“That’s on a need to know basis,” I say, wrinkling my nose and sniffing. “And you don’t have the need to know. Just wear something you don’t mind getting dirty and plan on going with the flow.”
“Getting dirty, eh?” Mason asks, obviously intrigued. “All right. I’m staying at the Motor Lodge east of downtown. Room 214.”
I pause, surprised. “Oh. So you and Parker aren’t…”
“No we aren’t. We’re on the outs. Permanently,” Mason says, but the rage that so often simmers in his voice when he talks about his uncle is noticeably absent.
“Good,” I say, proud of him. “Parker doesn’t deserve a nephew like you.”
“Thanks.” Mason’s smile makes my chest feel tight in the best way.
“You’re welcome. So, I’ll pick you up at the hotel tomorrow. At seven o’clock.”
“Sounds perfect.” Mason cocks his head, and reaches out to capture one of my happily wiggling toes between his fingers, sending a shiver of awareness across my skin. “Does this have anything to do with what we talked about? About earning your trust?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.” I take another sip of lemonade, not surprised to find it suddenly tasting sweeter.
Mood affects the taste buds. I realized that not long after I started catering. An unhappy bride isn’t going to like the cake, no matter how moist and delicious the insides or how perfectly light and fluffy the frosting, and a happy bride won’t even notice that the chicken is a little dry or the tomatoes in the salad have begun to pucker.
The lemonade tastes sweeter because, for the first time in four years, I’m going to have a chance to make Mason Stewart play by my rules.
And if he plays nice…
Well, maybe then I’ll have a chance at something even better than calling the shots.
Chapter 10
Mason
Date Three
I answer a knock on the door to my hotel room the next night to reveal Lark, looking beautiful and…determined.
“Turn around and close your eyes,” she says, spinning her pointer finger.
“Good to see you, too.” I pause, taking in her tight jeans and fitted brown tank top. Seeing her in a bikini yesterday nearly killed me, but this woman in jeans…
Damn.
“Are you turning?” she asks, propping a hand on her hip.
“Jeans,” I say, with a sigh.
She arches a brow. “What about them?”
“Jeans good. Me like.”
Her lips quirk up. “Thanks, Caveman Mason. Now turn around.”
“Why?”
“Because we agreed I’m calling the shots tonight.” Lark gives a stern nod that makes her ponytail bounce. “So let me call ‘em, Caveman.”
I put on my most serious expression. “Yes, ma’am. Just let me…” I dart back inside, grabbing my wallet from the table by the door and slipping it into my pocket. I took her order to dress in something I could get dirty seriously and am wearing my oldest jeans and a blue t-shirt made whisper soft with repeated washings.
I emerge, shutting the door behind me with a clap of my palms. “Ready.”
Lark holds up a hand, stopping me before I can step off the small patio in front of the room. “No, you’re not. You’ll be ready as soon as you turn around and close your eyes.”
I frown. “Why do I—”
“Seriously, Mason,” she cuts in. “Tonight is about following directions, and so far, you stink at it.” She props her fists on her hips, drawing my attention to the red bandana in her right hand.
A blindfold?
It has to be. Why else would she want me to close my eyes?
I hesitate. I don’t like surprises. When you grow up never knowing if there will be food in the fridge, you learn to appreciate routine. Afternoons spent pacing the carpet inside our trailer after school, wondering if my mom was coming home from work or bailing for the weekend with whatever loser she was dating, leaving me to fend for myself when I was barely tall enough to reach the kitchen cabinets, soured me on surprises at a young age.
I like routine.
I like predictable things and predictable people.
It’s one of the reasons I fell so hard and fast for Lark. She’s silly and playful when it comes to jokes and conversation, but in her real, day-to-day life she’s a creature of habit. She has a routine and she sticks to it religiously. She has a moral code and high standards for herself, and there’s rarely any doubt how she’ll respond in a given situation.
At least, that’s how Lark used to be.
But now…
“Where are we going that I need to be blindfolded?” I ask, doing my best to keep my reservations out of my tone.
“We’re going wherever I want to go,” she says. “I’m in control tonight. Can you handle that, Mason? Or should I go home alone?”
I don’t say a word. I simply force a smile, turn around, and close my eyes, bending my knees a little to make it easier for her to reach my head as she ties the bandana snuggly over my face.
I’m not about to give her an excuse to go anywhere alone. I want to spend as much time with her as possible, even if I can’t see where I’m going for part of it.
“How’s that?” she asks, smoothing my hair down around the knot she’s tied. “Too tight?”
I shake my head. “Nope. It’s good.”
It isn’t good. I’m not a fan of being blindfolded, either, but it’s clearly something that matters to Lark. And if wearing a blindfold and obeying orders is what it takes to regain her trust, then I’ll do it.
With a smile, if possible.
At the very least, I won’t let on that so far I’m not enjoying a single second of “Not In Control” date night.
“Good.” She slips her hand into mine. “Let me help you to the car.”
I force myself to take slow easy breaths, ignoring the anxiety that skitters across my skin as she leads me off the patio and across the grass to her car. I can trust Lark.
Which is probably the point of all this.
Maybe she’s testing me to see how much trust I’m willing to give before she decides what she’s able to invest in return. That makes sense in a way, I guess, though I’m not sure trust is as transactional as that kind of thinking would assume it to be.
Trust is something you have to choose to give, not something you barter for.
But in any event, I choose to trust Lark. I always have, and I can’t imagine that changing any time soon.
“We’re at the door. I’m going to help you in and buckle your seat belt,” she says. “And then I’m going to drive, and I don’t want you to say another word until I give you permission. Not even when I stop the car once we get where we’re going. Okay?”
Anxiety knots in my throat again.
“Can you do that?” she presses.
I swallow hard. “Yep.”
“Great,” she says, a tremble in her voice that makes me wish I could see her face.
Is she nervous? Scared?
Second-guessing her decision to play kidnapper for the night?