Page 24 of Mason

“There’s a difference between fucking her in her bed, and sleeping with her,” Lucas fires back. Unease nestles at the base of my neck, making the hair stand upright. I shift closer to the headboard, and draw the pillow tight against my chest. “You don’t do intimacy, Mason. That’s not who you are”

“Agreed. There’s something different about this girl.”

Holden.

Though his tone is softer, more reasonable, it’s still leaden with tension. I’d thought at first that Mason’s partners just didn’t like me, but I’m starting to understand the root of the problem begins with an issue that is much deeper than their instant distaste—the simply don’t want him to get attached.

“This is highly uncharacteristic,” Lucas says.

My chest fills with ridiculous hope. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t over analyze the past twenty-four hours, would just give in to the pleasure, to the moment. But in this morning’s afterglow, I can’t help but wonder if maybe—impossibly—Mason might be developing feelings for me. Is it wrong to think that I am different somehow? A fresh alternative to the dozens of models and actresses and pop stars he’s taken to his bed?

“You guys are making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be,” Mason says, gruffly.

His response stings, but I cling to hope. It’s not as if I think we’re heading down the aisle and into wedded bliss—yet—but our chemistry is undeniable. And more to the point, he hasn’t denied that to his partners.

“She isn’t right for you,” Lucas continues.

Okay, now I’m getting pissed. My fingers dig into the pillow and I grit my teeth. Who the hell are they to decide whether I’m right for Mason? What does that even mean? They don’t even know me, for fuck’s sake.

“Girls like her…” Holden’s voice trails off, leaving my hyper-sensitive imagination to fill in the blanks. Like me how? Plain and boring? Maybe I’ll never make the cover of Sports Illustrated but I didn’t hear Mason complaining when his lips were clamped around my clit.

Do they think I’m a gold digger?

My stomach twists. Screw them. I plan to carve out my own success, without Mason’s pocketbook to fund the journey, thank you very much.

Their collective voices drop to a murmur. I lean toward the door, straining to hear what’s being said.

My chest grows heavy with regret.

How dumb can I be?

“We should continue this conversation over breakfast,” Mason says, not quite quiet enough for me not to hear.

But his partners are relentless. They poke and prod, needle and mock. Snippets of their insults float through the thin walls. Naïve. Young. Inexperienced. Only after one thing.

They tell Mason he’s going soft.

He assures them they’ve got the wrong idea.

With each degrading comment, I wait for Mason to defend me. To stand up for us—whatever us is. His friends have no business butting into his personal life… Do they? I shrink back under the covers, pulling the blanket up over my ears.

The argument has drawn out my self-doubt, and I begin to question my motives and actions. What is it about Mason that has allowed me to let down my guard and compromise my morals?

Emotions swirl in my stomach like a tornado.

God, I’m about to get sick. I’m no damn different than my mother, desperately clinging to something that isn’t there. Was never there.

I lean over the edge of the bed and freeze at the sounds of Mason’s voice, loud and clear, leaving no room for debate or misinterpretation. “That’s enough. I don’t fucking have feelings for her. Now let’s get on with it, okay? It’s business as usual.”

My heart squeezes with unexpected pain and my whole body goes numb. I close my eyes, blinking back the tears that hover just under my eyelids, threatening to crash down in a waterfall of self-pity. I keep them closed even as the door opens and I hear the soft tread of Mason’s feet on the carpet. He goes to the bathroom, to the closet and back, staying silent so as not to wake me. He shaves, brushes his teeth, gets dressed—I hear the swoosh of his pants sliding up his thighs—and then the scratch scratch scratch of pen against paper. Is he leaving me a note?

Squinting through blurred vision, I pretend to remain asleep as he puts on his shoes, grabs his wallet and briefcase, and slips out the door without so much as a backward glance.

I exhale a sigh I’ve been holding too long, and it releases a teardrop that trickles down my cheek. My skin is numb with shock. What an idiot to believe I could be different.

Whatever tenderness Mason showed me last night was just part of some elaborate act, and maybe I don’t understand my role in all of this, but I’m fucking done with this game. Anger cuts through the blur of my throbbing heartache.

I toss off the blankets and sit upright. My gaze lands on the note from Mason, a reminder of the meeting at 9 a.m. sharp—it’s been underlined twice—and a list of things to bring—folders, spreadsheets, my legal pad of notes. It’s cold and impersonal, just like I should expect.