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“Me too.” Ruby piped up.
Mason gives me a baffled look. “Do you actually eat burgers and fries?”
I squint at him in puzzlement. “Who doesn’t?”
“Every girl I’ve ever dated. The Manhattan female lives off air and a single salad leaf per day. With vinegar dressing, no oil. It’s a scientific fact.”
“Booo.” Ruby gives him two thumbs down.
“Check your science,” I scoff. “And you don’t date; you sleep around.”
“I dated.” Mason hesitates. “Once.”
“One failed relationship with a model does not inform you on how the average woman eats. I’m getting hungry, now that you’re talking about burgers. Feed me, Seymour.”
“Seymour Butts.” Ruby squeals and starts laughing hysterically. No, having a little sister isn’t embarrassing at all.
I groan. “Did we not retire that joke when we were in grade school?”
Mason is watching us, looking amused. And maybe a little wistful? As far as I could tell from reading his bio, he doesn’t have any siblings.
He walks away to place the order and Ruby gets up to make dinner for Puck. Half an hour later, just as Ruby is returning from walking Puck, our dinner arrives.
Mason tips the delivery guy and takes the plastic bag from him, and we move to the dining room. Yes, Mason’s penthouse apartment actually has a dining room. A long sturdy wooden table with a distressed finish is surrounded by a mix of industrial-style metal chairs. Above the table, a chandelier with Edison bulbs in metal cages adds a touch of edgy elegance.
The décor isn’t terrible. I’m just dying to run through the apartment and add greenery, colorful accents, and some personal pictures. Nothing of Mason’s quirky, funny personality shows here, and that’s a shame.
Mason proves to be a decent host, setting out craft beer and putting our dinner on gray-speckled plates. He’s also ordered a burger and fries for himself.
“Bon appétit, ladies,” he says, as he sits at the head of the table and digs in.
I nod at him. “Well, thank you, kind sir. The burger is delicious. It’s still not getting you out of wearing your next costume, though.”
“I would be disappointed if my evil nemesis suddenly turned good.” Mason shrugs.
“By the way, the name Puck is ridiculous for a dog,” Ruby says. “Thank you for dinner, though.”
“I actually like the name,” I inform her. “I endorsed it enthusiastically. Ew, you’re making me stick up for Mason. Don’t.”
Mason chews and swallows some fries, washing it down with some beer. “What would you have named her?”
Ruby shoots me a smirking look. “I’m more interested in why Rowan thought the name was okay. I thought she would’ve named it Iron Henry.”
“What?” Mason perks up, looking way too interested.
Oh, no. We aren’t going to get personal. I’m already spending too much time thinking of Mason, who does not get to live rent-free in my head. “We’re not sharing stories. Time for us to go,” I tell Ruby, standing up.
Mason stands up too. “I suggest we play a game of quarters. Me versus the girls. If you win, I won’t ever ask about it again. When if I win, you have to tell the story.”
I hesitate.
Mason gives me an evil grin. “Unless you guys are chicken.” He flaps his arms and struts across the kitchen. “Buk buk buk buk.”
“Stop that,” I say. So of course he does it louder. “Arrrgh.” I cry out. “Is this my punishment for the rooster costume?”
“Buk, buk, buk ...” He struts and flaps. Ruby howls with laughter.
“Fine. If you stop doing that, I will play quarters with you.” I shout. Anything to stop Mason’s demonic clucking.
