Page 53 of Mason

“And you’re breathing, right? Eating? Drinking? Shitting? Pissing?” he asks, still clawing around the bag. “Where I come from, that’s called living, and it’s a good fucking thing, Emily.”

A part of me warms that he’s at least still calling me by the name I asked. “What’s your name?”

“Business,” he mutters.

“Business?” I echo. “What the hell kind of name is that?” I’m not looking for a code name. I’m looking for a piece of him. Something that makes him more than my keeper.

He turns with a grin, victorious in his bag pursuit with a plastic food container and a fork. “As in None-of-Your-Goddamn Business. You haven’t heard of it, have you?”

I want to stab him all over again.

“Ha-ha, you ass clown.”

He steps toward me, extending the container and utensil that I could use to take a poke at him if I want, though it won’t do much more than piss him off. “You’re always insulting me, and I’ve been nothing but nice to you.”

“Not true,” I retort, taking the offering like a hungry zoo animal. I’m not proud to be so reliant on him, but he’s turned me into a ravenous beast. I rationed cashews, chips, and beef jerky over my days alone. I’m not exactly running on full. That could explain the overwhelming urge to kiss him with gratitude when I flip the lid open and see chicken piccata staring back at me with a lump of a dinner roll. It could explain why the words fly out of my face, too. “I could kiss you right now.”

He backs away like I’m diseased. “Down, tiger.”

“I wouldn’t really kiss you,” I grumble, stabbing at the pasta with all the grace of a hyena with a fresh kill. “You’d be a terrible kisser.”

This argument is beyond stupid to be having with him, and I know it, but right now I don’t care. I’m just grateful to have food, and I can’t suck noodles into my mouth fast enough.

“Judging by how you eat, I can say the same about you.” He scoffs. “Though you probably made the football team happy.”

I choke on my mouthful of pasta, hard enough that he comes over to whack on my back to dislodge the angel hair from my throat. It does the trick, and the glob lands square in the center of the container’s lid.

“But you're rusty,” he cracks once I stop gasping for air. “Might need to practice on the broom while you’re alone so they still recognize you when you get back.”

“You’re an asshole,” I snarl before biting my tongue to keep from smiling. He's a funny son of a bitch. At least I got a kidnapper with a sense of humor and not one that wants to wear me like a skin suit.

He retreats to the counter, putting plenty of space between us like I might bite. “Takes one to know one.”

“You missed me?” I ask, twirling another cluster of noodles around the flimsy fork. I like whatever this rapport is. It beats the hell out of the other guy that looked like he was ready to chop me into pieces. This guy might be up and down like Mama off her meds, but he has a lot more hot in that six-foot body than cold.

“Let’s see. I haven’t had to chase any feral women across the woods, slept in my bed rather than a cot, and no one’s mouthed off to me. So, no.”

I splay a hand over my chest dramatically. “I’m hurt, Savior Sucks-a-lot.”

I missed him, but only because of the imminent threat of hunger or freezing to death. And maybe because I enjoy the company. Someone to talk to other than myself. Even if we were just poking and prodding like two kids in the backseat of a car on a road trip.

He isn’t amused by my nickname. “If I told you I had the chef teabag the sauce, what would you say?”

I roll my eyes, attempting to cut off a hunk of chicken with the side of my fork. “Needs more salt.”

“You’re salty enough.” He shakes his head, and the burnished hue to his hair is even more noticeable as it shines in the fire’s glow. I always dreamed I’d end up with someone with dark hair, but I like the gold hiding in his tumble of waves. A little too long on top to be professional, but otherwise neat. I wouldn’t mind finding a suitor with hair like his.

I’ll get Rachel to help. She’s good at man hunting. She could give classes on finding a guy.

Damn, I miss her.

I miss waking up to her texts about making out with so-and-so or finding her in my room after class waiting to dish on the latest neighborhood gossip. She’s every bit the sister I need in Anna but will never get.

Rather than cry, I eat my feelings, shoveling in food. Mama’s not here to yell at me about calories or carbs, so I really go to town on it, ready to clear the whole dish in one sitting.

“How are your legs?” the man asks after watching me eat for a solid five minutes. I don’t like having an audience, but I’m so hungry that I don’t care.

“Hairy,” I grumble. The bastard could’ve left me with a razor. I’m halfway toward transforming into Chewbacca now. Thank God he gave me leggings or the friction might cause a forest fire.

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