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And John is in Spain.
Which means … it’s not John waking me up in his pitch-dark loft.
Adrenaline hits my bloodstream instantly. I scream, leaping to my feet as I grab and swing the closest thing I can—a chunky wooden candlestick in the center of the coffee table I remember seeing earlier.
It collides with something—someone—who gives a low grunt.
I swing wildly again—but thesomeonegrabs the candlestick.
Immediately, I release it, giving another scream that’s more of a war cry. I flail, searching for something else I can use to defend myself against this intruder.
Light floods the room, temporarily almost blinding me, and I trip, falling backward over the coffee table to land with a thump right on my tailbone.
“Chelsea! Are you okay?”
I know that voice. And as a figure leans over me, blocking out the too-bright overhead light, I recognize the face too.
“Mason? Why—what are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.” He squats beside me, carefully positioning a hand below my shoulder as he gently helps me sit up. “Are you okay?”
“Areyouokay? I hit you pretty hard with that candlestick.”
“This candlestick?” He holds up the decor in question before setting it on the table. “I’ll live. I think you only cracked two ribs. Kidding,” he adds when he sees my face. “I’m fine. How are you?”
I take a quick mental inventory, realizing quickly that the only thing smarting worse than my pride is my butt. “I think I bruised my tailbone. But I’ll live.”
“Let me help you.”
I’m not going to argue. Not when Mason gently wraps his warm hands around my upper arms and helps me to my feet, guiding me to sit down on the couch. This is the most he’s touched me in … well … forever.
And I am not mad about it.
It’s only when I’m seated—trying to ignore the ache radiating up my spine from my tailbone—that Mason lets go of me and scoots back, giving me distance I don’t want. He perches on the coffee table, carefully watching me.
At almost the same moment, we seem to remember that we don’t know why the other is there.
“What are—” I start, as he says, “Why is—”
We both break off, then laugh awkwardly. For as many years as we’ve known each other, Mason and I haven’t spent much time togetherunsupervised. Which makes us sound like children, but that’s a little bit how John treats us. We don’t get time without John as our not-so-evil overlord and overseer. Or my mom. Or … anyone else.
I’m not quite sure how to navigate this. But I am VERY willing to figure it out.
“What happened in here?” Mason asks, glancing around the room with a frown. “The broken ornaments and—is that blood?”
“Oh,” I say, taking in the disaster I left and how it must look to him. “I broke an ornament—a bunch of ornaments—and stepped on the pieces.”
“Are you okay?”
I wave him off. “Not a big deal. Promise. I got BandAids.”
“And then you … decided to take a nap?” His brow furrows even further.
I slide my hands under my thighs so I don’t reach out and smooth away the tiny line between his brows. “That about covers it. What areyoudoing here? Besides scaring me half to death, that is.”
“Coming back from the gym,” he says, and for the first time, I notice the very fitted athletic shirt and black joggers, stretched tight over his muscular thighs.
“Right,” I say with a nod, because of course Mason hits the gym the day after Christmas. You don’t get legs that test the physical limitations of a pair of sweatpants without spending a lot of time in the gym.
