Misunderstanding Mason (4 page)

Oh
wait—evidently, he’d already done that.

Mason let out
a sigh and shut his eyes. Some time ago, he’d learned the folly of drunk
dialing. He’d ask her tomorrow. When his head didn’t feel like his brain was
swimming, and the effort of picking up the phone didn’t seem quite so
monumental.

Besides,
midnight problem solving wasn’t her thing anymore. He could still sense when
she woke up in the middle of the night—the sudden jostle of the bed got him
every time. He could be dead to the world, and one twitch from her side of the
mattress pulled him into wakefulness faster than the morning alarm. But Kirstin
hadn’t reached out for his comfort in a long time. Come to think of it—it was
doubtful she even needed comfort. She wanted out. She’d made her decision, and
he wouldn’t make a fool out of himself by begging her to reconsider.

As if his
limbs had turned to fine porcelain, he carefully rolled over onto his back and
stared at the ceiling. Five years. For the first time in five years, he was
really, truly alone. Sure, business forced him to shack up in a motel overnight
now and then. Two years ago, she stayed a week with her mom, just before
Lucinda Jones gave up her six-month battle against cancer. Even then, though,
he hadn’t been
alone.
There’d always been a homecoming around the
corner. A late night phone call to tuck each other in.

He couldn’t
stop a wry smirk. A couple late night phone calls they’d done far more than
tuck each other in.

It just
didn’t seem possible that five years could vanish overnight.

Hell, on her
birthday two months ago, he’d finally realized that her piece of shit Mazda was
really falling apart when he’d taken it in to have the transmission adjusted.
He came home, not with her ten-year-old Mazda, but a brand new Jeep Grand
Cherokee. She’d been happy then. Squealed so loud his eardrums nearly burst.

What had
happened between then and now?

Lisa Bennet
hadn’t been in the middle of things. She’d been done and gone—he’d thought
forever.

Mason tossed
his arm over his forehead to stifle the racket against his skull. He’d damn
sure missed something. Life needed signs. Great big neon flashing signs that
made it impossible to miss,
Danger Ahead
.

That or a
translator.

Funny thing,
though, he’d felt pretty secure in his ability to translate Kirstin. Make that
super proud he’d accomplished such a monumental feat without inadvertently
creating an avalanche in the process. He’d come close a few times—like when he
missed her birthday their first year together and failed to understand
It’s
okay
held a vastly different meaning.

It had taken
all his creative energy to pull off flowers, gold bracelet, and dinner theater
the following night in a way that expressed his true intent to celebrate her
birthday because he wanted to, not because he was trying to make up and get
himself out of trouble. Truth was, he’d planned it on the wrong night all
along. Man, they had a good laugh over that several weeks later when she
discovered the receipts that were dated well in advance.

And for a
little while, he’d been on top of the world. All errors forgiven. All faults
accepted.

“Ah, baby,”
he mumbled into the quiet. “What went wrong?”

You’re always
too damn busy.

She’d told
him. But no matter how he analyzed her explanation, that answer didn’t make
sense. He’d never been too busy for her. She was the one who drew into a shell,
seemingly disinterested in sharing herself with him. She’d even stopped asking
him to come to bed with her. When he heard the light click off while he was
still working, he never thought beyond the fact she was tired, and he wasn’t
going to disturb her.

Maybe he
should have paid a little more attention to that subtle
click
.

Chapter Four

At ten
fifteen the next morning, Kirstin stumbled through the damp grass to her—make
that to Mason’s—back patio door. It stood open, the heavy scent of bacon grease
and fried eggs wafting out to blend with the lingering chill that drifted off
the nearby lake. Her stomach rumbled.

She pushed
the door open and fled the cool morning air. The last thing she expected to
see, however, was Mason still at the skillet, dressed in only his boxer-briefs,
his hair as disheveled as if he’d just rolled out of bed. For him, ten-fifteen
was going on lunchtime. He was up and moving like clockwork, at five, even on
the weekends. By the time she found the ability to confront morning, he’d taken
a run around the lake, showered, and managed to crank out three good hours of
design.

He glanced
over his shoulder at the same time he flipped an egg. “Morning.” He gestured at
the coffee pot with his head. “It’s fresh.”

Doing her
best to ignore the broad expanse of his muscular shoulders and the way jersey
cotton hugged his tight butt, Kirstin trudged to the coffeepot. She plucked a
mug off the cup-tree in the corner and filled it to the brim. Slowly, she
turned around, sipping the piping hot brew as she leaned against the
countertop. Her gaze traveled over Mason’s backside, untamed butterflies
stirring in her stomach.

The last time
she’d been up for his definition of breakfast had been in that tiny apartment.
She’d forgotten how simply amazing he looked in the morning. How incredibly
nice it was to wake up to the flutter of her heart when she realized she’d
succeeded where no other woman had. She won Mason. Without even really trying.
They’d met through a friend, and from the night he phoned to ask her out a week
later, they’d fallen into each other naturally. Yet, it had never failed to
make her pulse skip when she stopped to acknowledge plenty of other women had
flitted through his life, bending over backwards to convince him to stick
around.

She’d been
lucky. He stuck for five years. Five incredible, frustrating years.

Realizing she
was staring, and he couldn’t possibly be ignorant to that fact, she cleared the
cobwebs of sleep from her throat. “You’re quiet.”

He tossed her
a lazy grin and gestured at her coffee cup with the spatula. “How many is that
this morning?”

Her brow
furrowed. “My first. Why?”

“Your inner
bear doesn’t sleep until after two.”

Was she
really
that
bad in the mornings? She’d never enjoyed getting up, true.
But by the time she had coffee in-hand, she was usually sociable as long as it
wasn’t some ungodly hour of morning.

“I’m fine,”
she mumbled as she took another sip.

“You’re
better after two.” Turning, he passed her a plate filled with two eggs, wheat
toast, and three slices of bacon. “And even better with something in your
stomach.”

Kirstin
blinked. Uncertain what to make of that remark, she accepted his offered
breakfast and moved to sit at the small table near the wide bay window. Did it
really take two cups of coffee to shed her morning grumpiness? How could Mason
know that, if she’d never stopped to count?

Keeping with
his conviction of silence, he joined her at the table and took the seat across.
As he dunked one corner of his toast in his coffee, he used his free hand to
spread open the morning paper. While he read, absorbed in the business
headlines, she picked up her fork and stabbed into her eggs. Gooey yolk spread
over her plate—heaven. Three bites and the cramping in her stomach eased enough
she didn’t feel the need to shovel in food. She looked up through her eyelashes
and studied the lines in Mason’s face.

Fine wrinkles
set in around his eyes, the only hint he’d turn thirty-five this year. Grey
hadn’t set into his dark hair, and though stubble shadowed his chin, his face
still held boyish youth. He looked tired.

Probably up
late working on some new game.

Typical
Mason.

With a soft
sigh, she scooped up another bite. This time, when the flavor soaked into her
tongue, she stopped chewing at the subtle taste of garlic. Her mouth watered in
an instant. Eggs without garlic just weren’t eggs. They were poor substitutes,
flat and otherwise unexciting.

That Mason
still knew how she preferred her eggs despite the fact they hadn’t shared
breakfast in years, wasn’t lost on her. The discovery ranked right up there
with his comment about the recliner—and caused the same uncomfortable tightness
around her lungs. In one hasty gulp, she downed the rest of her coffee and
scooted out of the chair to refill her mug.

Mason didn’t
notice when she bought new clothes, but he remembered how she liked eggs.
Weird. Too weird.

“Mason?”

The paper
rustled. “Hmm?”

“What’s my
favorite color?”

Returning to
the table, she held his deer-in-the-headlights stare. Thank God.
That
was normal. The eggs were just a fluke, or rote habit. Not some signal he
actually paid attention to the little things. The fist around her chest
relaxed, and she sat to finish off her bacon while he floundered for some
logical explanation about why he didn’t know and how colors weren’t important.
Or even better, how she changed her mind every month.

“You don’t
have one,” he answered with a one-shoulder shrug.

Bacon halfway
to her mouth, Kirstin froze. Her world tipped sideways, and those fingers
around her lungs inched closed.

“You wear
purple when you’re happy. Red when you’re annoyed.” He nodded at her
comfortable old t-shirt. “Green when you need confidence.”

Kirstin
laughed. She did not need confidence to meet with Mason over a design project.
For God’s sake, he knew her limitations and her abilities better than anyone.
She didn’t need to try to impress him, and admitting she couldn’t do something
was perfectly okay. The T-shirt, with its stretched out collar and ratty hem,
was comfortable.

Why then, did
it feel like he’d dragged soul secrets out into the open?

Wanting
nothing more than to escape this meeting as soon as possible, she dropped the
bacon on her plate, pushed it aside, and clasped her hands together on the
tabletop. “Have you had a chance to think about how long this project will
take?”

****

Something
buried deep inside Mason that he couldn’t name flinched at Kirstin’s abrupt
question. For a moment, things had been so normal he’d almost forgotten the
grogginess that clung to his bones and the way his head pounded. But the sharp
edge to her voice brought everything back front and center, and the utter lack
of warmth in her green eyes stirred a chill through his veins. She’d been here
all of fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes and was already looking for a speedy
exit.

As the
thud
thud
took up residence straight behind his eyes again, he picked up both
their plates and dumped them in the sink. “Why? Got a hot date?”

“Mason.”

Her voice
held unmistakable warning—if he continued he’d regret it. He didn’t
particularly care. “What? None of my business?”

She drank
from her coffee, her eyes holding his, her silence signal enough that he’d
gotten beneath her skin. He could either provoke her into a full-blown fight,
or he could back down now, his pride a little bruised, but the rest of him not
yet bleeding.

When it came
to arguing with her, he’d rather sacrifice a few blows to his pride. Sighing,
he pushed a hand through his disheveled hair and dragged his gaze away from her
heart-shaped face. “I figure we can have a working prototype done in a couple
days. Run it past Lisa and finish the final design in a week.” If things went
the way they had last time, anything longer than a week with that she-devil,
and he’d likely end up in jail.

“A week?
Really?”

The note of
excitement he detected in Kirstin’s voice left a bitter taste in his mouth. He
might as well forget any conversation about what had gone wrong and whether
they could patch things back together. That simple question brought reality
down around his shoulders. She wanted out. Couldn’t wait to be free.

“Yeah.” He
pushed away from the sink, unable to bring himself to look at her and see the
bright cast to her expression. “I’m going to get dressed.” He strode for the
hall, ignoring the fierce urge to haul her out of that wicker-backed chair and
kiss her until she was breathless and panting and incapable of tearing them
apart.

“Lisa sent an
email this morning with more information. It’s on the computer in my office,”
he called over his shoulder as he rounded the corner.

He heard her
chair scrape across the floor, the quiet footfalls as she followed in his path.
Before the scent of kiwi that always clung to her hair from her shower the
night before could filter to his nose, he shut the bedroom door, blocking her
out. Green. She’d worn green because she was feeling insecure. About the
project or about being near him?

Mason yanked
a pair of jeans out of the dresser drawer and unfolded them with a fierce
shake. Lisa Bennet always rattled Kirstin’s confidence. That was the dominant
reason he’d never told Kirstin about Lisa’s indecent proposal. The woman was
the only person alive who could turn Kirstin inside out with just a few words.
Last time, it had taken all his self-control to not ask Kirstin to turn the
project over to him just so he wouldn’t have to watch her doubt all her hard
work and her true gift for art. She’d wanted so badly to succeed. Lisa was her
first big name client with the potential to turn Kirstin’s hobby into the
career she so desperately wanted. He had let her handle it, forced his opinions
to the wayside, and after the proposition, removed himself from the project
before he strangled Lisa.