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The waitress who brings it is different from the one who took our order; older, with at least three coats of mascara emphasizing tired eyes. She bats those eyelashes at Mase as she asks to take a selfie with him. Mase agrees as if it’s an everyday occurrence.
His life is so different from mine.
Mase greets strangers like they’re friends with an ease that is completely foreign to me. I get nervous when I have to call the cable company.
He’s in the public eye, both family and career. Everything he does is documented on social media. I can go a week without checking my Facebook account, going for days without talking to anyone at work.
“Pancakes and beer are the best,” he says after the impromptu photo shoot is over. “I’m due at spring training next Friday, so I’m making the most of it.” He lifts his glass. “I usually limit these.”
At least it’s nice to know he doesn’t have a drinking problem. Anyone keeping track tonight would wonder. “Where is spring training?” Should I know this? Is this common knowledge?
“Fort Myers. Florida.”
“You live in Florida?”
“Only for a month or so.”
“Where do you usually live?” A yawning pit of unease opens within me as I stare at the stranger across the table, the stranger I’ve agreed to marry. The ring on my finger is suddenly impossibly heavy and I set my hand on the table with enough force for my teacup to shake in the saucer.
“I have a place in Minneapolis where I stay during the season. The family lives outside San Fran—”
“The family,” I echo. “They live in San Francisco. That’s near here.”
“It is, but I’m not there much. I can settle anywhere. I’m pretty open.” Mase wipes the ring of condensation off the table. “You like Toronto?”
“I work there,” I say in a careful voice. He doesn’t even live in the same country. He has more than one home. “It’s my home.”
His blue eyes meet mine and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing I am: What the hell are we doing?
“I’m sure I’ll like it too.” His voice is all forced joviality, like I’m one of his fans. “Grayson’s there, and Emmett…”
“Mase…”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. Neither of us say anything for long minutes. “I know this is a lot,” he says finally. “I’ma lot.”
He’s giving me an out, as clear as if he’s opened the door of the restaurant for me. And I would be lying if I said there isn’t a part of me that didn’t want to run.
But there’s another part, the part deep down that is more than intrigued with Mase. Why does he think he’s a lot? A lot of what? Trouble? Heartache?
I can see that, but there’s more to him. He’s a lot of something that might be very good for me.
Or might be very bad.
“I’m always up for a challenge,” I tell him in a quiet voice.
“I think you are,” he says softly. Before he says anything else, the waitress who took our order brings our food with the same eager expression as the earlier woman. She asks for a picture before the plates are even laid before us.
Of course Mase agrees.
“That’s a lot of food,” I marvel when she’s gone. Pancakes for Mase, with a side of scrambled eggs and a bowl of oatmeal. A separate plate holds bacon and sausages.
My toast and eggs seem so insignificant compared to his spread.
“Truth?” Mase snags a piece of crispy bacon. “I get really hungry when I’m nervous. Or I throw up. It’s really a toss-up which one it’ll be.”
I lean away from the table. “You’re going to throw up?”
He chews the bacon thoughtfully, then takes a sip of his beer. “Think I’m good,” he decides, patting his stomach. “Seems pretty solid.”
