Page 11 of Fallen Hero

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and kept them there while I attempted to get myself under control before I lashed out and gave away too much.

“Are you counting?”

I rolled my eyes back to Mason. “What?”

“Counting. I heard some people count in their heads to find self-control.”

I hadn’t been counting, but now that my patience was slipping further, maybe I should’ve tried that. “I could count to a hundred and still want to dick slap you.”

Mason tipped his head to the side and smiled. “Dick slap?”

“It’s like a bitch slap except what you give a dick.”

That smile turned wicked. “Kinky.” He winked.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m not saying I want to smack your dick. I’m saying you’re a dick and I want to slap you.”

“You’re the one who brought my dick into it.”

Good God, why was I engaging?

I flipped him a middle finger to concede the conversation. I’d rather discuss Tom than Mason’s dick. As disturbing as that was, I wasn’t going to dissect why speaking about a man I loved to hate was better for my mental health than thinking about Mason’s boy parts.

“Now you’re just trying to turn me on,” Mason quipped.

“If you two are done with the Al and Peggy show, maybe we can get down to business,” Pete suggested.

That sounded like the best idea I’d heard all day.

But first . . .

“I’ve got better hair than Peg Bundy,” I pointed out. “And I’m not nearly as rude.”

Mason’s lips quirked. “But you admit you’re rude.”

I closed my eyes and did that counting thing Mason suggested. I got to six and abandoned the useless recommendation.

“You’re enjoying this,” I noted.

With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he made no reply. Which I guess was his reply, just the nonverbal kind. He was having fun talking me in circles and would gladly stand there all night and continue the annoying banter.

I had better things to do. That was, if showering and crawling into bed without dinner was considered better.

“Listen, I’m sure you all are tired after a long travel day, and I’m exhausted. How about we meet tomorrow for breakfast and I can properly apologize before you catch a plane back to the US. Like I said, I’ll make sure your travel expenses are covered.”

“Good you brought that up again. We booked the Royal Suite,” Mason shared. “It’s like the Presidential Suite, but with four private terraces instead of three.”

Goddamn Tom and Atlanta.

“Let me guess, you flew here first class too?”

“Do I look like I fit in economy?”

No, he didn’t. But I would love to see the big dumbass squished into economy. With his broad shoulders and tree-trunk legs, it would be an uncomfortably tight fit. Hopefully it would cause him back pain that lingered for days. The kind that made it hard to sleep. And a charley horse. Yes, there would be something so satisfying about seeing big bad Mason Hughes with a charley horse the size of a Clydesdale.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Fallon asked.

I hadn’t realized I was.