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He chuckled, and then we were both silent for a moment. I wished I were there with him, next to him—taking in his scent and feeling the warmth of his touch. When I closed my eyes, I could almost see his face—his sweet grin and the twinkle in his ocean blue eyes. And—fuck me—that magnificent hair.
Finally, he broke the silence, saying, “All right, well, I’ve got to go read Go Dog Go for the ninetieth time, probably.”
“I’ve got a copy of that in the classroom, too—I’ll set it aside for you to read to the kids Wednesday.”
“Don’t you dare.”
I laughed as I said, “Goodnight, Mason.”
“Goodnight, Kendall.”
God, I wanted him.
chapter twelve
mason
When Kendall asked me to delete her naked pictures from my phone, I followed her orders. Her fears that Finley might see them could safely subside.
But those pictures were forever etched in my mind, especially the one she’d taken in front of the mirror with all the roundest, softest parts of her on full display.
I couldn’t forget it.
It was such a persistent thought, in fact, I felt compelled to reach for my iPad and sketch that photo from memory the morning after we spoke on the phone. I pushed all of my freelance work aside, even forgetting about her fall festival t-shirt design for a while, and focused only on my illustration of Kendall. With each stroke of my Apple Pencil, I carefully duplicated every curve of her body, the subtle smirk on her lips, and the way her hair fell over the tops of her breasts.
When I zoomed out to admire the entire illustration, I felt myself getting hard as my eyes scanned every detail. This wasn’t quite as satisfying as the photo she’d sent me, and if I had it my way, I’d get to see the real deal in person. But this would suffice.
No more than three seconds after my hand slid down the front of my pants, I heard the horrifyingly familiar squeak of the door opening at the top of the stairs. The only other person home was my mother. Fucking great.
When my sister moved out for college, my parents let me move down to the basement and claim it as my space. At sixteen, I was living my best life—smoking weed undetected, inviting my friends over to jam in my living room, and sneaking girls in through the door that led to the patio. We all called it my “apartment” because, essentially, that’s what it was. I loved every aspect of living down there—except for one thing.
The basement door didn’t lock.
And there I was, ten years later, encountering the same problem: a door without a lock and a mom with no boundaries.
I was in my bedroom, but the door to the living area was open. “Mason?” I threw a blanket over myself as my mom began descending the stairs.
“I’m a little busy,” I hollered back, flipping the cover of my iPad shut. I reached for my laptop at the foot of the bed to pull it toward me. “Can we talk later?”
“I’m bringing some of Finley’s toys down!” More footsteps. “I nearly broke my neck tripping over the toys she left on the dining room rug, Mase. You’ve got to have that girl pick up after herself.”
I sighed. “Just throw them in the—”
I heard the sound of the toys being dropped into Finley’s toy box in the living room. I assumed that would be the end of our conversation, but my mom continued, saying, “You’re lucky I picked those up before the housekeeper got here.” And then she appeared at my doorway. “You know how I hate it when there’s still clutter out when she arrives.”
“Yeah, how humiliating.”
“If that girl drags toys out in the morning, you’ve gotta make sure she picks them up before school,” my mom said, putting one hand on her hip and looking around my bedroom, which was still mostly bare. Many of my possessions—my books, keepsakes, and winter clothes—remained in boxes in the closet, because this living arrangement was meant to be more temporary than this. Before Finley and I moved in, this was a guest bedroom—vacant for 51 weeks out of the year, only occupied by my sister and her family when they stayed at Christmastime. And though Finley and I had been there for a few months, it looked nearly the same, aside from a few of my belongings collecting on the bedside table.
And it was neat, just like our living area and kitchenette. I did my best to clean up after myself and teach Finley the same standards. Surely my mom could see that as she looked around? I wanted to call her out for nitpicking, but in an attempt to cut this interaction short, I said, “Sorry—I’ll make sure she picks up next time.”
Both hands were on her hips now. “You look like you just woke up. What’d you do, fall asleep after you dropped Fin off at school?”
I inhaled. “Yeah. She had a rough time getting to sleep last night. And look, I really need to—”
“Your Aunt Michelle said Owen’s up every day at seven, hitting the gym before he starts writing. He’s working on his second book, did you know that? I still need him to sign the first one for me. Think I could take it to their wedding for him to sign?” She stopped talking to laugh at her own joke, finally giving me a chance to speak.
“I could probably write a book, too, if I weren’t constantly interrupted.” I held my mom’s gaze so she would get the point.
