Page 48 of Black Roses

In typical Mason fashion, he senses my anxiety and pulls away. He grabs my hand. “Come and sit down. Can I get you a drink? Maybe an adult beverage?”

I want this. I want him. Maybe if I get a few drinks in me, I’ll relax.

What the fuck are you doing, Piper?My conscience screams at me, knowing good and well the position that could put me in. I try to push my pangs of conscience aside. I try to push my fears aside. Mason is a good man.

Mason is a good man,I repeat over and over inside my head.

“What, no more juice boxes?” I joke. Then instead of sitting on the couch, I follow him to the kitchen. “I can help.”

He pulls out a bottle of Jack. It’s unopened and I wonder if he got it specifically for me, after seeing it was my drink of choice at the benefit. I watch him expertly mix it with just the right amount of Coke, splitting a can between us and not going too heavy on the liquor.

I take my glass from him and we walk back in the living room to sit on the couch.

“What was it you wanted me to see?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes in question while taking a drink.

“At the train. You said you wanted to show me something at your apartment.”

“Oh, that. Yeah . . . well, you’re looking at it.”

“What?” I look around.

“My apartment. I wanted to show you my apartment.”

I shake my head in mock disgust.

“What?” he says. “It worked, didn’t it? I got you to come back here. I just never planned anything out beyond that. I have no idea what to do with you. I mean, I haven’t been on an actual adult-like date where a girl comes back to my place before, so I’m not sure exactly how this works.”

I have to hold in my giggle. Mason Lawrence—hot, sexy, almost-famous football player—doesn’t know what to do on a date. But then I realize, neither do I. Hell, I don’t even read my sister’s romance novels. Do we watch television? Play a board game? Get out our phones and text our friends?

I take a drink. “Um . . . do you have any movies?”

He lets out a relieved breath. “Movies, yes! I have lots of movies.” He hops off the couch and opens his entertainment center to reveal an impressive stockpile of titles that probably cost more than my first car.

I follow him over and peruse his collection. He has all the great sports movies, of course. He has some documentaries, sci-fi, and even some romantic comedies. I survey the hundreds of films surrounding his massive T.V. But I gasp and my fingers stop browsing when I spot one in particular.

Mason recognizes the way my eyes hesitate when they come across this specific title. He reaches out and pulls it from the case. “Okay.Roxanneit is. Are you a big Steve Martin fan or something?”

“Something like that,” I say, my gaze fixed on the floor as I make my way back to the couch.

I was always in love with Cyrano de Bergerac. It was my favorite play of all time when I was little. I wanted to play Roxane. Maybe not from the original play that was written entirely in verse, but some of the later adaptations. And although I love the Steve Martin/Daryl Hannah movie version, it has always bothered me that they spelled her name wrong, adding an ‘n’ to it.

My heart is heavy as we watch it. I haven’t seen it in years. I didn’t realize I still craved acting so much. What I wouldn’t give to change things.

“I think you would make a wonderful Roxanne,” Mason says.

Completely ignoring the movie, I turn to him. My eyebrows scrunch and my nose crinkles. Why would he say such a thing?

Duh—of course.Realization hits me.

“Skylar told you. Or was it Baylor?”

He puts his arm on the back of the couch behind me and hooks an ankle over his knee, giving me his undivided attention. “It was Skylar. But I wish I would have heard it from you. I wish I would hear a lot of things from you.”

I shake my head. “I don’t like to talk about myself.”

“You were an actress. A damn good one based on what I’ve heard. Was it Charlie’s mom that made you quit? Did you think you would grow up to become like her?”

---