Wrapped in You (5 page)

After Gwen left, she and Eve debated tea versus coffee, deciding that anything spiked was worthwhile to drink, and Trudy walked around the café looking at the book displays. There was a book called
Effective Immediately: How to Fit In, Stand Out, and Move Up at Your First Job
.

Trudy picked it up. Mason wasn’t at his first job—she knew this was his third because of the background check she’d done—but she bought the book for him anyway. She slipped it in her bag, said goodbye to Eve, and took a taxi to meet him.

Trudy looked at the numbers on the building and then at the address Mason had texted her. The same.

It looked like a solarium, with floor to ceiling windows and plants everywhere. An urban jungle. In the midst of the jungle there were people stationed all over, engrossed in their screens.

She surveyed the people but didn’t see Mason, so she went to the first desk and nodded at the guy sitting there pretending not to see her. “Sorry, is Mason Miller in?”

The guy peeked over his enormous monitor and blinked at her. “Mason?”

“Miller,” she said again, tapping her foot. “Brown hair, medium height, wickedly hot. Looks like Han Solo.”

“Han Solo?” The guy’s face scrunched as though that description didn’t register.

Trudy shook her head and pulled out her phone to text him.

I’m here but the guy I’m asking doesn’t know you. Are you sure you work here?

He texted back immediately.

Are you talking to Tim? Don’t listen to anything he says. Be right there.

She tucked her mobile away and studied the guy. “Are you Tim?”

“Yeah.” He blinked at her. “How did you know?”

“ESP.” She turned when she heard Mason’s footsteps approach.

He jogged through the maze of desks, a bag in his hand, his shiny shoes making a scuffling noise on the cement flooring. His skinny jeans and tight shirt looked great. If his shirt hadn’t been orange, it’d have been better. Doubly so if he’d worn a vest, à la Han Solo.

But he smiled wide when he saw her, and she forgot about everything but the pleasure of seeing him. So odd considering she hadn’t know him days ago.

“Hey,” he said walking up to her.

She looked at the other employees who were watching with great interest. Mason hadn’t made any secret of why he was helping her—he said he wanted to show her off to his team so he’d seem more approachable.

So he should show her off.

As he approached, she smiled at him like she wanted to rip his clothes off and have her way with him on the nearest desk, which wasn’t a stretch at all.

He blinked, but he didn’t slow down. “Hey, Trudy.”

She slid her arms around his waist. “I’m kissing you,” she whispered.

“What happened to no kissing?” he whispered back.

“I said no feelings, and this is just to impress your workmates.” She wrapped her hand in his hair and lowered his head. “Pucker up, Stud Muffin.”

He smiled as their lips touched. He let her kiss him for a few seconds before he took charge.

Her eyes closed of their own volition, and against her will she melted against him. Her palms trailed up to his shoulders and over to his back. Muscles, she thought with a sigh as she felt him. He was surprisingly solid under his shirt.

He lifted his head and stared into her eyes. Her dark lipstick had smeared around his mouth, making a clownish ring.

“What?” she asked, rubbing away the stain from his lips and skin.

He shook his head. “Kissing you is a revelation. Ready to go?”

“What does that mean?”

He glanced at the bulky white watch on his wrist. “It means that we’re due to check off the next thing on your list. Remember? That’s why you met me here.”

That wasn’t what she meant, but before she could clarify, he turned around and announced, “I’m going out for a while. And this is my
special
friend, Trudy.”

Everyone turned their stunned looks to her.

Trying to look special, she slung her arm across Mason’s shoulders and gave them her most bad-girl smile, as though she was hiding whips and chains in her bag. She didn’t care what they thought of her—this was all to raise Mason’s stock.

He just grinned and took her hand. “You’re going to love what I’ve got planned.”

“Am I?” she said as he dragged her out of the office.

“Definitely.” He squeezed her hand and rushed her outside. He took his phone out of his pocket and made a few swipes. Then he put it away and smiled brightly at her. “An Uber is on its way. I’m happy to see you.”

She shook her head. “Do you always juxtapose random thoughts together?”

He shrugged. “My brain is active. I’m better now than I used to be. You should have seen me in high school.”

A black car pulled up right in front of them, and Mason opened the door for her.

Shaking her head, she slid in. “Tell me this isn’t where you kidnap me and dump my body, because if it is, I’d ask that you do it next time so I can make sure I’m wearing nice underwear.”

He surveyed her body. “You don’t have nice underwear on now?”

“You’re assuming I have any on.” She sat back, satisfied by the cross-eyed look he got.

That silenced him for the rest of the short ride. They arrived by a large park of sorts.

Mason opened the door and held his hand out to her. “Come on. We have a reservation.”

She put her hand in his and let him lead her into the building that said Yerba Buena Gardens outside it. There was a carousel, and it also listed bowling, but she knew they were there for the ice skating.

He led her inside. “Wait here a sec.”

Nodding, she looked around. “I don’t think it’s open today. There’s no one here.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said as he strode toward the front desk. He talked quietly with the woman there for a moment and then motioned to Trudy. “We’re good. Let’s do this.”

They picked skates and took them to a bench alongside the rink to put them on. Trudy looked around, shaking her head. There wasn’t another person there, which made James Brown’s exclamations especially loud and echoey. “Is it so empty because it’s daytime?” she asked.

“No, I rented it out just for you,” he said, slipping his shoes off. “I asked them to play funk, because you’re a funky lady, but if you want some other music we can change it.”

She stared at his head, speechless. It wasn’t what he’d spent, although that had to be considerable. It was that he paid attention to what she needed and went to the trouble. It touched her in the center of her chest.

“Maybe you’d like ABBA instead?” Mason asked.

She knew he was teasing her, but she still couldn’t speak, she was so moved.

“If you do, it can be arranged.”

“I like funky,” she managed over the lump in her throat.

“I thought so.” He straightened, skates on securely. “You need help?” he asked, pointing to hers, which were still in her hands.

She shook her head. “This is mad. I’ve never skated before.”

“Ever?” He gaped at her. “It’s a winter activity, not holiday specific. Do you hate this too? Although I don’t understand how you can hate the holidays, either. Explain it to me.”

“Explain what?” she asked, as if she didn’t understand when she knew exactly what he wondered.

“Why do you hate Christmas? Or Hanukkah, or Kwanza, or whatever winter holiday your family partakes in.” He folded his arms and looked at her expectantly. When she didn’t say anything, he said, “Is it because your family sacrifices goats during the holidays? You can tell me. I won’t judge.”

She smiled reluctantly. “Close.”

“I’m not going anywhere till you confess.”

She studied his stance, the way his entire body was set, firm and unmoving, and she sighed. “The holidays are the only time of year my sister goes home.”

“Is she a troll?”

“The opposite. She’s a saint.” She focused on the skates in her hands so she wouldn’t see the judgment in Mason’s gaze. “My parents revere her, as they should. Matilda’s quite amazing. She saves women in Rwanda.”

“You don’t go home for the holidays so you don’t have to be around her.”

“That sounds terrible.” She winced, hating that it was true. She used work as an excuse so her parents wouldn’t get upset. Work, they understood. It was hardly their fault that she felt inadequate around her older sister, and she couldn’t really blame them for wanting her to be more like Matilda.

“If they revere her so much, how do they treat you?” Mason kneeled on the floor in front of her and pried her shoes off. He held one up. “These are great boots, by the way.”

Trudy stared at the top of his head. His hair was shiny, a little long, and her fingers itched to touch it, to see if it was as soft as it looked.

“Well? How do they treat you?” He helped her put the skates on and then began lacing them. “Do they ignore you when your sister’s home?”

It was worse than that—they treated her like she was Matilda, and she’d couldn’t have been more different. She bit her lip, trying to hold the sadness in. But then she couldn’t help saying, “The last gift they got me was a hatchet.”

He stopped and looked up, his eyes wide. “A hatchet? To chop down trees in London?”

She shrugged. “When the zombie apocalypse happens I’ll be prepared.”

“Let me guess. Matilda got one, too, but she’s actually able to use hers.”

“She lives in a rural area,” Trudy said. “It’s not the worst gift they ever got me.”

“What’s the worst gift?”

“A pink peasant blouse.”

“
Sweet baby Jesus
.” Mason gasped. “Don’t they know you
at all
?”

He looked so horrified that she started to laugh.

“This isn’t funny, woman.” Shaking his head, he jerked her laces taut. “No wonder you hate Christmas. You’re caught up in other people’s drama.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

He lifted his head, pressing her hand, the emotion earnest in his gaze. “The holidays aren’t supposed to be like that. They’re supposed to be about connection and joy. The gifts are supposed to show that we love and appreciate the person we give them to. I’m sorry you’ve never had that, Trudy. Of course you hate the holidays.”

She blinked, stunned by his passion.

He stood, tugging on her hand. “Come on. I won’t let you fall.”

She disagreed—if anyone was going to make her fall, it’d be him. Taking a deep breath, she stood, wobbling on the blade and pitching forward.

“I got you,” he said, his breath tickling her ear. “But there’s something else you need.”

“What?” Another electrifying kiss? An energetic shag in her hotel room?

“This.” He reached down in the bag he’d been carrying and pulled out a candy cane striped scarf. He wrapped it around her neck, and it enveloped her in a warm cocoon.

She hadn’t even realized she’d been cold. Touching the soft material, she glanced down at it. It was so strange yet oddly perfect against her unrelieved black. If she’d seen it in a store, she’d have mocked it, but in this moment it was perfect. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t thank me yet. We’re just getting to the good part,” he said, pulling her toward the rink. He eased her onto the ice. “Standing and skating aren’t the hard part. Just shuffle your feet.”

“What’s the hard part?” she said, trying to keep her feet under her.

“Stopping.” He grinned at her. “You’re doing great, Trudy.”

She snorted, gripping his hand as she slipped.

“Interesting name, by the way. Your parents may not be able to give good presents, but they’re awesome name pickers. You don’t get better than Trudy Hawke. My parents could have used help. I mean,
Mason Miller
.”

“I like your name,” she murmured as they rounded a corner.

He shrugged, skating easily. “It’s no Trudy Hawke.”

She didn’t comment. Maybe he’d think she was busy paying attention to what she was doing and let the topic go.

“So were you named after someone?” he asked.

She should have known better. “A great aunt I didn’t know.”

“Great Aunt Trudy, huh?”

Pressing her lips together, she shuffled her feet faster.

“Or is Trudy short for something?” he asked.

“Can you just let me concentrate here?”

“It
is
short for something.” He grinned. “Tell me your whole name.”

“No.” Her feet slipped out from under her.

He steadied her with ease, keeping her upright just like he’d promised. “Come on, Trudy. Tell me your real name. I’ll tell you my middle name. It’s more horrific than anything you could claim.”

“Is it?” She arched her brow at him.

He arched his brow back. “Mason
Mansfield
Miller.”

“No, it’s not.” His middle name was Scott.

He squeezed her hand. “Tell me.”

Not even Jon knew her whole name. Or, at least, he never mentioned it. She never told anyone her full name, not since she’d left home after graduating. She was Trudy Hawke now. But for some reason, she heard herself mumble it.

“What?” Mason leaned toward her. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Gertrude Heathe-Hawkley,” she yelled.

Slowing, he gaped at her. “No way.”

She glared at him.

“Gertrude Heathe-Hawkley,” he repeated incredulously. “What did your parents name your sister?”

“Matilda.”

“Why did she get off lightly?”

“She was first, so she got named after the normal aunt.” Trudy shot him a narrow look. “This is the end of this conversation, all right?”

“Okay.” He smiled at her. “And now maybe you could let up on my hand, too.”

“Oh.” She eased her grip. “Sorry.”

“I may never be able to code ever again.” But he grinned at her. “You’re doing great.”

“Am I?” she murmured, shuffling her feet awkwardly.

“Do you think you can stand on your own?” he asked. “I’ll skate ahead and take a picture of you.”

“Do it.” The sooner she was off the ice, the better.

He skated ahead, easy and fast, doing some complicated footwork.

“You know what you’re doing,” she accused.

“Always.”

“No.” She pointed at his feet. “Skating. You’re actually kind of good at it.”