Page 105 of I Heart Mason Cartwright
Willow
He lets goof my hand to touch my lower back and guide me into the restaurant. It’s a move I’ve seen men make plenty of times that I love. I think it’s romantic. I’m hardly over my internal hyperventilation from holding his hand and barely register the lower back touch. The warmth of his skin seeps through my dress. I want to curl into him so all of me can feel the way that one small part feels now.
The hostess seats us in the back of the restaurant, in a rounded booth roomy enough for four people. We both scoot toward the middle and end up closer to one another than I’d intended. The lighting is dim, not quite candlelight, but still low enough that everyone looks pretty. Except Mason, he looks rakish. And so handsome I want to capture the image and carry it around in my pocket forever.
He’s trimmed his beard short and is wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the first few buttons undone, dark slacks and shoes. And he smells good, as usual. One day I’ll ask him what it is. That is if I make it past tonight. This proximity to him may kill me first.
Breathe.
“Do you want a drink?” Mason hands me the drink menu. He was right, there is a huge selection of both beer and wine, plus a full bar.
“We could be here a year and never try all of these.” I laugh.
“We’ll have to come back,” he says.
My face heats.
Tonight, you roar.
“I’d like that.” I smile.
Mason orders a local lager and I experiment with a craft cocktail, called Alabama Shakes It Up, their twist on the classic Manhattan.
I take a sip. It’s good but strong. Good thing I like whiskey. I didn’t eat a ton at lunch, and this is going to go down smooth and hit hard.
“Have you had fun working on the house?” he asks.
“I have. More than I thought I would. I mean, it’s hard work for sure. And I haven’t even really done the hard stuff. But the results are so visible every step of the way. I really like that about it.”
“I am sorry I wasn’t there.”
“It’s okay. Truly. There is nothing about it that was ever your responsibility and the whole idea, well, it was just ridiculous. My dad thinking he could . . . anyway, it doesn’t matter. Let’s move past it.”
“Consider it done,” he says.
“What do you think you’ll order?” I ask.
I’ve got to get past this small talk stage. I’m supposed to be roaring. This is not roaring. This is barely a whisper.
We talk about the menu anyway and decide to start with an assortment of fresh oysters and clams. Both of which I have to coat in sauce and chase with Mason’s beer. If I chase with my drink, I’ll be drunk before the entrees are served.
“Oh my god, those are so good,” I say.
He laughs. “How could you tell with all the sauce?”
“That’s what makes them so good! It’s always all about the sauce.”
He orders another beer and we decide on what to order for our meals. I pick something I’m least likely to spill on myself, the cedar plank salmon, and Mason orders some sort of steak. Despite also drinking some of his beer, I’m already on my second cocktail before we get our entrees.
Each cocktail gets you closer to roar.
I giggle at my thoughts.
We talk about my favorite movies and his favorite books and which are crossovers, and soon we’ve slipped into that same familiarity that we had months ago. Laughing and sharing, teasing and flirting. It’s the flirting that will be my downfall. Because he is so freaking cute when he flirts. In a pantry-dropping kind of way.
I never really understood that saying until tonight. Granted, I don’t have an extensive dating history by any means. I had boyfriends in high school, lost my virginity at a respectable seventeen years old on prom night, and even lived with one of my ex-boyfriends. But I never got the feeling that I have right now, where I’d follow him into the back room to have sex if he asked me to. And we haven’t even kissed. I know, it’s just physical attraction and my inhibitions are down because I’m drinking, but I’d do it anyway and I wouldn’t regret a thing.
We finish dinner, decline dessert, and head back out to his Jeep. He opens the passenger door for me, which I adore, and then lifts me up to the seat by my waist, which freaks me out. One because I wasn’t expecting it. Two because I’m not light in weight.
