Page 49 of Letting Go at 40

“Deep dish with sausage, green peppers and onions.” Mason repeats my order like a pro. Like he knows me. My mouth practically waters at the thought of cheese and spicy meat plus grilled vegetables in a deep-dish crust that melts on your tongue. “God, I miss Chicago.”

“Hmm…sounds delicious. What kind of cake?”

“I’m partial to spice cake but you can’t get that this time of year.”

“Oh God, you’re one of those pumpkin spice people,” he teases.

“Oh God, you’re one of those pumpkin spice haters,” I jest in return. “I guess, I’d probably have white chocolate with raspberry swirl cheesecake. Like the kind at The Cheesecake Factory. Although pizza and cheesecake is not good for my waistline.”

“Anna, I’ve told you before, you’re fucking gorgeous.”

The compliment has my belly fluttering.

“Now, tell me about the sex.” Mason’s tone is dead serious and aloof like a therapist.

“What sex?” I gasp.

“The sex you’d have on your birthday.”

“Oh, God,” I groan, chuckling at how ridiculous he is.

“Just talk me through it.”

“I . . . That’s dangerous.” What do I even say? Ben and I would have sex. Just sex.

Mason chuckles. “Okay never mind. A movie and sex. There is always Netflix and a vibrator.”

I shouldn’t be shocked at how cavalier he is about my predicament. And as long as the admissions are already spewing from my mouth, I don’t stop myself from what I say next. “I don’t own a vibrator.”

The heaviness that falls over the phone makes me wonder if Mason is still there. What feels like more than a minute, but was probably only seconds, passes before my name is a strangled sound through the device. “Anna.”

I tip my head back against the headboard and stare up at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t have said that. Thanks for calling and the—”

“Stop!” The sharpness of his command has my head popping upright. My breath hitches.

“Where are you right now?”

I hesitate before admitting more. “I’m in bed.”

“Jesus,” he hisses, and a rustling sound comes through the phone. “What are you wearing?”

Laughter rushes out of me as I choke on his name. “Mason.”

“What? You deserve birthday sex, and if you can’t have birthday sex, you definitely deserve birthday orgasms.”

I struggle again with his abruptness and cough while dismissing what he’s said. “It’s not my birthday yet.”

“Humor me,” Mason teases.

“I don’t . . . I should go.” I squirm on the mattress, tugging on the blanket over my legs. The evenings are still cool, but the days are warming up. The breeze off the lake hints of summer.

“You don’t touch yourself?” Mason sounds appalled and that’s my cue to end this call.

“I really need to—”

“Let me talk you through it.” His voice is low and intimate, asking permission while fully aware he would get it. He’s going to tell me what to do with my body.

His name is a groan in my head, but I don’t respond. My chest heaves. My breathing deepens. I curl my fingers into the blanket over my legs.