Page 70 of Unromance

“Me, too, probably,” she admitted with a laugh. “I just wouldn’t let myself feel it. And I haven’t magically changed. I’m still scared. My life is still a mess I’m trying to clean up. I just know it’s better with you in it.” The way Mason’s face lit up was both a balm and a blaring alarm. She didn’t want to get hurt again, but more than that, she didn’t want to hurthim. She took a deep breath for courage. “I’m telling you all this because I wouldn’t have minded if you called me your girlfriend, but I also don’t care if you don’t, so long as we know what we are to each other.”

Mason made a confused jerk of his head, half nodding, half shaking it. “And what… are we?” He was the living incarnation of half agony, half hope. If he was Wentworth, then she was Knightley. If she cared about him less, she might be able to talk about it more. Was this what happened when you let yourself fall for someone? Suddenly, every interaction became narrated by Jane Austen?

She brushed her lips against his. “We’re each other’s person.” He sagged against her, bringing their foreheads together as he exhaled shakily. “I’m yours.” His hands on her waist tightened, as if checking that she was really there. “And you’re mine?”

His gaze flicked up to hers, watching her through his lashes. “Of course I am, Sawyer. I’ve been yours.”

She shuddered, his words washing over her like the shock of ice water and a warm blanket all in one. And then they were both moving.

She’d almost forgotten what kissing Mason was like, how all-consuming, but her mouth had not, the memory of him imprinted on her lips.

Their mouths met in a clash of teeth and tongues, as if to make up for lost time. He moaned into her mouth when she took his bottom lip between her teeth, claiming it. His hands at her hips roved south, cupping her ass and squeezing roughly, pulling her into him all the while. Their hips met, and they both groaned, Sawyer instinctively grinding into him. Her hands tangled in his hair, undoing his careful styling, needing him closer. She had the strangest sensation that she wanted to devour him, or to crawl inside him, to consume and be consumed.

The door to their right opened, and they both went as still as statues.

Someone muttered a soft “oops!” before closing the door behind them.

Sawyer’s eyes traveled back to Mason’s. His hands were still full of her, her hands frozen in his hair, their chests heaving in tandem with their labored breathing. They remembered themselves in fragments, Mason loosening his grip on her, her dress that he’d been gradually working up falling back to the ground in a whisper of fabric. She smoothed back his hair, but once freed, the curls didn’t want to lie back in quite the same way.

“Oops,” Sawyer breathed innocently.

Mason grinned, cupping her face between his hands and bringing her back to him in a crushing closed-mouth kiss. “You wanna get out of here?” he murmured against her lips.

“Is that an option?” She rolled her hips against him, eliciting a hiss of pleasure from him.

He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, her brow, the crownof her head, as if needing to gradually pull away, like doing it all at once would be too much. She could relate. “Yes.”

A loud grumbling cut through the quiet, and Sawyer realized it was her stomach. A laugh burst out of them both.

“We did skip dinner,” Mason said reasonably.

Sawyer snorted. “Speak for yourself. I made that charcuterie table my bitch while you were off brownnosing.”

“Charcuterie is dinner foreplay,” Mason said dismissively. Intertwining their fingers, he brought her hand to his lips. “May I take you to dinner, Sawyer Jo?”

She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she hated her middle name, especially not when it sounded so sweet when he said it, the exact opposite of the way she was used to hearing it.

“If this relationship is going to work, you should know that I consider anything after nine p.m. too late for dinner. Late nights belong to the breakfast gods.”

Mason nodded seriously, and Sawyer wondered if she’d ever be able to date a nonactor after this. The way Mason committed to her bits so readily, not only keeping pace with her nonsense, but reveling in it—she was growing accustomed to it all too fast.

Easing his phone from inside his coat pocket, Mason flashed her the time. Ten fifteen. He grinned broadly. “Waffles,” Mason moaned.

“And here I thought only I could get you to make those noises.”

He grinned, kissing her hand once more. Fingers intertwined, they slipped out of the room, trying very hard not to look like two kids who’d been caught making out beneath the bleachers. Between Mason’s mussed hair and the grin Sawyer couldn’t seem to wipe from her face, she didn’t think they were very convincing.

Mason never dropped her hand, keeping her close to him as theyskirted the room, promising to catch up with people later. Judging by everyone’s level of inebriation, they wouldn’t remember that they never came back.

When Mason got snagged by a sweet older woman he couldn’t say no to, he guided her behind him, pressing something into her hand. Glancing down, she saw their coat check ticket and a folded bill. She slipped away before the darling woman could notice her, tucking herself into the alcove beside the coat check and praying neither Bex, Kara, nor Davi would spot her while she tried to facilitate their escape.

Mason found her a few minutes later, but there was something off about his posture. She handed him his coat with a quizzical look, and he nodded down. Following his gaze, she grinned at the bottle of champagne he’d nicked fromsomewhere, concealing it beneath his suit jacket. They slipped out the front door, giggling like loons.

As they sank into the back of a black car, Sawyer curled into Mason’s side while he gave the driver the address for his favorite dive-y diner. His arms came around her, making quick work of the champagne bottle’s foil, cage, and cork before the driver reached the front. If the driver noticed them hastily guzzling the foam that poured out—Sawyer licking it off the bottle as Mason licked it offher—he said nothing.

Sawyer was lightheaded, and it had nothing to do with the bottle of bubbles they passed back and forth. Okay, maybe it was a little bit the champagne’s fault. But she knew it was mostly the guy beside her, who made her feel bubbly all on his own.

She traced the contours of his jaw with her eyes, watched his Adam’s apple bob as he took a swig from the bottle.

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