Page 102 of I Heart Mason Cartwright
Her face softens. “I’m proud of you.”
“It’s just dinner, Ma.”
“It’s not just dinner and you know it.”
“It is. And I gotta go, or I’ll be late.”
“Tell Willow hello. Have fun. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
I lied. I’m not going to be late. I just didn’t want to get in another conversation with her about Willow. We already did that to death at lunch today and I don’t need a repeat.
Tonight, with Willow, thisisjust dinner. That I can’t get this girl out of my head, after multiple months when I’ve never even touched or kissed her, is a whole other story.
* * *
I tryto decide where to take her while I’m waiting for the ferry to Bainbridge. I don’t want it to be too romantic, but I don’t want loud and rowdy where we can’t talk either. Of course, the place with the best reviews online is quaint, small, and pricey. But I choose it anyway. From the pictures, it looks as though the tables are spaced relatively far apart, they have a big beer and wine selection. Their menu features a lot of locally sourced ingredients, fresh fish, and a clam/oyster bar. They don’t take reservations but tell me that it’s usually a short wait and they feature a full bar to wait in.
By the time the ferry reaches Bainbridge, I still have fifteen minutes before I pick up Willow, and a four-minute drive to her house even if I drive really slowly. I pull over to the side of the ferry parking lot to kill time and check my appearance in the visor mirror, smooth my newly trimmed beard and eyebrows with my fingers. I switch the radio station, drum my fingers on the dash, look around the lot at the cars driving by, which all together kills about another thirty-seven seconds.
Fuck it. Just go. Sitting here will only make you stress out.
The streets become narrower and more tree-lined the closer I get to her house. I like the feeling of privacy—almost exclusivity—that it gives. No sidewalks or signs of suburbia, just trees with random driveways and mailboxes on either side. Trees that blanket everything, allowing sporadic bursts of sunlight to shine through. It’s the time of year where the sun won’t even start to go down until after nine o’clock at night. So, while the sun isn’t exactly shining, it’s still light out.
I get to Willow’s seven minutes early. Why I’m so concerned about every single minute that is passing is beyond me. The fence is open, so I drive straight up to the front. Then I have no choice but to go to the door since Princess Tinkerbell heard me drive up and is at the window barking incessantly. She stops when she sees it’s me and starts to wag her tail, doing a little Husky howl. Willow’s head pops up behind her in the window. She smiles and moves in the direction of the door.
She looks amazing. Actually, amazing isn’t an adequate description. Her hair is down and curled slightly, and she’s wearing a short, white dress with black polka dots, paired with red high heels that make her legs look three miles long. My body warms, a smile grows on my face despite attempts to rein it in, my heart beats faster.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. “You look beautiful.”
She smiles in response. “You too. Good, I mean. You look good. Aw heck, you look beautiful too.”
I laugh. She does too.
She smells good, like vanilla and something woodsy. The same scent that I remember from so long ago. P-Tink inserts herself between us and nudges my hand. I scratch her behind the ears and kneel to say hello. She licks my face in return.
“Do you want to come in for a minute while I give her a bone and grab my purse?”
“Yes, I’m dying to see the house, too.”
“You’ll have to wait until the kitchen is finished for the big reveal, but you can kind of get an idea based on the tape markings I’ve laid out.”
I follow her inside, her ass sways under her skirt. I want to grab it, pull her against me and press my hardening cock against the fullness of her butt cheeks. I want to do all sorts of things that I should be discouraging since I don’t know how she feels about me.
Then I see the house. “Wow, Willow, this is incredible.” The space has been transformed between knocking out walls, adding skylights, enlarging window openings, and she took it one step further—the entire west wall is now comprised of La Cantina doors.
“I can’t believe what a difference you’ve made,” I say. “This is absolutely incredible.”
“Thank you. I can’t take credit for a lot of it since I had to hire an architect and a contractor so the house didn’t fall down. But I’ve done as much of the grunt work as I can.”
She’s used tape to plot out cabinets and a large kitchen island on the floor. Mock-ups of the appliances and cupboards are taped to the walls in their assigned places. I move in to take a closer look: antique white cabinetry, marble countertops, and bold stainless-steel appliances. They will play beautifully off the dark floors.
“You pick all this out yourself?” I ask.
“Yeah, do you like it?”
