, wanting to be closer so I can smell her hair and that vanilla cupcake body lotion she slathers on herself.
She turns her head and reveals the long slope of her neck. Her pale throat.
Desire hums in my blood.
Fuck, I love kissing her there.
I swallow a heaping gulp of coffee.
She needs a minute? I need a bloody minute.
Clearing all indecency from my thoughts and willing my cock not to react, I watch her dimple cave in with her next sip.
Time passes. We embrace the silence between us, only it’s not contented or easy like it’s always been. I can practically hear her mind analyzing and overanalyzing, considering labels and then dismissing them with dishonest perception.
I have to bite my tongue to keep from speaking. I know how easily I can shoot this nonsense down. How concluding my argument is.
I’m in love with you. We’re damn near perfect together, and you know it. Stop fighting this and come home with me.
Brooke taps on the side of her cup and stares between the window and the phone she places in front of her, every few minutes or so noting the time.
I finish my coffee and debate on getting another. I have a feeling my afternoon classes will be demanding and unusually difficult to focus on. Maybe a massive caffeine boost will help. My attention already wanders absentmindedly to thoughts of Brooke when I’m supposed to be instructing.
The curve of her hips. Her cute laugh. The way her tongue always tastes of sugar.
Knowing she’s across the street questioning us might be enough to distract me entirely.
Might be? Who am I kidding? I’m tempted to clear out my schedule and spend the rest of the day convincing her. Erase all d
oubt from her mind as my hands roam her body, as I press the most vulgar words I can think of into the flush of her skin.
That sounds like a brilliant plan.
Licking the mocha off her lips, Brooke checks the time again, abruptly standing and palming her device. She grabs her nearly empty coffee. “I need to get back before I lose my job. Dylan already has cause to fire me. I accidentally yelled at her earlier.” She looks away, muttering, “I’m yelling at everyone.”
I touch her wrist. She quickly jerks her hand up and adjusts her pony.
A subtle, yet not so subtle move to keep me from touching her? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just becoming paranoid.
“All right then.” I stand and toss my cup into a nearby rubbish bin. Following her to the door, I hold it open and allow her to walk out ahead of me.
She steps onto the footpath. When she glances in my direction, I gesture down the street.
“I’m just down there. Where did you park? I’ll walk you.”
“Um.” She looks up at me, her eyes careful. Both of her hands holding her cup. “Maybe you don’t?” she quietly suggests.
Maybe I don’t?
I feel my eyebrows raise in surprise, my lips slowly part, though I’m not sure why. I should be expecting this.
She said so in the coffee shop. In so many words, with her stiff, averse body language, she needs me to back off a bit. Give her some time. Her minute. Honestly, it’s the last thing I want to do, but what choice do I have here? I want Brooke to acknowledge on her own what this is for her.
What I am to her.
I need her to say it. I won’t force the words I’ve been waiting for out of Brooke. I won’t push her when she’s obviously struggling more than ever with this right now.
I won’t push her like I did this past weekend. Never again.
I have to rely on what I feel, how bloody sure I am of us. That’s the only way I’m going to be able to step off and leave her be while she takes her minute, which apparently begins right fucking now.
She wants time? I can give her time, if it’ll help move this along.
