“Well,” she said, stepping back, “have fun with… whatever the hell this tension is.”
Then she wandered off again before I could evaporate on the spot.
Silence.
I stared hard into my drink.
Mason rubbed a hand over his jaw slowly.
“She’s drunk.”
“Okay.”
“That wasn’t—”
“I literally do not care.”
He went quiet.
Because we both knew that was bullshit.
Music pounded through the apartment walls while tension stretched tighter between us.
Then Mason stepped closer.
Not much.
Enough.
“You jealous, Hayes?”
I looked up immediately.
“Please.”
One side of his mouth lifted slightly.
That almost-smile again.
“You looked jealous.”
“You look delusional.”
“Could be both.”
God.
I should’ve walked away then.
Instead I said:
“You flirt with every girl this much?”
Mason held my gaze for a second too long.
“No.”
And somehow that answer felt worse than if he’d admitted yes.
