Page 11 of Promise Me Not

I know it’s him.

It’salwayshim.

Mason

My leg is bouncing so fast,the headboard of the bed hits against the wall in steady knocks. Later, I’ll likely have Brady down my throat, demanding to know who I snuck in for a bit of afternoon fun. Little does he know I haven’t touched another since?—

Swallowing my frustration, I jump to my feet and tug a hoodie over my head.

I’m out the door and jogging down the beach in seconds, making this my third official run of the day.

I can’t sit still, not knowing I’m literal feet from Payton, something I’ve wished for for months now, and I can’t see or talk to her. To be fair, she’s not home. I know because I’ve gone by there the last two times I tugged a hoodie on and went for the same damn run. The second spin around, Parker was home, but she still wasn’t, so I can’t exactly stop—again—and ask if she is back without looking like a possessive jackass.

Not that I care. I kind of am one, if I’m honest, but I’ve been holding in my inner need to flip the fuck out considering everyone is around. And goddamn, everyone isalwaysaround. I can never get her alone, not during visits like this one.

If it were up to me I’d make a whole-ass scene, knock the doors down, and beat my chest like a caveman. I won’t, though, for her sake and no one else’s.

Still, as I approach Payton’s house, my feet move a little slower, my eyes slicing across every inch of the place. Nothing I can see from here gives away if she’s in there or not. I mean, I could knock, but Parker will just ask what he asked before.

Did I call her?

I scoff.

What kind of question is that?

Of course I fuckin’ called her. Texted her, too.

Been calling and texting without a response for fifty-seven days. Yes, I counted, and you know what? It doesn’t sound as bad as saying months does, but it’s July, and that was May, and fuck me. It feels shitty. Worse than.

I’m caught in quicksand, and there’s no one around to pull me out.

I jog past her house, then Nate’s, and I keep going, running longer than my five a.m. cardio session and farther than round two when I thought I was being the right kind of sneaky andwould catch her when I know Deaton would be awake. I didn’t, and if the lack of her answering the knock I couldn’t help but bring down on her window was any indication, she was already gone.

Why is she doing this?

What the fuck happened?

The questions are too daunting, so I block them out. I run until my lungs burn, and only when my legs are jelly do I turn around and drag my ass the five miles back, this time taking the street so I can get a view of the front of the house in case it reveals anything different.

It doesn’t, and now I’m getting pissy.

Sweat pours from my temples as I pant my way up the drive of the beach house I co-own with my sister, her best friend Cameron, and my boys, Brady and Chase, so I tug my hoodie over my head and swipe at it, following the wraparound deck from front to back. I toss my top onto the picnic bench and snag a football from the bucket by the door.

I no sooner toss it in the air than the slider opens, and the man of all fucking men walks out.

His eyes meet mine a moment before dropping to my calves, both tight and twitching. “You’re overdoing it.”

“I’m good.” I flex through it, nearly numb to the ache, and head down the stairs into the sand. Spinning so I’m walking backward, I point the ball his way.

Noah’s hands go open instantly, and I toss him the ball.

“Run some routes for me?”

He hesitates, then nods, joining me on the beach and channeling his old receiver position, or new depending on how you look at it considering he was drafted as a wide receiver, officially retiring his quarterback arm and helping me perfect mine.

The first half hour, we’re just warming up with short distance passes, but the minute we get into running routes, I’m all over the fucking place.

I’m overthrowing and underthrowing, and when a pass I rocket to him, one I could normally make with my eyes closed, lands ten feet to his left, his head whips in my direction.

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