Page 75 of Mason

It’s a holiday, and a little after six o’clock, so there’s a good chance he’s having dinner somewhere. Or with someone. But I don’t want to think about that. I’ve come so far. I’ve risked so much to get here. Probably jacked up my leg too, with my hotel escape.

Tears are threatening my eyes when I hear a click and the knob turns. The door inches open, and my breath hitches in my throat.

Mason’s here.

He’s really here.

And the same bolt of electricity runs through me as every other time I’ve seen him.

His tumble of golden waves tumble every which way, the sides just as long as the top now. Emotive brows above the blue eyes that turn my knees to jelly when they scan me over. A stubbled face that’s all hard lines and defined planes. The graze to his cheek’s faded to a pale pink like the matching one on my arm, and his mouth—the one I’ve dreamt of—sits in a firm frown.

He’s not happy to see me.

The sight slaps me across the face.

I made a terrible err in judgment. Maybe Papa was right. Maybe I am insane. Maybe this was all in my head.

He peeks his head out and scans the parking lot behind me before pulling me into his apartment by the wrist. He’s not wearing his sling, though he still winces when he uses that arm to close the door behind us and flip the lock. “What are you doing here?”

The space is dark, but he flips a light on, revealing a simple sitting area with a brown leather couch and chair facing a television and a kitchen with basic oak cabinets and a fridge that begs for photos and magnets. The air is thick with his cologne, its warmth stirring feelings I haven’t had in weeks.

“I missed you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, releasing my wrist and looking me over like he’s checking for blood. “You what?”

“You didn’t miss me?” I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to cry in front of him out of sheer embarrassment. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe this is happening.

He studies me for a second before his hand drifts out, his fingers running along my cheek. “No one’s cursed me out in a while,” he comments, dipping his eyes to my mouth. “Everyone’s usually afraid of me.”

I crack a smile. “I don’t know why. You can’t fight for shit.”

He lets out a husky laugh, and I feel every gritty flutter pulse through me. “I take it Anthony doesn’t know you’re here?”

I grab his wrist when he reaches toward a cell phone on an end table. “Don’t call him. Please. I needed to see you. Why haven’t you visited me?”

“Um, I’m persona non grata in the Giambelli world, for one,” he says, smirking. “And in case you haven’t noticed, your father did an exceptional job of hiding you. I might’ve also promised to never see you again.”

The betrayal cuts like a blade. He promised not to see me? “Why?”

“To keep us both alive?” He looks at me like I just asked him the color of grass.

“He won’t kill me, and he promised me that he won’t hurt you.”

The furnace kicks on and I can’t help but jump at the sudden rattle and whooshof hot air from the vent overhead, which isn’t exactly selling my confidence over the matter to him very well.

He shakes my hand from his wrist. “I’m less worried about him hurting me and more worried about me leading someone awful to you. Now how did you get here?”

“A ride share,” I admit, ignoring the are you fucking kidding me look that he gives me. “A girl with a car seat in the back drove me. She’s totally harmless. Relax. No one followed me.”

“Did you watch out the window every step of the way?” he asks, grabbing his phone. “What about walking right up to my door? Did you make sure no one saw you?”

No, no, and more no.

“Mason, please.” I place a hand over his phone, and tentatively rest the other on his chest, finding it as hard and welcoming as I remember.

He’s wearing a t-shirt and sweats, but this laid-back side of him is a thousand times better than the suits and street clothes he’s worn in the past. This is him relaxed in his element. Exposed. Raw. This is the real Mason.

Mason Carlyle.

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