Page 42 of Black Roses

“It’s a deal.” I go to extend my hand, but realize we never let go. I lean close, bringing my lips down to just above her ear. I’ve every intention of winning this bet. It may just be the most important wager of my life. I draw out my words and let my hot breath flow over her ear. “Game fucking on.”

chapter seventeen

piper

I would never do it. Take money from Mason. But it’ll be fun to see him squirm about it.

It’s not going to happen—me falling in love with him. With anyone. I’ve only ever been in love one time. For one day. With one person. One moment even, before everything was taken away.

My dreams have changed lately. They give me a glimpse of what my life might be like if that fateful day never would have happened. If the choices I made were different. If I could be like every other twenty-two-year-old woman.

The nightmares, although becoming fewer, still plague me. They alternate between the versions where I fight my predators, and the ones where I don’t. Years ago when I first started having the dreams, I never fought. Not one time. My mind simply played that fateful night over and over again with frightening clarity.

Maybe I’ll never know which version of my nightmare was real. Maybe I’ll never know what really happened that night—being sentenced to a life of what-ifs and could-have-beens.

And even though Mason will never win the bet, I’ll always be grateful that he allowed me to dream again. Dreams like when I was a little girl. Fairy tales that are so far out of my reach, it’s laughable. But dreams nonetheless.

One might say I was stupid to take the bet, especially given my history with them. But bets have kind of become our thing. Small or big, they always seem to work their way into our conversations. Last week, he bet he would beat me in bowling. I think the man is determined to find all my weaknesses; all the things I miss when I’m overseas. He won, of course—I mean, come on, I hadn’t bowled in over five years—earning him tonight’s romantic dinner at a fine French restaurant.

The sommelier brings two glasses of champagne, placing them between us on the elegantly-appointed table. I eye my glass, willing myself to pick it up and take a drink. It’s a simple task really, one that billions and billions of people do every day.

Pick it up, Piper.

Pick. It. Up.

I reach over with a shaky hand, imploring my fingers to wrap around the stem and bring the glass to meet Mason’s as he so patiently waits for me to do.

I awkwardly grasp the glass while I bring my eyes to meet his—to watch his expression as I pretend to catch the base of the glass on my bread plate, tipping and spilling the entire contents all over the beautiful tablecloth. “Oh, shit,” I say, feigning the accident.

For a moment, he studies me. He studies me as if he suspects my action was deliberate. But I’m well practiced. A master of clumsiness so to speak. There is no way he could know. He studies me, but he doesn’t judge me. His eyes are soft, not accusing. Sympathetic, not embarrassed.

He finally turns his attention to the spill, using his napkin to soak up the mess before it cascades from the table onto the floor. The waiter hurries over to finish the job and Mason asks if we can have our own bottle of it brought to the table, “just in case.” He winks at me.

“Piper, I’m not sure if you’ve ever made this observation about yourself, but you are quite clumsy when it comes to drinking.”

I smile and shrug. Most men—mostpeople—just get annoyed with me and my accidents. Mason is different. He treats it as one of those quirky things that endears you to another. “It’s too bad we can’t all be as skilled and adept with our hands as you are.”

The sommelier, a petite female delivering our bottle, blushes horribly, looking very uncomfortable to have been privy to that part of our conversation. I quickly run the words through my head again and realize the reason.

“Football,” I spit out at the flustered woman. “He plays football. You know, with his hands? Ugh . . .” I cover my embarrassed face with my hands as Mason laughs right through the pop of the cork.

He picks up my glass, holding it out to me carefully and with meticulous caution.

I smirk at him as I take it from him, our fingers lightly brushing each other’s as the glass exchanges hands. My breath hitches at the touch and it’s not lost on me that he notices.

Mason ever-so-gently clinks his glass to mine, but before he drinks, he asks, “Are you moving to New York yet?”

I shake my head as my eyes intentionally roll to the ceiling. “No, Mason, I’m not in love with you.”

“Yet.” He smiles, taking his drink.

“Ever,” I rebuff.

He checks his watch. “I still have six weeks, Piper. Never say never.”

“I didn’t say never. I saidever. But whatever—it won’t happen.” I take a bite of the scrumptious canape placed before me. “But I’ll sure as hell enjoy being fed like a queen while you try.”

He laughs and I try to ignore his crystal-blue gaze warming into a heated stare as he watches me eat.

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