I reach up and wrap my hands around his wrists as I catch another flash of guilt when he locks onto my cheek.
After a few more seconds, Mase lifts his backward ball cap from his head and places it on mine, this time with the bill facing front. I like how I can still feel his heat radiating from it. The hat should be too big on me, but my out-of-control hair helps keep it from being too loose.
With a small adjustment, he reaches back and pulls the hood of the sweatshirt over the top. Once satisfied I’m covered as best as can be, he places a kiss to the top of my head and holds out a hand for me to take. “Let’s get you home, baby.”
#Chapter19
King honks the horn in goodbye as he backs out of the driveway of my family home after dropping Mase and me off. Mase keeps his stride slow and small to match mine as we make our way to the front door, and I cast a curious look in his direction when he opens it without needing a key. We beat E and Bette home; the door shouldn’t be unlocked.
My unasked question gets answered as soon as we step inside and get hit with a delicious aroma wafting from the back of the house. I’d know the scent of Mama G’s chicken and dumplings anywhere.
“Oh god,” I moan. “I think I’ve gained five pounds just from the smell of your cooking,” I tell her as we make it to the kitchen.
“Sugah.” Mama G’s southern twang washes over me as she rushes around the counter to take me into her arms in a gentle, but still fierce, hug. She is where her sons learned how to bear-hug. Seriously, best huggers ever.
“I’m fine, Mama G.” I hold on a few seconds longer. “I promise.”
“Hungry?” She doesn’t wait for my response before pulling a plate from the appropriate cabinet.
“For your cooking?” The pressure of Mase’s hand on my back has me continuing on to the living room. “Always.”
I’m not surprised to see an episode of Chopped is playing on the flat-screen above the fireplace. Mama G loves her cooking shows, and it for sure shows in her culinary creations.
Mase helps me arrange a couple of throw pillows for support before settling a few cushions a ways down from me on the sectional and lifting my feet to remove my boots.
“Yaassss!” G’s voice bellows seconds after the front door opens and closes again, his footsteps smacking against the tile floor as he runs down the hallway. “Chicken and dumplings.” He lifts his mom into a spinning hug.
“Grant Samuel,” she scolds. “There’s no need for all that yelling.” She pats him lovingly on the cheek as he beams down at her.
I love watching G with his mom. He turns into such a ball of mush for her. Physically, they are as much an example of opposites as him and me. Papa G definitely has the dominant genetics of the pairing because G is all tall height with dark hair and skin like him, where Mama G is all short, blonde, and pale skin like me.
“Ah,” I mumble around my own forkful of G’s favorite dish. “Now I see why you really came to help spring me from the hospital.” I tap my temple. “Here I thought it was for me”—I flatten a hand over my heart—“but in reality it was so you could be here for Mama’s cooking.”
The others filter into the house as G and I continue to bicker over the merits of his bestie card. E and B greet Mama G in much the same way her son did while Bette takes a more subtle approach.
The boys go in on their dishes like they haven’t eaten in weeks while I continue to consume mine like a reasonable person.
When I’m finished with my food, Mase takes the plate from me to set it on the coffee table. Nothing like a home-cooked meal, and Mama G’s chicken and dumplings are enough to have me feeling halfway human again.
“Hey Bette,” I call over the back of the couch.
My sister-in-law disengages from where my brother has her pressed against the wall. I’m grossed out by the fact that he’s probably whispering dirty nothings in her ear, but I want a niece or nephew badly enough not to voice that particular opinion.
“You doing okay? What can I get you?” She braces her elbows on top of the cushions, leaning into my space as her maternal instincts take over.
“I’m fine.” I wave off her concern. “But”—I point to the riot of curls on my head—“can you help me wash all this? I’m not supposed to get the stitches wet yet and figured that particular task would be easier to accomplish if I had some assistance.”
“Of course.” She reaches out to gently smooth back one of the bloody curls. “Meet me upstairs.”
Before I can follow Bette, Mase lifts me into his arms and carries me the whole way. I don’t bother to fight him, much too comfortable in his hold.
“Nice,” he comments when he steps inside the master bathroom.
It is nice, but nothing overly fancy: a glassed-in shower stall large enough for three to the right and a separate jacuzzi tub past it, a water closet in the corner, and a set of his-and-her sinks across from the tub. Bette’s favorite feature though? The shampoo station E had installed.
Mase is lowering me into the padded seat in front of the adjustable sink when Bette returns from my own bathroom with my shampoo and conditioner.
“Mmm, peppermint.” Mase pops the top on the conditioner, shooting me a wink.
“Merry Christmas,” I tease, remembering his candy cane confession when we were down in Kentucky.
Bette instructs me to lean back then carefully wraps a rolled towel around my head, positioning it like one would a headband to help protect my stitches. It’s okay if they get a little bit wet, but we’ll do our best to keep them as dry as possible.
Mase stands by as Bette carefully works to clean the blood from my hair. The two of them carry on their own conversation while I let the sure strokes and kneading from Bette’s strong fingers help chase away the last of my lingering headache. There really is nothing better than someone else washing your hair for you.
“Did you wanna soak for a little after this?”
I crack my lids open to look at the upside-down face of my sister-in-law. “Yes please.” My eyes fall closed as warm water rinses the suds out of my curls.
“I got it.” I feel the loss of Mase’s body near mine as soon as he steps away to start the water seconds later.
“As hot as you can stand it, please,” I request.
“Fine.” I hear him adjust the taps. “But you’re icing everything after.”
I want to argue, but I don’t because he’s right. The heat will certainly help my sore muscles, but it won’t do anything to help my bruises or the swelling I have going on.
A soft kiss presses itself to my unbroken cheekbone before I hear Mase whisper that he’ll be right back.
Bette starts a second round of shampoo as the sound of Mason’s retreating footsteps fades. “That boy really loves you.”
“I love him too.” My heart squeezes inside my chest. “He’s…everything.” I whisper the words as if afraid to test the universe by saying it too loud. We still have so much left to face if we’re going to make it as couple; I don’t want to add tempting fate to the list.
I expect Bette to comment, but she doesn’t. When the silence continues to stretch, I open my eyes again to see she has one of those dreamy smiles she usually reserves for when she’s looking at my brother on her face. Romantic Bette is such a sap. “From what I overheard at the hospital, I’d say he seems to think the same of you.”