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First, an arm. But I’ve got my sights set on his heart and all the rest of him.
The temperature has dropped a bit, just one more reason to be glad I said no to riding on Damon’s scooter thingy. I just hope my hands maintain enough circulation and warmth to navigate a Nutella crêpe from the plate to my mouth. I’m thankful for the excuse it gives me to burrow a little closer to Mason.
“Thanks for taking pity on me,” I say, and Mason’s head whips toward me. He’s frowning.
“The last thing I feel for you is pity, Chels.”
If pity is the last thing he feels, what is the first thing?
WHAT IS THE FIRST THING, MASON?
It’s all I can do to resist grabbing him by his coat collar and shaking the answer out of him.
We reach the food truck park, which is fairly crowded despite the chill in the air. Thankfully, there are outdoor heaters near the turquoise-painted picnic tables. Mason and I settle in across from each other, our shoes crunching against the gravel. The sound carries a nostalgic comfort, reminding me of home and of childhood. Strings of lights overhead illuminate the space, giving it a cheerful but romantic vibe.
Even more than our Christmas decorating night, this feels like a date.
Mason pays with zero hesitation. He didn’t so much as glance over to gauge my response. No discussion of going Dutch. No questions. He simply handed over his credit card like a boss. I love the decisiveness.
When I sit down at one of the picnic tables, Mason sits beside me, scooting close until we’re almost touching. How am I supposed to eat with his warmth, his scent, hiswhole personthis close to me?
Mason sees my fork hesitating above my plate. “Eat,” he says.
And with his soft, simple command, I do.
I’m so distracted by everything Mason that I barely taste my s’mores crêpes. My senses are all too focused onhim.
“Thank you for paying.” I cut through the outside of my crêpe with a plastic fork. “You didn’t need to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
“Well, thanks. It’s very sweet of you.”
Mason sets his fork down and dips his head a little until our eyes meet. Then he reaches between us and takes my hand. His fingers are warm and strong, sending a flare of heat exploding through me. It’s a warning, an intense glow, a beacon all once.
“I bought you two crêpes,” he says. “It was less than twelve dollars. That is a small thing. I hate that you’re used to guys who don’t appreciate you or make you feel so surprised by small gestures. You deserve so much more than what you’ve had to settle for.”
I swallow, my throat hot and tight with emotion.Wow.The man may not speak much, but when he decides to really go for it, Mason GOES FOR IT.
“Okay?” he asks.
I nod, giving him a small smile as I somehow manage to blink back happy tears. “Okay.”
He gives my hand one last squeeze, then lets go and digs into his food. It takes me a minute to adequately pull myself together. A fortifying bite of my s’mores crêpe helps.
I point my fork at Mason’s crêpes, which are some kind of steak and cheese monstrosity. I don’t mind a good Philly cheese steak, but on a sandwich. This seems like crêpe blasphemy.
“For the record, I think savory crêpes should be eradicated from the crêpe family.”
Mason gives me a closed-mouth smile around a big bite. I’m totally not staring at his mouth as he chews. Is chewing supposed to be sexy? It absolutely is when it’s Mason.
To keep myself from melting into a puddle, I remind myself that another word for chew ismasticate.
Yep. That word sucks all the sexy out of the moment.
Mason swallows and licks his lips. Okay—it suckedmostof the sexy out of the moment.
“Maybe my savory balances out your sweet. We make a good pairing, don’t you think?”
