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“I love your brother, and I understand why he’s so overprotective …” Mary trails off, and I roll my eyes.
“You can say it, Mare. It’s not like I don’t know my dad is dead and that’s why my brother turned into my overlord.”
She giggles. “He really is like an overlord.”
“An evil one, in this case,” I say. “I’ll call him as soon as we finish dinner and tell him I won’t do it. What better time to stand up to John than when he isn’t physically here?”
Mary sets down her wineglass. “Oh, I absolutely think you should go on the dates.”
“Ex-CUSE me?” I say, cupping my hand dramatically around my ear. “I must not have heard you correctly.”
“Look—if Mason is hiding feelings for you, which I totally think he is, by the way, jealousy can be a great tool.”
Just like Sam said.
Here’s the thing. I don’t want to play games. Truly, I don’t. Dating other guys to make Mason jealous sounds … immature. At BEST. And it clearly didn’t work when I tried it with Chase.
Then again, I may notlikejealousy as a tool. But right now, it’s one I can at least locate in my toolbox.
“He didn’t seem bothered that I went on a date earlier this week.”
“Mason knew about your date with Chase?” Mary’s brows shoot up.
“Yep. It was the night I moved in. He got back just before I left for the date. No reaction.”
“But he did buy you a Christmas tree and asked you to decorate it tonight,” Mary says, arching a sculpted brow. “That seems very datey. At the very least, it’s thoughtful. Andthoughtfulcan meaninterested. But I still don’t think going on dates to possibly provoke jealousy could hurt. What if you limit it? Tell John yes, but only three.”
“Not a bad compromise.”
“Also, you should hang mistletoe all over the apartment.”
“Pass.” My phone buzzes on the table and I snatch it up when I see a text from Mason. “It’s him!”
I read the message while turning the phone so Mary can see. It’s a little alarming what a text from Mason can do to my nervous system.
“He wants to pick up dinner!” Mary says. “That’s a good sign!”
“Too bad we just ate.”
“You can always eat more.”
I shift in my chair, lifting my shirt briefly so Mary can see my jeans, which I unbuttoned after the second basket of breadsticks—beforethe main course even arrived. “I’ve got more than a food baby. I’ve got, like, food quintuplets.”
I fire off a quick response, thanking Mason but letting him know I’ve already had dinner. Mary scoots her chair around to my side of the table and we stare at the screen together as the little dots keep flashing, showing that Mason is typing.
“Come on,” I groan. “Is he writing an essay?”
“A legal brief,” she says.
“A novel.”
“A peace treaty,” Mary offers.
I give her a look. “A peace treaty? Seriously? Ooo—another text!” Three of them come in rapid succession.
Mason:No worries about dinner. But save room for something sweet.
Mason:And don’t even think about touching the tree if you beat me home.
