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I’ve just spat on Mason’s face.

He bursts out laughing. “Did you just spit on me?”

I take a step back, mortified. My face is a raging inferno, and I can’t believe I’m standing here in a dead-sexy outfit, trying to be all flirty and cool, and I ended up spitting on Mason’s head.

Brilliant.

He lifts his hand to his face, his fingertips wiping across his forehead, and I want to disappear. Preferably to somewhere far, far away from Mason.

Like Los Angeles. Or Antarctica.

“Okay, to be fair, you became one big cyclops. Just a big eyeball in my vision, and that was hilarious so—”

“Did I look like that character from Monsters Inc?”

I’m completely distracted by this question. “What?”

“Mike Wazowski. You know, round green alien, huge eyeball?” Mason uses both hands to form an eyeball shape, placing it in front of his forehead for demonstration.

I begin to relax a bit. “Yes. You looked like that. One big brown eyeball.”

Specifically, one gorgeous espresso-coloured eyeball, but I keep that more accurate description to myself.

“So you spit on me to try and win the staring contest?”

“No. I started laughing when you became one blurry eyeball, and I accidentally spit on you.”

“Do you always spit when you laugh?”

“No!”

His eyes lock in on mine with that same intense stare he gets when he’s in the cockpit. “Good. Because I’d hate to have to keep my distance from you, Catherine.”

Ooh! How can Mason go from teasing me to shifting gears completely and saying something that sounds hot and flirty in 0.5 seconds?

Butterflies dance in my stomach. I try to control them, but it feels impossible when he’s staring at me like this.

Mason inclines his head towards the door. “Come on. Let’s go. I’m starving, and this is a night I can eat what I want.”

I nod. I know this is Caleb’s favourite night of the week to eat because he doesn’t have to be so careful about what he consumes.

Mason walks with me to the door. We enter the lift, and suddenly the space feels far too small for both of us, as I’m so acutely aware of him.

When we reach the multi-storey car park, I see a Collings Motors luxury supercar parked in a visitor parking spot. He escorts me to the passenger side and lifts the door, as they open overhead.

Then I see it. In the luxurious leather passenger seat is a tiramisu Aero, wrapped with a gold ribbon.

My heart ricochets like mad against my ribs. Mason brought me an Aero. He remembered our conversation and made a point to bring me one as a gift.

And he put a ribbon on it.

I pause for a moment, hope rushing through my veins. Does that mean something?

Yes. It means he’s a thoughtful gift-giver. The end.

I pick up the chocolate and turn to smile at him. His hand is on the top of the door, and damn, he looks so fit standing over me like that. “Thank you. I’m so excited to try it.”

“You should open it and have a bite,” he says.