"Depending on the day, I can be quite hot-blooded." And then he almost-smiles, and it does something reckless to his face, softening the hard lines, shaving off about five years.
This does nothing to make my cheeks less pink. In fact, I'm somehow reminded of the jacket he wore that night at Carlo's.The one that ended up draped over my desk chair for three days before I returned it.
"You mean you're not a reptile?" I ask, leaning just a fraction closer to the center console.
"Only on alternate Tuesdays." He adjusts the rearview mirror like that's a perfectly normal thing to have said. "Rest of the week I'm warm-blooded. Ran around in a t-shirt every January as a kid. My mother thought I was broken."
We drive past the center of town, past the library, Maren's bakery, Elena's Creations. We keep going, past the rows of lake houses, toward the mountains. The road begins to curve, the truck tires humming a low pitch against the asphalt.
"Are we leaving Lakeview?" I ask.
"Nope."
"Are you kidnapping me?"
"Not today."
"Phewww." I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead theatrically. "Good to know you've ruled it out for now."
He makes a right turn onto a narrow road lined with mature oaks. The canopy is so thick it blocks the sun, casting everything in dappled green light. And then, tucked between the trees, I see something.
A small wooden building with a slate-blue roof and a gravel path leading to the entrance. No sign out front. Just a painted wooden panel beside the door with a single Asian character.
I turn to Mason. "What is this?"
He pulls into a small parking area made of gravel and grass and kills the engine. "It's a tea house."
I stare at the building. Then at him. Then at the building again.
"A tea house," I repeat.
"Yep."
I'm trying to reconcile this with the man sitting beside me. Mason, who tackled my ex-fiancé at Harper's engagement party.Who communicates primarily through monosyllables and the occasional grunt.
"This is not where I thought you were taking me," I admit, fiddling with the strap of my purse.
He rubs the back of his head. "Sorry—I know you like tea so—"
"I really do, I'm just—" I gesture at the building. "Trying to picture you in there with a tiny cup and I keep getting an error message."
"Well," he gets out of the truck. I follow. "You're about to see why it's very special."
The path to the entrance is lined with smooth river stones and moss. It's quiet here, the kind that makes you aware of your own footsteps. When we reach the door, Mason slides it open, and there's a neat row of bamboo slippers on a low shelf just inside.
Mason toes off his shoes. I kick off mine and step into a pair of slippers, and immediately lose about an inch and a half of height. Mason notices. His gaze travels from my feet to the top of my head, slow and deliberate.
He presses his lips together, and I can tell the almost-smile is fighting for its life in there.
"Don't do it," I warn him.
"Wasn't going to," he replies, a cheeky glint in his eyes.
Inside, the light is warm and dim. There's a long wooden counter in the back where an older woman in a deep green apron is arranging ceramic cups, and the air smells earthy, slightly sweet.
The woman looks up. Her face breaks into a smile.
"Mason." She says his name like she's been expecting him. "It's been a minute."
