Chapter Nineteen
Anhourorsolater, Mason and I sat in a comfortable breakfast nook. The walls were a warm yellow with little flowers painted around the trim. To say it was the last thing I expected in this pristine, monumental home was an understatement. “This is so pretty,” I commented to him as he pulled the lid off a tray of lasagna.
“My mom had a room like this in the house I grew up in. I wanted a place to remind me of her.” His face softened the way it always did when he spoke of her.
“I’m surprised there aren’t any birds.”
He pointed to a clock with birds instead of numbers, “It sings different songs on the hour.” I giggled at his sweet, embarrassed expression.
“That smells delicious. Did Rochelle make a lasagna in the middle of the night?” I wanted to distract him from the vulnerability that made him so uncomfortable.
“No, she keeps things in the freezer for me to have on her days off, and she put this in the oven for us when I called her.”
“Ah,”
He cut us each a piece and dug into his own. On our trip through the house, we passed the dining room, and I was beyond relieved not to be having this meal in that banquet hall. I took a bite, and while the food was delicious, it flipped miserably in my stomach.
The table sat in front of a window, revealing the well-lit backyard and men in suits pacing the grounds. I nearly screamed, but bit back my terror. I looked to Mason, seeing he watched them too. “They’re supposed to be here?”
“Yes,” he agreed easily as he put another bite into his mouth. They were either the same guys from the apartment or more of the type he was supposedly done with. Except I was here now, ruining everything he built for himself. The emotions turning inside me were too complicated to make sense of, but anger and pain were winning the battle.
“What are you thinking about?” He grabbed my free hand and clasped it in his.
“Nothing much, just how I’m wrecking both of our lives with such startling efficiency. First thing I have truly excelled at...”
“You’re not doing anything to wreck our lives, Claire. You are dealing with a situation outside of your control. If this is about your ad, it is not your fault somepsychopathtook an interest in you,”
I pointed to the men in the yard with my fork, “But you’re certain it’s your fault,” he scooped up another bite, ignoring my words. “You know, your tendency to blame yourself for everything is downright pathological.”
He shot me a glare, “Let’s not talk aboutpathologicalbehavior over dinner.” The implication made me see red.
“This is not dinner,Mason. This is a middle-of-the-night ‘your stalker destroyed everything you own’ consolation lasagna.” I pushed my fork into the noodles like they offended me, though they were delicious and considerately prepared for me.
“Do you want to fight, Claire? Would it make you feel better?” The muscle in his jaw ticked as he watched me.
“What Iwantis a quiet life, without all thisbullshit! I don’t want myboyfriendcalling in armed goons to deal with my stalker in the middle of the night. Iwantyou to practice law andabideby it!” My hand slappedagainst my thigh as I panted in utter outrage.
“You want a lot of things,” he commented with no emotion. “Eat your consolation lasagna, Claire.”
I slammed the fork down on the table, aware I was throwing a tantrum and unable to help myself. “Or what, Mason? What the fuck are you going to do if I don’t shut up and eat?”
“I never said you needed to shut up, but so help me god if you don’t settle down and eat yourconsolation lasagna...”
“You’ll what, Mason?Beat this ass until I can’t sit for a week.”I mocked the words he spoke to me in the club earlier. It must have been another lifetime and not a few hours ago, but the threat rang loudly in my mind.
He placed his fork down gently and stalked around the table toward me. He tipped my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. His fingers grazed the line of my jaw, sparking wild and consuming flames through my body. “Is that what youreallywant, baby?”
I leaned into his touch. My chest heaved and my thighs desperately pressed together. The turmoil raging inside of me was more than I could make sense of. “I don’t know...”
He bent down, pressing his lips to the hollow beneath my ear. “I’m not petty enough to fight with you after everything you’ve been through, Claire, but something tells me arguing is not really what you want...”
“What do I want then?” I gasped.
“If I’m reading you correctly, you want me to spank you and fuck you so thoroughly you won’t remember your own name.” I moaned softly as he bit into the tender skin above my collarbone, “Is that what you want, baby, for me to make it all go away?”
“Yes, please.”
His hand slid down my throat, then fisted in the hair at the nape of my neck, “I’ll give you exactly what you want, Claire, but first you’re going to finish yourfuckingconsolation lasagna.” He tightened his fist until I yelped. Satisfied with my response, he straightened my tresses, and returned to his seat.