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Chelsea’s eyes immediately brighten. I’m not sure if it’s the promise of crêpes or me opening up and getting personal, but even under the harsh lights of the parking deck, her excitement only makes Chelsea more beautiful.
“Really?”
“Clearly you’re not into that idea,” I tease. “I’ll walk you back upstairs and—”
Chelsea doesn’t let me finish. Laughing, she grabs my arm and starts shaking it. “No way! I’m starving. Please, Mason?”
“Are you absolutelysureyou want crêpes?” I ask.
“Mason,” Chelsea groans. “Yes!”
“Because we could do tacos. I hear there’s a great taco truck we should try.”
Chelsea stares at me, feigning shock. “Mason Brandt, did you just make a joke?”
“Unlikely. I’ve been told I have no sense of humor.”
Chelsea throws her head back and laughs, making me feel like I just accomplished something massive rather than making a tiny joke.
“Just give me a sec to message my mom or she’ll keep calling,” I tell her.
I type out a text to my mom, telling her I’m so sorry but I can’t help tonight. I add that I hope she feels better and offer to pick up groceries for her later in the week.
Groceries that have a zero percent alcohol content, but I don’t say that.
Then, I turn off my phone and hold out my arm to Chelsea. She stares at it, then up at my face.
“I picked this move up from Damon,” I tell her. “I thought it was pretty smooth. Especially when contrasted with the fabric of his unisuit.”
Laughing again, this time with the added bonus of her little snort, Chelsea hooks her arm through mine.
“That’s two jokes in one night! What else have you been hiding under this strong and silent exterior?” Chelsea asks.
A lot. But I’m making headway, slow and steady, toward hiding less of myself, toward showing more of myself. I lead us toward the stairwell, loving the feel of Chelsea on my arm. This is where she belongs. I only hope she feels the same way. Based on the way she’s clutching me and leaning in, plus all the moments this week, I’m almost certain she does.
Why have I been fighting this so long?
Right—John. The best friend who might murder me—or, at the very least, exact some kind of creative and painful vengeance—if he saw us together right now. Especially considering his most recent dating scheme. I’m clearly not the man he sees Chelsea with, for whatever reason.
And you know what? He’s going to have to get over that.
“This was your move first,” Chelsea says. “You did this the night we decorated the tree.”
“That’s right, I did.”
“And please tell me you didn’t pick up anything else from Damon. Especially not anything to do with the digestive system.”
“Definitely not. But … I did start looking for a crocheted unisuit. You wouldn’t believe how hard they are to find in my size.”
Chelsea’s laughter echoes through the stairwell as we climb to the ground level. She leans her head on my shoulder, and I allow myself to believe that maybe we’re finally moving toward the relationship I’ve wanted but have been afraid to hope for.
CHAPTER13
Chelsea
Masonand I walk in comfortable silence to the nearby food truck park. Have I mentioned the number one best feature of John’s apartment is walking distance to a food truck with crêpes? A noticeable percentage of my paycheck is going to end up right here.
I keep my arm linked through Mason’s, because there is no going back. Nope. I’m holding firmly to every inch of forward motion I gain. This arm is now mine, even if it’s still technically attached to his body. Which is, you know, where it belongs and all that.
