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I’m infinitely glad Mom keeps quiet. At least, for now. She’s hadplentyto say since the moment Mason and I walked into her house holding hands. She actually burst into tears, so I guess this is an improvement?
“It’s so nice to have someone who isn’t vertically challenged to help us take down the tree,” Mom says.
“Hey,” I protest, but not too much, because the look Mason gives me says he doesn’t mind my height.
“It’s also nice to see Chelsea with a boyfriend I approve of,” Mom continues.
I groan and drop my head in my hands. “Could we not make this a big deal?”
“No promises,” she says airily. “I’m going to grab more black-eyed peas. If any kissing happens to take place while I’m gone …”
“Mom!”
Her laughter echoes from the kitchen, and the whole couch shifts as Mason sits down beside me, gently pulling my hands away from my face. I try to hide my burning cheeks by sticking my head between my knees, but Mason pulls me into his lap.
My cheek falls against his chest, and he rests his chin on my head. I fit here like I was made to exist in this space, like my specifications were laid out in exact relation to Mason’s. I could stay here all day.
“So, what’s this about us not being a big deal?” he teases.
I swat at his arm, then decide to keep my hand there. The topography is quite lovely this time—andalltimes—of year.
“I just wanted my mom to stop embarrassing me.”
He gasps. “You’re embarrassed of me?”
“Mason. You know what I mean.”
“I do.” He chuckles, tugging gently at my ponytail to release my messy bun. As he begins dragging his fingers through my hair, lightly massaging my scalp, my eyes flutter closed. He kisses the top of my head and I breathe him in. I’d like to make Mason’s scent into one of those little tree air fresheners. An exclusive line, sold only to me. And shaped like Mason, not a tree.
“Forget helping my mom,” I say, then yawn. “Just keep doing this forever, please.”
He rumbles an assent and continues playing with my hair. If he keeps this up, I’m going to fall asleep in his lap. Which isn’t theworstidea in the world. So long as I could sleep through whatever comments my mom will make.
We got home from the hospital last night at three in the morning. The ball dropped in Times Square while we watched from the waiting room next to a man with a head wound he said came from an overly amorous parrot. Whateverthatmeans.
Mason and I high-fived at midnight, since kissing was clearly out. Later, I found a salt packet in an unattended break room and used it to exfoliate my lips raw and remove all traces of cloves.
Bad move. Now my lips are pink and chapped, looking worse than Mason’s, which I’m happy to report made a full recovery.
Apparently, Mason’s clove allergy isn’tthatbad. By the time a doctor saw him, the swelling was all but gone. We left the hospital with a recommendation to take some Benadryl and see a doctor if the allergy worsens.
Oh, and all the ice cream melted in the backseat of his car.
As far as my week of dating disasters goes, I’ll rank last night a solid nine on the disaster scale, ten being the most disastrous. The hospital visit and near-fatal kiss surpass annoying otters and fountain mishaps. It would be a ten except I’m still dating Mason.
So, notquitea ten.
Even if I might have light PTSD about kissing him again.
“Do you need a nap?” Mason nuzzles my cheek, brushing his lips down my jaw.
Actually, just kidding. I think I'm over my kissing fear. Kissing soundsgreat.
“Desperately,” I say.
“Once we finish helping your mom, how about we head home, settle you in on the couch with a movie, and I’ll rub your head until you fall asleep.”
“Sounds dreamy. But instead of a movie, we’ll start withParks and Rec. We’ve got seven seasons to catch you up on.”
