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Suddenly, Mason suddenly seems to freeze in place. His eyes are still on my lips. I swear, the man’s pupils are dilated to the size of dinner plates as he sits motionless.
There is no forward movement.
I give the man another few long seconds, while an errant part of my brain is a cartoon crab singing, “Kiss the Girl.”
Come on, Mason.
Kiss. The. Girl.
The imaginary music screeches to a stop as Mason leans back. His gaze moves from my lips to my eyes, and I can’t read the expression there. The pupils are shrinking back down to normal size. No more dinner plates. More like those tiny ones that go under fancy teacups.
And is that a look of regret? Guilt?
Okay, now I’m confused.
Confused and disappointed and maybe even a little angry. I thought I was reading things correctly. I was definitely out on the runway, waving Mason in for a kiss landing.
I’d settle for Mason swiping a finger over my lip and then licking the whipped cream off. That’s another classic romance move. Still sexy, but a little less intimate. A tiny step forward rather than the huge leap a kiss would be.
Come on, Mason. Just do it! Get the whipped cream! Lick it off your fingertip! I’ll do my very best not to completely maul you afterward, but I make no promises.
Instead of doing anything like that, Mason clears his throat, shifts even farther away from me, and says, “It’s still there.”
“Right.”
I resist the urge to scream. So much for the burning yule log of attraction. Someone doused it with a bucket of ice water. I reach for a Christmas napkin Mason brought over with his cocoa. It has a sheep on it and reads,Santa, I’ve Been Very Baaaad This Year.
Normally, I’d appreciate the humor. Right now, I’d like to ball up this napkin and toss it directly at Mason’s forehead. He’s definitely been baaaaaad. Refusing to look at him, I turn my eyes to the television, where not even Kevin Gnapoor rapping can fix the moment. I take another sip of cocoa, which should taste bad now that I’m frustrated with Mason. But it doesn’t. It’s still delicious.
Stupid man and his stupid homemade cocoa!
I can feel Mason looking at me. The weight of his gaze is as solid and warm as a hug. Only, I don’t want a hug. I want a passionate make out session. I want declarations of love.
At thevery leastI want the man to kiss the whipped cream off my face.
IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK?
Mason nudges my shoulder with his. I angle slightly toward him. I’m not giving the man my whole face. You get my profile only, buddy.
He doesn’t say anything. Just … stares. I can feel his gaze burning into my cheek.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I throw my hands up helplessly. “Nothing. I’m just maybe a little confused. About tonight. About all … this.”
That’s a nice open door, right? Mason can walk straight through with ease, explaining why he bought me a tree and asked me to decorate it with him, why he went to all the trouble of making hot cocoa with homemade whipped cream and getting marshmallows from my mom. Why it feels so very date-y if he’s not going to acknowledge it or make some kind of move.
I get it—a kiss might be too far, too fast for us. A light-year’s leap from best friend’s younger sister and accidental roommate to making out on the sofa.
Most other people throw kisses around like candy at a parade, but that’s never been me. I take relationships more seriously, always have. And while I don’t know about Mason and don’twantto know about his kissing habits, I’d wager he’s not that different. His personality is way too serious for him to be casual.
Still—if he’s not going to kiss me, he could do SOMETHING.
Like hold my hand or kiss my cheek or just be stinking honest about how he feels.
Ifhe feels something. I thought that’s what all this was about.
But maybe not? Maybe he’s just a good guy who’s going to make someone other than me very lucky one day.
