Page 95 of Letting Go at 40

The wait was a slow burn threatening to incinerate me.

Then I received the most gorgeous bouquet of flowers at the school. The display made a statement and a few coworkers and new teacher friends had questions.

I stumbled through surprised reactions and pleasing smiles. Some would favor a new man in my life. Others would question it.

I pulled up Autumn’s advice. I had to stop thinking about Ben’s reaction. I had to live for me, for what I wanted.

And I wanted Mason.

When I drove home with the bouquet, Bryce didn’t even ask me who they came from. He just gave me a knowing smile.

Once home, I set the flowers on the kitchen island.

“Do you know where Mason is?” I ask Mila, who is sitting at the four-seat, round table in an alcove off the sitting area where she is doing her homework. The late afternoon sunlight is already gone in the depths of winter. Lynlee sits with Mila, working on a math game on a tablet. She’s learning quickly despite a lack of parental instruction from Samantha in any form. She practices reading with either me or Mila or Mason nightly, and she’s learning her addition and subtraction facts.

“I think he’s in the den. He said he had to make a phone call.”

I nod, although Mila isn’t watching me, and head for the den.

Once inside, I step to Mason, slipping my arms around his chest, hugging him from behind, while he finishes his call. His hand smooths over my arm and his fingers slide between mine. When he finishes, he quickly turns to me.

“Thank you for—” His mouth is crushing mine before I complete my gratitude. Quickly, we heat from the striking of a match to a full-on inferno. My fingers grasp his shirt and his hands are in my hair, fisting it at the nape. Mason is rough while tender. Fierce and intense.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you all day,” he murmurs at my mouth. “How can I miss you so much each day?”

I don’t know and I don’t answer him, but I feel the same way.

With my fingers clutched in his dress shirt, and his hands fisted in my hair, his mouth returns to mine. Mason presses me backward until my back hits the wall of shelves. He bends at the knees to line us up and grinds against me.

“God, I want you,” he mutters to me, lips never leaving mine.

I want him, too.

He pins me in place with the thickness in his pants, holding me pressed awkwardly against the shelving unit.

“I love your mouth.” His gaze fixates on my lips, probably swollen and ripe from the eagerness of his kiss. Then he’s back, thrusting his tongue into my mouth, sweeping over mine.

I rock my hips forward, desperate for more of him. Whimpering in need to strip our clothing and settle him between my thighs.

“I thought you said you weren’t getting married again.” A female voice squeaks.

Mason and I break apart. Stunned by the intrusion, his hand is still in my hair and I’m still holding his shirt. His lower half pins me in place but my leg wrapped around his hips falls.

Mila’s voice was watery, matching the sudden tears in her eyes.

Mason releases me with a sharp drop of his hands and a giant step back. With my chest heaving, I reach for the shelf at my back, hanging onto a section that juts out to hold myself upright, struggling to collect my thoughts and calm my libido.

Shit.

“We aren’t getting married. We’re just . . .” We’re just what? Kissing? Dry-humping? Winding each other up?

Mila remains frozen. With one hand on the doorknob, the other holds the door jamb and she glares at me with hatred.

For some reason, I glance at Mason. Maybe for support. Maybe for a clue as to how to handle this moment, only Mason is staring at me. His expression incredulous as well, as if he wasn’t reciprocating my kisses.

I turn to my daughter.

“Mila.” I panic and say, “It’s nothing.”