Pulling up to my drive, I glanced down the street, wanting to know if Grace was better, but I knew I needed to keep my distance. Last night was an anomaly. A moment of grief where he needed a friend. Support to get him through.
That was over.
Getting into my lounge clothes, I went through my cupboards and fridge, not finding much to eat. I debated if I should have another liquid dinner when a tap rattled my front door.
Heat rushed to my cheeks, my stomach knotting, already knowing, as if his knock had a signature. One I could feel in my bones.
Opening the door, I still couldn’t seem to not lose my breath every time. Dressed in dark gray sweats, black hoodie, jacket, and a beanie, he was holding a bag of groceries.
“Mason.” I swallowed. “What are you doing here?”
Without responding, he stepped in, brushing by me, strolling straight for my kitchen.
“Mason?” I shut the door, jogging after him, stopping in the doorway, watching him unpack food from the bag. “Did I forget I ordered a grocery delivery?” I folded my arms, leaning against the jamb.
“Yep, and I’ll be expecting a tip.” He grabbed a pan from my hanging rack and placed it on the stove.
I tried to ignore the dirty places my mind went after his comment.
The confidence and commanding assurance he had. He moved easily around the room, pulling out cutting boards and getting spices like this was his home.
“Fresh fish tacos with avocado, tomatoes, lettuce, and cheese sound good?” He poured oil into the pan, heated it up, and placed two pieces of tilapia in it.
“Uhhh.” Completely bewildered. “Yeah.”
It felt so abnormal for a nineteen-year-old to be cooking this way. Normally, they ate fast food and processed crap, not fresh fish and vegetables.
“How is your grandmother?” I tracked him back at the counter, slicing tomatoes.
His lips pressed together, his attention fully on the cutting board.
“Stable.” His Adam’s apple went up and down. “She was awake, but still not fully coherent. Grandpa demanded to come with me this time. They kicked us out an hour ago.” He scooped the chopped tomatoes into a bowl. “He went straight to bed.”
I could imagine how emotionally draining it was on Neal. On Mason too.
“I’m so glad she’s doing better.”
He dipped his head. “I want to thank you for last night.”
I couldn’t stop the warmth in my cheeks; acknowledging it aloud made it real. Something we needed to talk about.
“What you did for my grandfather?” He glanced over at me. “He told me you were with him the whole time. Helped put him to bed.”
A breath of relief escaped me that he wasn’t calling out the moment we shared between us the night before. “Oh, of course. It was the least I could do.”
“No.” His energy pinned me in place. “It was everything.” Mason’s stare transfixed me, pulling all the oxygen from the room and jogging my pulse up into my throat.
Something deep and tangible hung between us, wrapping around me, pulling me down, wanting to consume me whole.
Yanking my gaze away like I didn’t feel it, I cleared my throat. “Can I do anything to help?” I motioned to the items on the counter.
Mason didn’t relent for a moment, as if he knew I was trying to wiggle out of this, changing the subject. But he finally turned away, his head bouncing. “Sure.” He placed down the knife. “You can cut the avocados and lettuce.”
“That I can do.” I went to the counter, picked up the knife, and began slicing the items. Mason didn’t move, forcing my body to skim his, feeling the spark of his skin, the way his broad physique eclipsed mine, his nearness overpowering.
“What? Am I not cutting them right, chef?” I tried to tease.
“I call it butchering, but sure, you’re cutting just fine.” His deep gravelly voice hummed in my ear before he moved away, going back to the fish on the stove.
I needed to tell him he should go. That he shouldn’t be here. I should, but the words didn’t come.
“Fish is done.” He traveled back, coming in behind me, his body brushing mine. I could feel him through his sweatpants as he reached over my shoulder to grab plates from the cupboard, lightning fire into my veins.
I went still, bolting down the impulse to arch into him, to feel his cock rub against my ass, to hear him groan in my ear. Unbidden thoughts sprung to my mind: Mason yanking down my pants and underwear, his fingers parting me before he thrust into me. The fantasy I always wanted Ben to fulfill, though he never did.
The pulse between my thighs was painful. Dizziness twirled all logic out of my head and had me gripping the counter, my nipples taut and aching.
For one moment, he paused as if he could feel my reaction, smell the need, hear the tiny puffs in my throat.
Mason pulled away, taking the plates to the table, acting like he didn’t experience the same thing I did. This was solely a friendly thank-you dinner.
Reaching over, I grabbed my wine, drinking it like a shot. I needed to go out on a date or hook up with some guy at a bar and get this out of my system. It had been over three years now without sex, and clearly, my body was waking up out of its coma and declaring itself ready again.
Of course, Mason was here and hot as hell. Sinful fantasy level. A bored housewife’s wet dream.
Finishing the avocados and lettuce, I took them over to the table.
“Want something to drink?” I asked him.
“Sure. What do you have?”
“Probably water.” I joked, going to the fridge.
“I can get it.” His hands grasped my waist, shifting me easily out of the way before opening the fridge and finding cranberry juice.
The imprint of his hands burned into my skin throughout dinner. I hated the way I loved how easily he could move me, how he touched me. How comfortable he was here. Mason wasn’t a huge talker, so I thought it would be awkward.
It wasn’t.
Even in the silent moment, it felt normal, neither of us needing to fill it. Watching how my Christmas lights twinkled in the dark, him laughing at me when I made up my own lyrics to Christmas songs, which used to drive Ben nuts.
I was on edge because it was too comfortable, too easy to want to reach out and touch him.
To kiss him.
We sat on the sofa and watched a movie after dinner, and I stupidly ignored the fact he shouldn’t be here, that this crossed so many lines.
Losing interest in the movie, I glanced at his profile, noting he wasn’t watching either.
“We can watch something else.”
“Doesn’t matter. Not sure my brain can concentrate on anything right now.” He scrubbed at his forehead, laying his head back. “I just look at my grandpa. He’s so lost without her—we both are. I don’t want to think about anything happening to her. I don’t think my grandpa would survive long without her.”
I turned to face him more. “Did Grace and Neal raise you?”
“Pretty much,” he replied, his gaze on the ceiling. “When my mom walked out, my dad tried his best, but he had to work all the time to keep up with the bills and stuff. So, they watched me all the time, and then when he died, it wasn’t even a question. Not like I had anywhere else to go.”
“Your mom has never been in the picture?”