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“Probably.” Mason rakes his long fingers through his hair, tousling the dark, silky strands as he peers into my container. “So, you’re feeding me now? At work? Nice. I feel special.”
“Yes, special. So special, you are.” I placatingly pat his hand. Then I shove a heaping plate at him. I won’t bother to tell him that I’m feeding him my bestie’s sloppy seconds. Or Felix’s sloppy thirds.Or Yvonne’s sloppy…Never mind.
He chuckles, eagerly picking up a fork. “So what clause of our treaty covers this, exactly?”
“Hmm.” I tap the corner of my lip as I lower into one of the chairs across from him. “I don’t know. I feel like we’re at the point where I don’t need permission from the treaty to do something nice for my roommate.”
His mouth swings into a smile. “Oh, really?”
“Really,” I say, my confidence growing.
Mason pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Wait. So does that mean we’re…friends?”
“Okay, let’s not push it,” I snort.
Now, he looks offended. “What? You don’t wanna be my friend? Why not?” Then he smirks knowingly. “It’s because you’ve secretly got the hots for me, isn’t it?”
My laugh is loud. And fake fake fake. “Keep dreaming.”
He leans across the table, a wicked smile spreading across his face. “Oh, come one. I can admit that you’re cute. Why can’t you do the same?”
My heart flutters when he says that.He thinks I’m cute! He thinks I’m cute!The little cheerleader inside my chest does a pep squad routine.
Wait—where’s that part of me that’s always pissed off at getting objectified by guys?
Trying to play it cool, I hold up a finger to stop him. “Wait, wait, wait. Saying that I have the hots for you and saying that I think you look…good…are two entirely different things.”
He rubs his big hands together. “Ooh! So now you admit that I look good? We’re getting somewhere.”
Throwing my head back, I groan. “My god. You’re impossible.” I point my fork at him. “Hmm. Maybe you’re projecting. I think it’s pretty obvious that you’re in love with me.”
We eat together, talking and flirting and laughing the whole time. Or at least, I think he’s flirting.
I’m still trying to figure Mason Westbrook out. Is he this friendly with everyone? Or is it just me...? And that thing he does where he undresses me with his eyes—am I imagining that? Right now, I’m not sure of anything. All I know is I’ve got a big ass smile splitting my face and I’m giggling at every word he says and I’m trying to remember who the fuck am I anymore.
Before I can figure it out, we hear a scream from the reception area.
“The fuck…?” Mason’s head snaps toward the doorway.
Dropping our forks, we both rush out of his office and down the hall.
In the waiting room, there’s a small group of patients huddled near the reception desk. We find Yvonne standing over a puddle of water and moaning deliriously as she cradles her rounded belly.
Holy shit!
Cocky Intern Dude—his name was Todd, right?—is puking into the printer paper tray and mumbling incoherently. “Yvonne’s…Yvonne’s water…is breaking…breaking…everywhere.” He hunches over and pukes some more.
I elbow the useless man out of the way, getting into the middle of the action. “Is she…?” I stutter at the scene unfolding before us.
Another shrill scream sends the poor woman to her knees.
“She is definitely in labor!” Mason confirms, darting forward to catch her before she hits the floor. “Call the obstetrician. Tell her to get back here ASAP.”
I rush to the receptionist’s chair, quickly find the number for Dr. Clifford, and make the call. Then I call again. And again.
“She’s not answering!” I shout.
“Call Felix then.” With one hand on Yvonne’s belly and an eye on his watch, Mason is carefully timing the contractions. Considering how grim his face is, and how often the receptionist keeps screaming, I’m guessing these contractions are concerningly close together.
