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“Is he angry with you?”
Mase leans back in the booth and stares at the ceiling. “Is my grandfather angry with me? Ah, saved by the alcohol.” He’s suddenly full of smiles as the waitress sets down two Alabama Slammers in sippy cups and a bottle of chilled Grey Goose. Before she leaves, Mase holds up his hand as he takes a long swallow. “That’s tasty,” he says with a grin. “We’re going to need two more of those.”
“You can tell from one mouthful?”
“I’m a thirsty lad. Rescuing fair maidens requires constant re-hydration.”
“I didn’t need rescuing.”
“And I don’t like to feel useless, so humour me, will you?”
I study him as I sip my drink. Mase finishes his, then peels off the lid and pours a healthy shot of vodka in the cup. “So, is he?” I ask again, swerving back to the previous subject.
He tosses back the shot, then pours another. “Is who what?”
“Your grandfather. Is he angry with you?”
“I might need a couple dozen Slammers to get into that,” he says ruefully.
I wonder if many people get to see this side of Mase. Honest and almost vulnerable. Open. At least open-ing.
Or maybe everyone gets to see him like this and I’m silly to feel special. “What’s it like, living the way you do?” I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until Mase looks at me with an expression of surprise. “Sorry. That’s rude.”
“That’s real,” he corrects. “The world thinks of me as a spoiled brat playing at baseball and loves to make fun of me, but no one has ever asked what it’s like being a Stirling.”
“But you’re not like that,” I decide.
Mase smiles warmly, without an ounce of flirtation. “I could be,” he says. “I could be one of those pseudo-celebrities, famous for my cars and my boats and my parties, living the high life off Grandfather’s money, but someone up there—” —he pulls his chain out of his shirt, kisses the shiny gold medallion, and lifts it to eye level— “decided to give me enough talent to make it on my own.”
“Are you religious?” I wonder.
“I’m notnotreligious,” he says as he offers me the vodka bottle. I shake my head, and he refills his cup. “I believe in a bunch of things. But I am superstitious. A lot of ball players are. You have to rely on something so you don’t get stuck in your head that you suck.”
“You don’t suck. I don’t know much about the sport, but I can’t imagine you sucking at anything.”
“My batting average and my inflated salary tells me I don’t suck, but sometimes the head won’t listen to things like that.”
Mase is nothing what I expected. I took one look at him and assumed the worst—that he was the same type of playboy as he described. Another lesson not to judge people. I should know that by now—I’m judged every day. Soft and sweet, and needing to be taken care of. The strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes mask my intelligence. If I had a nickel for every dumb blonde comment, I’d have as much money as Grandfather Gordon.
“So what’s your story?” Mase asks.
“I don’t have a story.”
“Everyone has a story. For some, it’s a little harder to get to the good stuff.”
“Are you implying I don’t have good stuff?”
The way his eyes fall on me mesmerizes me for a moment, holding me spellbound as I watch those lips form words. “I think all your stuff is very, very good.”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
Mase rears back with surprise. “But I like to flirt.”
“But I don’t know how to deal with it. Talk to me like you’re a normal person and not like you’re trying to get into my pants. Because we both know you’re not. You’re just being nice for some strange reason.”
“Is that what you think? Because that’s a story in itself.” He leans closer. “You’re right. I’m not trying to get into your pants.” He pauses and my heart plummets. “Because you’re not wearing pants.” He reaches down and plucks a handful of fabric of my dress, his thumb brushing my thigh and sending a forest fire of heat along my leg.
It’s an innocent touch, but it suddenly doesn’t feel like that. Neither does the way Mase drags his gaze back up to mine.
