Okay, it was terrible, but hell if I’m going to admit it to the man who beds every woman he sees. “He was perfectly adequate.”
I hate myself that it came out so—gah!—prim.
Mason pushes the glass back toward me. Thankful for the distraction, I take another swig.
“Is that why you broke up with him? Because he was ‘adequate’?”
“Who said I broke up with him? Maybe he dumped me.”
“He looks at you like you’re crack and he’s an addict. He didn’t dump you.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Answer the question.”
The song on the jukebox changes to “Let’s Get It On”, by Marvin Gaye, and now I think God’s just screwing with me. “Why is this topic so important to you?”
“It just is. Answer the question.”
Exasperated, I slump against the hard leather back of the booth and give up. “Fine. I broke up with him because I knew I’d never feel about him the way he felt about me. And he’s a good guy. A really good guy, despite what you might think. He’s smart, kind, and loyal. He should be with someone who loves him like mad.”
After studying me intently for a long time, Mason says, “It took you ten years to realize you didn’t love him?”
“I tried,” I say morosely, staring at the whiskey in the glass. “I wanted to. Our mothers always hoped we’d end up together, which was a big part of it. But even if it wasn’t for that, we had everything in common. Backgrounds, interests, goals. Everything. We were perfect—”
“On paper,” Mason finishes. When I glance up at him, his eyes are burning. “Like me and Bettina. But I’d rather stick my dick in a fire ant hill than in her.”
“Charming,” I say, though secretly I’m pleased.
“So the matchmaker can’t make her own match. That must be awkward for business.”
“Excuse me, but I’m not dead yet. I’m only thirty. I’ve got plenty of time—”
“You’re thirty?”
He gapes at me like I’ve confessed I’m really a man.
“Thanks for that. That’s exactly what my ego needed today. You’re a real pal.”
Disgusted, I shake my head and take another swig of whiskey. The glass is now empty, so I fill it again and push it back toward Mason. Who, I realize, hasn’t had a sip since I sat down.
“It’s not an insult, I just didn’t realize you were older than me.” Mason lowers his lashes. Running his finger slowly around the edge of the whiskey glass, he says in a husky voice, “It’s hot.”
It’s a good thing I don’t have a mouthful of liquid, because I’d spit it all out in a geyser. I wheeze, “Hot?”
His gaze flashes back up to mine. He takes one look at my astonished expression, and his face turns to stone. In a flat voice, he says, “Kidding. I’m kidding, Pink. You know I only go for young girls with big tits.”
I stare at him, feeling my pulse in every part of my body. I remember the way he looked at my mouth at the restaurant and think maybe, just maybe… he’s lying.
14
Mason
If there’s a Guinness World Record for Biggest Fucking Idiot, I should enter myself for consideration.
Me and my big mouth.
I clench my jaw, wishing it would lock shut permanently so I wouldn’t have to worry about blurting more stupid shit that makes Maddie look like I took a dump on her doorstep.
It’s painfully obvious she finds the thought of me being attracted to her about as appealing as an afternoon swim in a pool filled with piss and piranha—
“Do you?” she says quietly.
I jerk my attention away from the whiskey and back to her.
Only a second ago, she looked physically ill when I said it was hot that she was older than me. Now, she looks… fuck. What is that look?
I try to keep my voice even when I answer. “Do I what?”
“Only ever go for young women with big boobs.”
She sits very still, waiting for my answer, her eyes soft and dark.
My heart stops beating.
Holy fuck.
She’s asking if I’m attracted to her.
I want to pull off her glasses and rip her hair out of that stupid fucking bun and kiss her until she’s melting. Until she’s arching against me, moaning my name.
No, you don’t. She’s too bossy. Too opinionated. She’s a pain in the ass.
Also—spoiler!—she’s too damn good for you, so keep your dick in your pants.
My brain is supposed to be in charge, but apparently my mouth is under different management, because I hear myself say, “Historically speaking, yes.”
My voice sounds like I just swallowed a handful of gravel.
We stare at each other, gazes locked. Her pulse pounds in the side of her neck. Meanwhile, I’m on the verge of a heart attack.
In the barest of whispers, she says, “What about now?”
FUCK!
I drag in a shaky breath. “Now…”
Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare fucking do it. You can’t be that selfish. There’s a million other girls you can bone. You don’t have to ruin this, ruin her, just because you wanna get laid.
But the problem is that it’s not just because I want to get laid.
This has less to do with my dick and more to do with another, more important organ. One higher north in my body.
Which is how I know I have to stop it.
I clear my throat, lean back against the booth, and look at her coldly. “Now I think we should add mute to that list, like you suggested.”
There’s a long silence as Maddie stares at me. The pink in her cheeks deepens to red. Then she picks up the glass of whiskey and downs the entire thing in one go.
“Okay, superstar. Except you forgot I’m not recruiting women for you anymore.”
She refills the glass. Like her voice, her hand trembles slightly.
Disaster averted. Good job, asshole.
I close my eyes and draw a slow breath. When I open my eyes again, Maddie’s chugging another whiskey.
“Hey, take it easy there, Pink. That’s like three doubles you’ve had in ten minutes.”
She laughs. It’s a weird sound, all wrong. “Yeah, who’s going to clean all the litter boxes if I get too drunk to do it?”
I lean across the table, take the glass from her hand, and set it down. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make fun of yourself.”
“Oh ho! You’re the only one allowed to do that, right?”
“Maddie—”
“Forget it,” she says, scooching out of the booth. “I’ll see you later.”
She stands and immediately wobbles. “Stupid frickin’ sticky floor,” she mutters, sounding furious. She takes another step and trips.
Before she can fall face first onto the floor, which is obviously contaminated by a wide variety of food droppings, alcohol, and bodily fluids, I stand, pick her up, and toss her over my shoulder.
She bleats like a scared sheep.
The fear lasts exactly one second. Then rage kicks in and she starts to pummel my back with tiny fists.