Page 7 of Fallen Hearts

“Not Mason. But I can be, depending on what you want Mason for.”

Yep, I’d completely pegged him. No thank you.

“Are you Mason?” I asked the first guy, already suspecting the answer.

“I’m not,” he said, confirming my suspicions and explaining why he’d claimed Mr. Bennett was not his father. “You’re looking for Mason?”

“No, she’s here to see me, obviously,” surfer-dude said.

“Actually…” I didn’t want to insult him since these were most likely Mason’s friends. “I would like to speak with Mason, if that’s possible.”

“I’ll get him,” the first guy said. “Actually, I better not leave you alone with this one. Beck, go grab Mason.”

“Yeah, okay.” Beck didn’t move. Obviously these guys were good friends, or maybe even family members, though they didn’t look alike.

“Mason,” the first guy boomed into the house. “Someone here to see you.”

Beck backed away from the door but didn’t go far.

“Who is it?”

Finally, Mason.

He was exactly like what I might imagine Mr. Bennett’s son to look like. Also extremely handsome. Refined. Like he belonged on a Yale campus.

“Hi, I’m Pia Russo.” I stuck out my hand, more at ease. He took it, appearing confused. “I am so sorry about your father,” I began.

“She thinks you’re Mason,” Beck said.

I dropped his hand. “You’re not Mason either?”

“Nope. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Where’s Mason?” the first guy asked Yale.

“In the bathroom,” Yale answered. “Pia, would you like to come in? I apologize for my friends, who obviously have zero manners.”

“Sure,” I said. Yale wasn’t the only confused one. Was this an inn or a fraternity? And how was it possible Mason had this many hot friends, if they were indeed his friends?

I followed them through the entranceway, already familiar as I’d studied pictures of Heritage Hill for weeks, and we made our way to the kitchen. No sign of Mason.

“I’ll get him,” Yale said. “Can you guys behave yourselves in the meantime?”

“No promises,” Beck responded. That one was a firecracker.

“I’ll keep him on a leash,” my original Mason, the one who didn’t care much for his father, said, smiling at me. He was cute. Really cute, actually.

I smiled back.

“I’m Parker. This is Beck and the stiff is Cole.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, meaning it. I was about to ask him how they all knew Mason when a gravelly voice from the doorway asked, “Who are you?”

I looked up.

Jesus, sweet Mary and Joseph. He was like a cross between Henry Cavill and Ian Somerhalder. The cheekbones. Dark hair. Big, like Henry. Smolder-y like Ian, though less playful. And of course, when I said Ian, I meant Damon Salvatore. As if the two didn’t go hand in hand.

He watched me as if expecting me to say something.

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