I change outfits three times, and nothing seems to feel right. I want to look effortless—but nottooeffortless. I land on an oversized T-shirt tucked into cropped jeans.
By the time there’s a knock at my door, I’ve paced the living room so much I can see my footprints embedded in the plush rug like tire tracks.
I take a deep breath, open the door, and there he is.
God, he looks like one of those ridiculously ripped models from cologne ads. He’s wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a sleeveless tank top. His curls are extra bouncy today. I wonder if he puts any product in it.
Probably not. He’s the kind of guy who’s effortlessly attractive without trying.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and warm.
“Hey.”
He steps inside, his gaze skimming over me slowly. “You smell good,” he says, already closing the distance.
He kisses me slow and easy, like we’ve got nowhere else to be. And maybe we don’t for once. Maybe we can take our time with this.
When we pull apart, I motion toward the couch. “You want to sit down? I can grab us something to drink.”
Mason drops onto the cushions and props his feet up on the coffee table. “Sure. Surprise me.”
In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of wine from the fridge and take a few extra seconds to collect myself. I pour two glasses, hands shaking. I stare at one of the half-filled glasses, twirling the stem mindlessly.
I want to believe he actually finds me attractive. I want to believe I’m not just the closest warm mouth or a convenient escape from his stress, but the fear still gnaws at me relentlessly.
When I return, Mason’s leaning forward, squinting at one of the potted plants on the windowsill.
“Younameyour plants?“ he asks.
I freeze in my tracks. He’s inspecting the labeled wooden popsicle stick lodged into the soil.
“Um. Yes.”
He laughs. “Why is this one calledTaylor Swift?”
“It’s an ivy plant,” I say as if it’s obvious. “Hedera helix.She has a song called ‘Ivy.’”
He snickers, taking the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing mine in the process. “You’re adorable.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m not ashamed to like girly pop music.”
His grin softens as he leans in and presses a quick kiss to the tip of my nose. “I’d never make fun of you.”
He lifts his glass, takes a slow sip, and smacks his lips together with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “This is good,” he muses, pretending to analyze the flavor like a wine connoisseur.
I hum, sitting down next to him on the couch, close enough that our knees knock together. “It’s from my favorite winery back home—Brackett Hill Vineyards.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Home as in Detroit, or Shelby Harbor?”
“Shelby Harbor,” I answer quickly. “Detroit hasn’t felt like home in a while.”
“Shelby Harbor has some great wineries and breweries,” he says, seeming to reminisce as he stares into his glass, swirling the maroon liquid.
I narrow my eyes. “How wouldyouknow? You weren’t old enough to drink when you lived there.”
He smirks. “Please. Everyone had a fake I.D. during their first couple years of college.”
I just stare at him.
