Mason follows right after.
Mason: We’re not looking to treat you like a one-night secret. We want to know the girl who bakes cinnamon rolls and handles angry bulls for a living.
I let out a shaky breath, heart pounding way too hard for a text conversation.
Mason: Say yes, sweetheart. Let us take you out. We’ll be gentlemen… mostly.
Mostly.
I put my phone down, telling myself I need to think, but what's there to think about? I know what I need to do. It might be very different from what I want to do, but duty trumps desire. My mother drummed that in early.
Deep down, I already know I’m going to say no, but I give myself the illusion of choice. The alternative is too depressing.
Saying no is the only option.
It was supposed to be one wild night, but Mason and Brookes Fletcher have already started working their way under my skin.
I have to cut this off before it hurts us all.
Chapter 6
Janey
My mom always sets the table as if she’s expecting company, even when it’s only the three of us.
The plates are centered. The cutlery is aligned. The napkins are folded with more care than anyone could reasonably need. Everything has its place, everything is controlled, and everything is exactly as it should be.
It used to comfort me.
Now it feels like I’m being measured.
“You’re late,” she says when I step into the dining room, her tone light enough on the surface, though there’s always a sharper message beneath it.
“Five minutes,” I reply, setting my bag down by the door.
“Five minutes becomes a habit if you let it.” She smooths an already perfect napkin, as though even the smallest wrinkle is a personal failing.
My dad glances up from his seat and offers me a small smile, one that doesn’t quite make it past my mother’s presence. “Good to see you, sweetheart.”
“You too.” I lean down to kiss his cheek before taking my seat.
Lunch smells wonderful. Roast chicken and vegetables, warm and familiar that ought to make me feel at ease.
Instead, I feel off.
Tired, mostly, with a strange heaviness that sits behind my eyes and sinks into my limbs. I feel as if I haven’t slept properly, even though I know I have.
“Are you eating enough?” my mother asks, watching me as I pick up my fork.
I blink at her. “Yes.”
“You look pale.”
I do?
“I’m fine.”
She hums softly, clearly unconvinced. “You’ve been working too much. That clinic is demanding, and you’ve never known how to pace yourself.”
