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Fiona crosses her arms. “Of course. Look, you pulled me into the bathroom—are we really going to keep talking about this, or can you please kiss me now?”
I shut my mouth with an audible snap. “Kiss her, you doofus, or get out of the stall,” someone instructs from beyond the wall.
Fiona blinks up at me, so without any further need for an invitation, I slide my hand around the back of her neck and yank her towards me. “It’s about time,” she whispers just as my lips descend onto hers.
Her lipstick is pink plum tonight but it kisses as well as the red.
Maybe even better.
Chapter Eighteen
Fiona
Afterourmuch-neededandlong-overdue kiss in the men’s room—
Yech. I’ll deal with the trauma of that tomorrow.
—Mase is ready and pretty eager to take me back to the hotel.
“We can’t leave,” I tell him as he ushers me out of the stall to a chorus of cheers, hand back over my eyes.
“We can do whatever the hell we want,” Mase blusters. “Thanks, dude,” he adds as the door is opened for me, and I’m out of the foreign place, still with the faint but unfortunate chlorine and urine scents caught in my nose. “I own—actually, no. I don’t own this place. They tried to get me to invest, but I turned them down.”
“You don’t own it,” I clarify, whirling around to face him. “And note to self, I don’t find bathrooms even remotely romantic.” I punctuate my words with pokes of his chest.
His lovely muscular chest…
“I needed to kiss you and I didn’t want an audience,” Mase cries, a little loudly because heads turn. Luckily, this time no one recognizes him, but still.
“Maybe we should go back to the hotel,” I fret.
“Yes.” Mase grabs my hand again.
“Because we’re not going to be able to keep this a secret with the way you’re carrying on.” I really don’t want to have to tell Bexley tonight that we got married. I want her to have another night to focus on Grayson rather than me. “Can’t you hold on until tomorrow like we planned?”
“Can you?” he shoots back. “Darlin’ you were kissing me back just as much as I was kissing you.”
“Well… maybe.”
Mase laughs loudly. “You don’t have to look that guilty for enjoying it, you know?”
“I know…”
“Neverfeel bad for enjoying yourself. And I don’teverwant you to feel like I’m pushing you into anything,” he says with a strange intensity in his eyes.
“I don’t. I wouldn’t.” I place a hand on his chest, right over the thumping of his heart. It must be the margaritas and the show, plus the champagne and Alabama Slammers we had here, as well as the memory of last night that prompts me to continue “I want you, Mase. I wantthis.”
He bows his head. “Yeah,” he says heavily. “Me too. I’m sorry about Emelia.”
“There’s nothing foryouto be sorry about. Besides—” I puff up my chest, and yes, Mase’s attention goes straight there. “I handled her just fine.”
“You’re amazing,” he murmurs, and I want his arms around me more than anything.
“You might not think so after I tell you something,” I warn. “I was pulled up on the stage tonight.”
“At the strip—the exotic dancers?”
“Oh, is that what you’re calling them? Is that whereyouguys went tonight?”
