This is a place where people come together when someone gets hurt. Where they come together to welcome, to celebrate. I wonder if Auntie Nelle knew she was buying us not just a love match but also a wonderful community. The way she chased down information like a paranormal truth hunter, I’d bet money that she knew exactly what this community would be like.
Why can’t I let go of the shit stopping me from sopping this up? Why? Logic, that’s why. Self-preservation, too. Reality, which is probably moments away from coming crashing down like ants and a thunderstorm ruining a picnic. Sourness rises in me as I carefully slip out of Mason’s embrace, doing so while telling myself to avoid looking at his sleeping form. But I can’t help myself and take a quick peek before I rush into the bathroom.
Damn. I didn’t need to look at him sleeping, naked, all that delicious skin on display, his hair falling over his forehead begging to be fingertip-brushed away. That handsome, stubbled face that makes me want to lean in and touch my lips to his, wake him up so he can fuck me. Make breakfast for me. Fuck me again.
I’m such a horndog for this guy. I’ll blame it on the witchcraft and the moon thing they keep talking about. People at the bar were talking about the fact that the moon phase should be sending couples into dual heat any day now, but already Mason can’t get enough. And the same goes for me.
Looks like I’ve somehow escaped a hangover despite not only drinking a lot but mixing booze types too, which usually results in not only upchucking before the night is over but also a hangover. I count my blessings as I use the bathroom. I take a quick shower, then stealthily slip into his closet to grab a change of clothes from my bag.
As I’m getting dressed, I have a lightbulb moment. This might be the best chance I have to find my phone, my keys, and go. He came up with his own keys from the basement the other day, so I suspect my keys and phone are also down there. Narrowing things down to the bottom floor is a lot better than the last time I looked, having four different levels to check.
Yes, I feel like I need to go. See Ivy. Talk to her. And then get back to Mom’s, hopefully with Ivy, so I can begin the process of canceling my wedding and getting my life together. I’ve still got a few weeks off work, the time left before the wedding and then the following two weeks for the honeymoon.
I can’t justify having much time without an income, especially not considering the state of my credit card debt and my sad bank account. I still wish I hadn’t let him talk me into buying that car.
I figure I’ll keep the next week off to get my life sorted and maybe see if I can sell off the wedding stuff I bought so I’m not out completely. I’ll call the hospital and get them to put me back on the schedule early, if possible. If they can’t, they can put me on call if they have traumas or people call in sick.
I tiptoe downstairs with my stuff, setting it by the door before heading to the basement, which doesn’t prove any easier to comb through than the last time I was down here. It’s vast. There’s a lot of places to stash things.
What a great place for a party. I stop myself from lamenting on the notion of entertaining in this house, this basement, that backyard with the pool, the fire pit, the boats, the lake…
But eureka!
I get to his laundry room where there’s a stack of folded clothing on top of the dryer. He went down here the other day and came up with keys wearing a fresh shirt with his keys in his hand, so is the laundry room his stash room?
I open the cabinet above the washer and find laundry detergent and other cleaning supplies neatly lined up. But there’s a gap in the middle big enough for a hand to fit in. Upon fitting mine in, there’s a jingle sound. Bingo. Keys. My keys. And hallelujah, my phone. Mason’s keys and his phone, too. Sneaky Doggo must have tucked his back in here last night after I passed out.
Adrenaline rushes through my system as I realize I didn’t even ask Mason about his meeting with the witches last night. I did overhear snippets of a conversation between Bailey and her brother last night when the guys got to the bar and Bailey asked, “How did it go at the dry cleaners?” I didn’t hear her brother’s response, but his face went very serious.