I will fall for him all over again, and end up with my head and my heart at odds, tearing me in two different directions.
Unless…
What do you need, brain? I ask myself. What would it take for you to sign on the “Give Mason Another Chance” line?
I think. And think. And think some more, while Mason sits quietly on the other side of the boat, reeling in his line and tossing it into another patch of shade beneath the trees on this side of the lake.
He’s always known when to push and when to let me be, when to wrap his arms around me and pull me close, and when to sit back and wait for me to come to him. He’s a master of reading people, especially me.
Aria calls him manipulative, but he isn’t, not really. He’s simply excellent at helping people get out of their own way and get along. He always said it was a side effect of being raised by a moody, unpredictable mom with even moodier, more unpredictable boyfriends. It’s also one of the reasons I always thought he would be a wonderful doctor. He’s empathetic, a natural leader, and absolutely worthy of the trust people will place in him when they put their health in his hands.
But what if Mason wasn’t in charge for once?
What if I was the one calling the shots for the next date? Would he be as willing to follow as he’s always been to lead? And would taking my turn in the driver’s seat satisfy my need to feel in control, to feel like giving Mason another chance is a logical choice I’m making instead of a bog of Mason quicksand I’m being sucked into against my will?
The answer is…maybe.
Definitely maybe.
And that’s enough to make a smile curve my lips.
“Worked things out?” Mason peeks at me out of the corners of his eyes.
“I think so.” I stretch my legs, pointing my toes, my smile inching a little wider.
“And…” Mason prods.
“I’ll be organizing date number three,” I say breezily. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night.”
Mason doesn’t miss a beat, just grins and says, “Okay. Where are we going?”
“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.