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“Oh my God. Could you possibly be any more aggravating?” I scold him as “Macarena” plays for the fourth or possibly the fifth time.
“Yes.” His eyes glint with challenge. “Strawberry, I’m just getting started.”
Two can play at that game. I smile with malice. “Well, then I can’t wait to show you your new costume.”
He gives me a big, innocent blink. “Are you sure you want to go this route? I can be a real bastard when I put my mind to it.”
“Put your mind to it? Pretty sure it’s just an involuntary reflex on your part.” I fish around in my purse, looking for my earbuds. Which, of course, I’ve forgotten at home.
I roll down the window and stick my head out the window, letting the highway noise drown out some of the music, breathing in exhaust fumes as we drive.
“That’s really not healthy for you,” Mason calls out, fake concern lacing his voice. In response, I put both hands over my ears.
Several hundred centuries later, we arrive at the hospital and double-park in the back as instructed. I climb out of the car and haul the bag out. Fortunately, it has wheels. I maneuver it towards the back doors, where several reporters are already waiting for us.
“Mason, who are you dressing up as today?” a woman yells. That’s excellent. Word has gotten around about the costumes, and it’s gained the media’s attention, just like I hoped.
“It’s a surprise.” he calls back, flashing the famous Mason Raker grin. It’s a panty-melter, all right. I’m not even in its direct path, and I feel myself growing slightly damp.
But then I remember “Macarena,” and how I’ll never get that song out of my head.
“Sure is.” I add brightly. “A really fun surprise.”
As I hurry ahead, he jogs after me and jostles me, almost making me lose my grip on the bag’s handle. “Sorry. I’m so clumsy.”
Right. The NHL’s best forward is clumsy.
I accidentally run over his foot. “Excuse me.” I sing out. “My, you are clumsy.”
We make our way into the hospital, “accidentally” jostling each other and apologizing in cheerful, sincere voices as we walk.
“If you tell me what’s in the bag, I’ll give you a signed copy of my Joxx underwear catalog,” he says, as an assistant swiftly escorts us to a conference room.
“I would think you’d know me well enough by now to realize that’s the opposite of an incentive for me. But it’s time for you to change, so I’ll show you for free.” I unzip the bag and reveal a Scrooge McDuck costume.
“What the pucking hell?”
“You’ve earned this one.”
He gives me a puzzled look.
“Our last hospital meetup? When I begged you to part with a few pennies for the kids?”
Mason frowns at me and shakes his head. “You’ve got that all wrong. I’d already written a check before you arrived. That’s why I got there early.”
That leaves me momentarily speechless. And it doesn’t fit with the picture I’ve formed of Mason Raker at all.
Then again, aren’t I guilty of stereotyping him the way everyone else did? The truth is, I don’t really know him that well. I know that he’s funnier than people give him credit for, that he struggled with alcohol addiction, that he drowns his problems in women and bourbon, and that he had some kind of issue with his dad that causes him pain ... but I didn’t know the real him.
He shoots me a scowl as he grabs the Scrooge McDuck costume.
“Why didn’t you let me know about the contribution, so I could write it up for the press?”
Mason makes a face, like he’s just tasted something sour. “I don’t need recognition for doing the right thing,” he grumbles.
Is he kidding? “Actually, you do. You need all the help you can get.”
“That’s a nope. Big heaping of nope-aroni and cheese.”
