Page 84 of Unromance

He’d tried. He’d tried being mad at her, hating her, but he couldn’t. She was right. He’d rushed into things again, even when he hadn’t meant to. But he’d learned a long time ago, you don’t get to choose how you make other people feel. He hated that she thought he’d fallen for her simply because she wasthere. He wasn’t okay with that, but he wasn’t sure how to fix it either.

He was so lost in his head that he didn’t hear the doorman calling his name.

“Sorry, Luther,” he said.

“No worries, Mr. West. I just wanted to return your lady’s book,”he said, hurrying around his desk and producing a small paperback. When had Sawyer loaned him a book?

Mason furrowed his brow, taking it from him and thanking him. It was an author he didn’t recognize, but the swooning heroine on the front cover made his heart pang uncomfortably. The memory of Sawyer doing that exact pose at the tree farm flashed before his eyes. It felt like yesterday and years ago all at once.

“Have you read it?” Luther asked.

“No,” Mason answered, flipping the book over to read the back.

Luther put his hand over the back cover, blocking the summary. “Don’t spoil it for yourself,” he said conspiratorially. “I prefer to go in blind. But I will say, that letter at the end…” He shook his head, staring off into the distance. “People don’t talk like that anymore, but they should.”

Mason grinned. “You write a lot of love letters back in the day, Luther?”

Luther’s ruddy skin flushed. “Of course I did. I had to let my Rose know how I felt, to wait for me.”

Standing up straighter, Mason tilted his head to the side curiously. “And what if you’re the one waiting?”

Luther smacked his lips thoughtfully. “It’s the same, really. Let them know how you feel. Keep the faith that if it’s meant to be, they will find a way back to you. And stay busy—be someone worth coming back for.” Luther smiled softly, his gaze far off. “My Rose was… well, I may not seem it now, but I was once a looker, like you. I had other options, but once I met Rose, she was the only option.”

Mason knew the feeling. He thought he’d been heartbroken before, but he now knew it was the sting of loneliness. He was lonely now, yes, but it was different. Sawyer had wormed her way into hislife like no one else. It wasn’t only her presence that he missed—their schedules had made time together harder and harder to come by, but that hadn’t bothered him. He missed talking to her, even if it was brief, hearing how her day had been or being able to tell her about his, unfiltered. It was something he hadn’t known he’d needed until he had it. She’d become his best friend, and it was a loss like he’d never known before.

“Thank you, Luther,” Mason said suddenly, shaking himself from his thoughts. “I’d love to hear more about Rose sometime, but right now, I—” He grinned, clearheaded for the first time in weeks. “I’ve got a letter to write.”

Turning on his heel, he headed for the elevator, his mind made up. If this wasn’t a sign, he wasn’t sure what was. It didn’t matter if Sawyer didn’t believe in signs or grand gestures or happily ever afters. Hedid, and he believed with every corner of his hopelessly romantic heart that his and Sawyer’s story wasn’t over yet.

He barely even registered the elevator ride or the bumpy way it came to a stop on his floor, his mind spinning a million miles an hour. He wasn’t a writer, so he wasn’t sure how he was going to put everything he felt into a letter.

Thumbing through the back half of the book Sawyer had loaned Luther, he found the letter Luther mentioned. Even without the context of the rest of the book, it tugged at Mason’s heartstrings, because he knew that desperate feeling.

How? How could he manage to convey to Sawyer that from now on, to him, every romance he ever watched or read would be about her? And at the same time, every single one of them would pale in comparison to his favorite love story: theirs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ROCK, MEET BOTTOM– When you hit rock bottom, the only way to go is—oh, wait, she has a shovel. We’re going further down.

With a beleaguered sigh, Sawyer hoisted the bag of books higher on her shoulder, promising herself yet again thatnext time, she’d find a better way to transport them. It was the first time she’d left her apartment in a week, having spent the past few days bingeingDiagnostics. She’d forced herself to pause season three, episode two and get off the couch. All the tension between Dr. Santiago and Nurse Lia was makinghertense. If they didn’t get together soon, she was going to have a coronary. She hadn’t wanted to root for Mason’s and Kara’s characters, but she was eating up everything the writers hand-fed to her.

She missed Mason so much. She wanted to apologize, but she wasn’t sure how, wasn’t sure the words would come out right. Even if she found the perfect words, she was convinced it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t change things. Mason was still leaving.

So, in the weeks since their fight, she’d filled the Mason-shaped void in her life withDiagnostics. Anything to avoid thinking about her looming deadline or how bad her writer’s block was. She warred with herself. Refill the creative well by pouringDiagnosticsdown her gullet. Stop bingeing TV dramas andwrite the damn book.

She was already regretting leaving the sanctity of her pile of blankets and pillows, desperate for the thrill she felt every time Dr. Santiago graced her screen. Even if, despite what Mason said, Dr. Santiago did not, in fact, do his surgeries shirtless, much to her disappointment.

Her heart twisted as she stepped into the elevator. It wasn’t the same one she’d gotten stuck in with Mason. She hadn’t even realized she’d memorized which elevator it was, but apparently she had. Propping the sack of books against the wall, she rolled her muscles.

“Hold the door!”

She glanced up, her arm shooting out automatically. Her pulse quickened, déjà vu distorting her sense of reality. She was only two blocks from Mason’s apartment, could it be—?

The doors shuddered back open, revealing a well-dressed man in his midfifties. He offered her a congenial smile, and she tried not to let her disappointment show on her face.

In her haste to hold the door for him, she’d stretched herself across the elevator like a one-woman game of Twister. The bag of books wobbled precariously, and before she could react, the handle ripped, the contents spilling onto the floor.

She took this as a sign that she was simply not meant to leave the house today.

---