“You’re not eating.” Granted, he didn’t look as though he ate cake. A body like his probably came from a diet of wheatgrass and protein bars.
He looked calm and unruffled, a sexy ocean of cool. She’d dated good-looking guys before. But Mason was different. He was actually a nice guy. Thoughtful. Sweet in a take-it-or-leave-it kind of way. She budged the cake on her plate toward him. Nope. Cake wasn’t what she wanted at all.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Hello? Cake. Hungry isn’t a prerequisite.”
He reached down and snagged a bite of hers. “Satisfied?”
Not even a little.
“This is fantastic,” she said, giving up on the idea of self-restraint and moving on to the third slice.
A grin tugged at his mouth. “You’re the expert.”
“I am. Do you have any idea of how many weddings I’ve been to in the past year?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Thirteen.”
He smiled. “That’s a lot of cake.”
“Yeah.” She pointed to her butt. “And I’m packing most of it with me.”
His gaze dipped south for a moment. “Then, cake is a good look for you.”
Perfect answer.
“Let’s play twenty questions,” she said, needing to distract herself before she said something she regretted.
He gave her an amused look. “Is this where you ask me boxers or briefs? Or how I feel about kinky sex?”
“I won’t ask you anything I won’t answer myself,” she said instead of yes, please. She could show some restraint.
“You don’t seem to have much of a filter,” he said, and she couldn’t tell if it was merely an observation or a complaint. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back. He did that a lot—put himself on the sidelines and just watched. She preferred to be in the center of things.
“Tell me about your sisters.” She’d start him off with the easy stuff. She had plenty of practice with getting-to-know-you stuff. The thirteen bridesmaid gigs had meant thirteen groomsmen to chat up.
Mason hesitated, and her internal warning system blared an alert. She realized he didn’t have to share personal details with her, but she craved that kind of closeness, too.
“Are the details a state secret? Are they performing superninja stealth missions for Uncle Sam?” She licked the frosting off the fork and eyed the fourth slice that was pink and white with a caramelized raspberry. “Hint...you already told me how many siblings you have, unless you’ve buried one in the basement and are debating whether or not you should include her in your count. Older? Younger? Let’s start there.”
“All older.” His mouth curved up in a rueful grin. “I’m an uncle a half dozen times over. I’m also your man if you need a makeup test dummy, someone to paint your nails or muscle to explain dating rules to your boyfriend.”
“How many are married?” She forked up another bite of cake. God. How could this slice be even better than the other two?
“Three of them. The fourth’s still looking.” He clenched his jaw. “Personally, I don’t think anyone’s good enough for any of them, but I was told my opinion didn’t count.”
“You’d interview every guy in your hometown for her, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s my job, although San Francisco is a big place.”
“You’re from the city?”
“Originally,” he said. “I’ve moved around some for work.”
“I’m from Burlington,” she mumbled around a mouthful of cake that was so good that her eyes might just possibly be rolling back in her head. Whatever culinary school he’d gone to had taught him magic. “In Vermont. And, in case you were planning on asking, we don’t have more cows than people there. We’re a perfectly respectable lakeside city.”
“Duly noted.” He deftly sliced a third cake, sliding the fluffy wedge onto a clean plate. “Coconut,” he said. “With pineapple cream in between the layers.”
“Have you lived in San Francisco all your life?”
He shook his head. “We moved there after my father died. He was a hotshot firefighter until he was killed in a wildfire flashover. My mom packed up my sisters and me and took us to a house in Ocean Beach. Nine hundred square feet. One bathroom. Five women and me. I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t call us in to the cops once a week just for the noise.”