The look Mason sent Wolf broadcast just how silly he thought the question was. “She’s twenty-seven years old and still a virgin.”
Virgin… Saying the word aloud made it resonate within his skull like the booms heard around Boston Common when the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company of Massachusetts held their annual change of command ceremony and set off simulated cannon shots. He found himself shaking his head for the hundredth time because… How the fuck is it possible to be a twenty-seven-year-old virgin in today’s day and age?
The bartender set a sweating glass of vodka and Bloody Mary mix in front of Wolf. The cocktail perfumed the air with the scent of hot sauce and celery salt. And it came with so many garnishes, Mason decided Wolf could skip the breakfast buffet.
“Alex isn’t still a virgin by choice,” Wolf said easily, as if they were talking about the woman’s penchant for smearing her cute-as-a-button nose with zinc oxide instead of the intact state of her hymen. “She was a late bloomer. Then she was nose-deep in her studies in college and not payin’ the datin’ scene much mind. By the time she looked up from postgraduate school, she was closin’ in on the end of her third decade and no man wanted to take her on because, like you, they all thought a twenty-seven-year-old virgin was on the hunt for a white dress and a big, sparkly diamond.”
It took every ounce of self-control Mason possessed to keep his jaw from unhinging. “How the fuck you know all that?”
“She told me.” Wolf pulled a strip of bacon from his drink. That was all it took to awaken Meat from his dead sleep. With a grunt, the house walrus jumped into a seated position, deep-brown eyes laser-focused on the salted pork.
“Why’d she go and do that?” Mason managed to grit from between his teeth. His jaw had no chance of unhinging now. The muscles had locked down tight. In fact, everything inside him had locked down. Well, except for his blood pressure. That had skyrocketed. “She proposition you too?”
He shouldn’t care if Alex offered up her virginity to Wolf. After all, Wolf was a good man. The best. The kind that would be gentle and tender and considerate.
And yet…Mason did care.
He cared very much.
“So what if she did?” Wolf eyed him closely.
Mason couldn’t answer. He couldn’t blink. As the moment dragged on, he began to wonder if he could breathe. A weird buzz sounded in his ears, and his vision went white-hot and crackled around the edges.
Eventually Wolf laughed and shook his head. “Relax, asshole. She didn’t proposition me. The woman just isn’t one to keep what’s in her head from spillin’ out of her mouth.”
That was true. Mason had never met someone who could prattle on the way Alex could. When her nose wasn’t buried in a book, she was talking. And given his love for peace and quiet, he found it fascinating that he never tired of listening to her.
Or maybe he just found her fascinating.
Ya-huh, that was probably it.
Okay, that was definitely it.
Deciding there was no time like the present to change the subject once and for all, he seized on the Bloody Mary lifted to Wolf’s lips. “It’s not even oh-seven-thirty. Kinda early to start drinking.”
Wolf popped an olive into his mouth and grinned around it. “Start? What makes you think I ever stopped? That was some party last night. LT and Olivia sure know how to celebrate.”
Mason thought back on the ripper from the night before when their former commanding officer, Leo “The Lion” Anderson, otherwise known as LT, had leg-shackled himself to an ex-CIA officer. Actually, LT and Olivia had gone to a justice of the peace weeks before to do the deed, but last night they’d finally bowed to pressure and had a reception.
“You thought about how with Olivia and LT off to Greece, and with Bran in Houston, there’ll be no one around to do the cookin’?” Wolf gave him the once-over.
After leaving the CIA, Olivia Mortier had found a new passion in baking. She’d traded dropping bombs for whipping up brownies—much to Mason’s delight because, number one, he had himself a pretty large sweet tooth, and number two, he also suffered from hollow-leg syndrome. Then there was Brando “Bran” Pallidino. Bran was the only one of their former SEAL team members/current partners in Deep Six Salvage who could navigate his way around a stove. And since plans to continue the search for the Santa Cristina had been put on hold while LT and Olivia celebrated their honeymoon, Bran had decided to bite the bullet and use the downtime to finally go face the music—“the music” being an introduction to his girlfriend’s four older brothers and oil tycoon of a father.
Mason did not envy poor Bran the experience. But more than that, he didn’t envy the piss-poor state of his stomach in the coming week.
“Been trying my best not to think about it,” he admitted testily.
“Guess it’ll be PB and J’s and strawberry Pop-Tarts for us all.” Wolf shrugged.
Pop-Tarts… Mason gritted his jaw. The sugary breakfast treats were Alex’s standard go-to.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. But his view was blocked by the wide chest of Spiro “Romeo” Delgado.
“G’morning, assholes!” Romeo boomed their standard a.m. greeting before snagging a stool on the other side of Wolf and quickly ordering a coffee from the bartender. “Make it so strong it walks into the cup on its own, eh?”
Like so many from East LA, Romeo retained a trace of his homeboy accent. And when he got worked up? There was more than just a trace.
Wolf took one look at Romeo’s face and whistled. “Man, you look like warmed-over cow pies.”
Romeo’s grin was downright devilish. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Wolf nodded in understanding. “Did she do all the things you wanted?”
“And came up with a few others I didn’t even know I liked.” Romeo waggled his eyebrows. Then he pretended to pout. “Alas, she left me early this morning to catch a flight to Miami. No note. No number. Just a love bite above my left nipple to remember her by.”
Wolf winked. “What happens in Key West stays in Key West, am I right?”
Romeo’s coffee arrived, and he lifted his steaming mug in salute before returning Wolf’s wink. “Carpe diem, my friends.”
Wolf laughed and clinked his Bloody Mary against Romeo’s mug.
“What are we lifting a glass to?” Alex asked, having walked up behind them.
Mason instantly lost the ability to breathe.
It happened when she got within three feet. Up close, he could count the freckles across the bridge of her nose. He could smell her clean, no-nonsense soap-and-deodorant scent. And for some inexplicable reason, both things paralyzed his lungs.