I reach for my chair, but Mason beats me to it, dragging it back with a low screech against the floor.
“Such a gentleman,” I tease, easing myself onto the seat.
He pushes me in, grinning like he’s proud of himself. Then he sits across from me, the candlelight catching his golden curls. He picks up a wing, inspecting it suspiciously.
“What is this? Looks like a chicken wing.”
“Cauliflower wings,” I say.
His eyes widen. “Thisis cauliflower? The lumpy white vegetable?”
I chuckle. “Yeah. Cauliflower is delicious.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He dunks the wing into the ranch, coating it until it’s dripping, and pops it into his mouth. His eyebrows lift in slow surprise. “Holy fuck,” he moans.
I smirk. “Told you I could make vegetables taste good.”
We eat together with an ease that feels almost effortless, laughing and talking between bites. I catch myself watching the way his eyes flutter shut with each slow, savoring chew. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed this—cooking for someone else, sharing food that isn’t eaten in silence. Back when Travis and I lived together, making dinner for him was always my favorite part of the day.
Mason polishes off another wing as he tells me about his day, his voice softening when he mentions his sister’s report card—two A’s and four B’s. Pride glows in his eyes as he explains how he surprised her with merch from her favorite boyband as a reward.
He sounds like the kind of brother I wish I had. That easy protectiveness, that instinct to keep someone safe and happy. It makes something in my chest ache.
When we’re done eating, he doesn’t even hesitate—just stacks the plates, carries them to the sink, and starts washing despite my protests.
“Sit,” he orders, pointing to the couch. “You’ve done enough.”
When he finally returns, he wipes his soapy hands on his jeans before flopping down next to me, legs spread wide in a way that makes my pulse stumble. The way he takes up space unapologetically is so attractive.
“Thanks for dinner,” he says, rubbing a slow circle over his stomach. “It was delicious.”
“You’re welcome. I hope the ranch met your standards.”
“It did. And I have really high standards.”
“Mhm,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “If I remember correctly, I was promised dessert in exchange.”
He smirks, leaning in. “Impatient, hm?”
I scrunch my nose at him. “Shut up. I just cooked you dinner. You’re not allowed to make fun of me.”
He chuckles, then cups my face and kisses me. Slow, unhurried, but deep enough to make my toes curl. The faint taste of white wine lingers between us.
His hand drifts to my back, tracing down my spine until it rests at the hem of my shorts. He palms my ass through the denim—greedy, possessive—and I can’t hold back the moan it drags out of me.
“You’re so beautiful,” Mason murmurs, voice low and rough. The sincerity in it makes me squirm.
“Bedroom?” I pant.
“Yeah,” he growls.
Before I can stand, he’s lifting me—hands under my thighs, pulling me into him so my legs wrap around his waist. My arms hook around his shoulders instinctively.
“Jesus,” I mutter, heat rushing to my face. “I can walk, you know.”
“No,” he says firmly, like it’s not up for debate.
He carries me up the stairs without even breaking a sweat. I kiss along his neck, biting lightly at the skin. His fingers dig into my ass, holding me tighter, until we reach my room.
