Page 46 of Letting Go at 40

“Maybe one day you can bring Lynlee.”

Mason freezes as he lifts his wineglass, pausing a second to look at me over the rim. “Yeah, maybe.” He finishes lifting the glass and takes a large sip.

“You never talk about her.” I don’t know what I’m implying or even what I’m asking. Mason and I don’t really talk. We text. Minimal, mundane messages.

Except for a week ago, when I drunk-texted him. Scrolling back through the conversation the following morning, my breath hitched at the confession I’d given him.

You. Too often he fills my thoughts.

“What do you want me to say?” Mason interrupts my reminiscing.

I shrug. “Anything. Tell me what she’s like or what you do when you two are together.”

“I don’t get to see her as often as I’d like.”

“Because of Four Points?” My brows pinch. He works too hard.

“Because Samantha is a bitch.”

The venom in his tone surprises me and my eyes widen. “Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.” He glances away before taking another big gulp from his wineglass.

“You can talk to me, you know?”

“What’s there to say?” He heavily exhales, hesitantly eyeing me before speaking. “Samantha plays these head games with me. She constantly tries to insert herself into my time with Lynlee or makes an excuse why I can’t have her on my day.” He swipes fingers through his hair, mussing up the polished look he normally has.

I stare at him, completely floored. In the past, Ben had hinted that Samantha was a piece of work. He’d mentioned that Mason struggled in his connection with Lynlee, but I didn’t realize Samantha might have been a huge cause in Mason’s battles.

“I’m so sorry, Mason. I had no idea.”

“Ben didn’t tell you? I thought you two told each other everything.” Frustration more than accusation fills his voice.

“He didn’t tell me this. I’m sorry,” I say once more. Again, I’ve misjudged him.

“We’ve been back to mediation a few times but nothing changes.” He leans on the island, as if there is a heavy weight on his shoulders. He twirls the stem of his wineglass between his long fingers.

Reaching across the countertop, I place my hand on his. His head snaps up and our eyes meet again. “It’s so unfair,” I say.

Mason nods once. He glances down at where my hand covers his and I retract my touch, my palm too quickly cooling after the heat of his skin.

“So what kind of dances did you do tonight?” I tease, seeking something to break the tension. “An old school Macarena? The Cha-Cha Slide? A little dabbing?”

“I’ll have you know I have smoother moves than all that.”

“I bet you do.” I shake my head as my lips curl.

“You know what they say about a man who can dance.”

“What do they say?” I mock of the ambiguous and generic term.

“He’s good in— Never mind.”

I stare at Mason, completing the sentence on my own. A man who can dance is said to be good in bed. There’s no doubt in my mind Mason is exceptional in that manner. The swagger, the confidence, the general air about him screams sensual and remarkable.

“I miss dancing,” I whisper.

“Is that a euphemism?” Mason teasingly lifts a brow.