Misunderstanding Mason (3 page)

Kirstin threw
her hands into the air and flounced into the recliner. “Right. Like anyone
would wait until project completion. You know as well as I that the art has to
be paid for when it’s finished, regardless of when the overall project closes.”

She ran a
hand down the worn orange arm, and her frown morphed from angry to curious.
“Huh. This thing’s still intact? I thought you’d forgotten it was down there.”

Rounding the
bar, he entered the living room and shook his head. “Always knew exactly where
it was.”

Giving him a
grin, she looked up, her anger momentarily set aside. “Do you remember the
time—”

When she
abruptly stopped, Mason raised an eyebrow. “Which time?”

“Never mind.”
Sighing, Kirstin stood. “It’s not important now.” With a sad shake of her head,
she trailed her fingertips over the back of the chair. “Always kinda liked this
thing. It would match the couch if you reupholstered it.”

Mason stared,
speechless. She liked the thing? In all the time they’d been together, all
she’d ever done was complain about his orange plaid chair. It was ugly. It took
up too much space. It looked like something out of 1970.

“Anyway.” She
stuffed her hands into her back pockets, a posture that pushed her breasts
forward and accented the tight fit of her midriff top. “I need the work done.
I’ll pay you, as long as you’re okay with my doing so when Lisa settles her
bill.”

Mason
swallowed to wet his tightening throat. When that failed to work, he cleared
his voice. “All right.” Work… They were talking about work, not the perfect way
her breasts fit into his palms, or how much he liked the feel of her nipple
against his tongue. He went to the fridge in desperate need of a reason not to
face her. “Why don’t you come over in the morning, and we can work on the
details together.”

“Let me check
my calendar,” she said with the hint of laughter. “I seem to have sunbathing,
reading a book, and waiting on my cell to ring scheduled for most of the day.”

Despite his
current state of uncomfortable distraction, Mason chuckled. “How’s ten sound?”

“Sounds late
for you.”

“Yeah,” he
answered as he grabbed a beer and closed the fridge. “But you hate to get up.
And
—”
he twisted off the cap, “You’re a she-bear in the mornings.”

“Oh say it,
I’m a bitch in the mornings.” Her grin lit her eyes and offset the dimple in
her left cheek that he’d always adored.

Wisely, he
said nothing. Tipping his head back, he downed several deep gulps of malty
splendor. Maybe tonight he’d get friendly with the rest of the bottles that had
been sitting there for several weeks.

Kirstin went
to the door, opened it. The cool evening breeze slipped in, stirring the
ever-present scent of cinnamon that came from air fresheners she’d hidden
around the house. Halfway out the sliding glass, she stopped and cocked her
head. “Why’d you stuff that thing downstairs anyway?”

Mason
blinked. “Why?” Surely, she was joking. She knew why. Or she should know why,
whether he’d ever said it directly or not.

“Yeah, why?
If you liked it so much, why not just leave it where you could use it? I’ve
never understood that.”

He pulled a
slow swig and swished it around his mouth, trying to make sense of how she
could be so ignorant of something so obvious. When no appropriate answer came,
he met her curious stare and answered flatly, “So it wouldn’t embarrass you.”

“Me?”
Incredulity filled her voice.

“Yeah, you.”
He gestured at the chair with his half-empty bottle. “That thing’s ugly as sin.
Didn’t think you’d want it sitting around when you had clients over.”

“Oh.”

A strained
moment of silence descended around them as Kirstin studied his face, searching
for answers he didn’t know the questions to. He shifted his weight, feeling the
same old awkwardness rise when he knew he should say something,
needed
to say something, but nothing sounded right in his head.

“See you in
the morning, Mason.”

“Yeah,” he
murmured to her retreating back. She might see
him
in the morning, but
he had a feeling he’d be seeing a hell of a lot of her tonight when he shut his
eyes. Since she’d left, he’d done nothing but relive the years they spent
together in dreams. Their first date, the awkwardness he felt when he’d found
the courage to pick up the phone and ask her out. The first night he made love
to her—the very same night he first took her out—and every other important day
they’d shared. Hell, he’d even dreamed about watching television with her.

As the door
rolled closed on the turmoil churning around inside him, the words he used
every time they parted, even if just for a few hours, rose to the tip of his
tongue. He set them free in a whisper, “Love you, babe.”

Chapter Three

Didn’t think
you’d want it sitting around when you had clients over.

Two hours
later, Mason’s words still ricocheted through Kirstin’s mind. He’d done so much
grumbling about how that damn recliner didn’t match the new leather that she’d
have sworn on the cross he ditched it in the basement for aesthetic reasons. Now,
a full year after they purchased the new family room furniture, he said he had
her in mind.

How was that
possible?

She frowned.
Why did it matter at nearly midnight when she should be sleeping so she
wouldn’t be quite as bitchy come morning?

Kirstin pushed
a hand through her hair and flopped back onto the pillows. Overhead, Sam and
Theresa’s house was silent. She despised her basement accommodations for that
very reason—the quiet made it impossible to think. Down here with the constant
hum of the air conditioner and the jangle of pipes, Mason occupied her mind.
Like now, when she couldn’t shake the overpowering memory of how she used to
sit up in the middle of the night, listening to the noise of their house,
watching him sleep. Afraid to believe he was real. Terrified that one day she’d
wake up and discover she didn’t mean to him half of what he meant to her.

Inevitably,
he felt her stare and opened those fathomless blue eyes, put his arm around
her, and told her without words how ridiculous she was being.

But that
stopped too. When Lisa’s ad gave her hives and Kirstin couldn’t sleep at night,
Mason had stopped waking up. He’d been so exhausted from late night design
benders that he failed to notice how very much she needed the feel of his
strong arms to give her confidence.

To make her
remember that above all, nothing in this world was more important than the time
they had together and there was always room for a few minutes of togetherness.

Didn’t think
you’d want it sitting around when you had clients over.

Why hadn’t he
mentioned that? It was such a simple thing. Not like a proposal of
marriage—Mason couldn’t have begun to get those kinds of words out. She’d
always known that if they ever got engaged, she’d have to do the proposing.
Mason couldn’t cope with emotion. But saying he had moved a falling apart
recliner because he was thinking of her didn’t come anywhere close to that kind
of impossible feat.

Her gaze
strayed to the narrow window that faced her old house, and an uncomfortable
tightness settled into her chest. Maybe for Mason, the recliner came closer to
proposals than she’d realized.

Kirstin
laughed to herself. Right. She was doing it again—justifying his behavior so it
didn’t hurt so much. Mason hadn’t moved that recliner out of consideration for
her potential clients. He’d never expected her to have that many clients
anyway. He had stuffed the orange eyesore in the basement so he didn’t have to
look at it.

Sighing, she
reached across the twin-size bed and turned off the lamp. The lack of light
didn’t make closing her eyes any easier. Though she shut them, unruly dark
waves and a lopsided grin flashed against her eyelids. His mouth moved with
words she couldn’t hear, words she couldn’t remember. But the sensual play of
his lips sparked an ache down deep in her womb. God, how she wanted him.

Stretched out
on her side, she ran her hand over the empty covers, the absence of his warm
body something she’d never get used to. Even after all the heartache he’d put
her through, she craved the steel and sugar scent of Mason’s skin. The firm
press of his weight as he sank into her arms and escorted her to bone-deep
satisfaction.

Damn shame
great sex couldn’t hold them together. If it could have, she’d be in their bed,
not a virtual cot in the Roberts’ basement. And she wouldn’t be questioning how
she’d make it through a full day of working with her ex.

****

It required
immense effort to pull himself out of the recliner, but Mason sucked up his
willpower, shoved with his legs, and managed to escape the well-worn cushions.
He stood still, afraid that if he attempted walking while the room was still
bobbing on an invisible touch-sensitive axis, he’d pitch face-first over his
feet.

Never should
have had that fifth beer. At four, he’d been blissfully numb. Five, however,
pushed everything over the edge. Aside from the fact he felt like a Weeble
Wobble, his senses were in overdrive. All the blurry snapshots of his life with
Kirstin sharpened into digitally precise pictures. The most prominent—their
third date in that damn chair and the way she’d straddled his thighs, oblivious
to the fact anyone passing his apartment window could see every gift Mother
Nature had given her, and rode him to cataclysmic release.

Now, he was
drunk, hard as a rock, and he wanted her in his bed.

Hell, if
going to Sam’s didn’t involve two flights of stairs—one to get to the patio and
the second to the basement where Kirstin was staying—he’d have been just as
happy in her bed.

Finding the
ability to move one foot in front of the other, Mason trudged toward the hall
where he could use the wall for support. He couldn’t remember the last time
he’d been so damnably aroused. No, wait—that was easy. She could light him up
with a simple touch of her fingertips on the back of his neck. What he couldn’t
remember was the last time he’d been so aroused without a means of spending his
desire.

The glow of
the monitor in his office drew him to a slow stop, and he braced his hands on
the doorframe. Earlier, he’d intended to do something in here. Back around beer
two and a half. But…what?

He squinted
at the three dimensional skateboard on his monitor. Touch up color? No, that
didn’t feel right. It had something to do with the project, but what?

Stumbling
forward, Mason made his way to his desk and frowned at the clutter. Something
about Kirstin. He’d meant to get up, drag his sorry ass in here and…

His gaze
canvassed the desktop organizer where he kept his hard copy DVD portfolios.
He’d need the one from Bartlebee’s tomorrow. They’d done a game segment where
the hero kid had to ride a skateboard through a maze while dodging hot lava
rocks. He wanted to get Kirstin’s opinion on the rendered motion.

He reached
for the drawer the DVD was in, pulled it open, and stopped. His stare locked on
the reason he’d intended to come in here tonight—the diamond ring he’d
convinced Kirstin’s father to surrender last month. No way in hell would he let
her know he had finally found the guts to ask her to make this a permanent
thing…four days before she walked out.

Mason picked
up the ring, let it settle on his index finger, and flipped off his monitor.

The walk to
the bedroom was like balancing on a beam. He had to catch himself on the wall
at least twice to keep from doing a face-plant on the hardwood floor. By the
time he reached the bed, he flopped onto his stomach, unconcerned with the fact
he was still dressed. When had he become such a lightweight?

Probably when
Cheez-Its became dinner.

This sucked.

Last night
he’d been perfectly convinced another handful of days, and Kirstin would get
over whatever had her all riled up. She’d come home. They’d go out to her
favorite restaurant—his way of apologizing—and then they would forget about the
argument. She wouldn’t force him to grovel. He would know she understood he
hated fighting with her. Every time, it chewed him up on the inside. One of the
reasons he made it a point
not
to argue.

Now, the
faint scent of her perfume that lingered on the pillow beside his was agony.

What the fuck
had he done to piss her off so bad?

Careful not
to move his body, he shifted his gaze to the phone on his nightstand. He was
half-tempted to call her cell. Waking her up wouldn’t get him into her good
graces, but if he could make his tongue work right, he might find a few
answers.

Screw it.
Even sober he had about as much chance of putting those questions together as
he did winning the lottery. He’d say something that made it worse. Some asinine
remark meant to lighten the mood that came out all wrong and didn’t just put
him in the doghouse, but chained him there.