Page 16 of Choosing the right Man

“I’m Sherry,” she says as she steps a little closer in my bubble than I’m normally comfortable with. I force myself not to fidget.

“I’m Chloe. Mr. Alexander’s my boss, and I’m tagging along with him today for work,” I say in a rush of words. I don’t know why I blurt this, but I need to assure this woman I’m no threat, that her son isn’t slumming it with me. She can clearly tell from my clothes that I’m not in the upper crust of the elite society.

Her smile grows even bigger as she turns back to her son. “It’s so funny to hear you referred to as Mr. Alexander. I hear that and, to this day, still look for your father.”

I don’t look at Mason. I’m not sure what he’ll think of my little speech. He’d have told his mother the same, but he doesn’t seem the type of guy who wants a woman stepping in and saying anything on his behalf.

“It took me a while too, but I’ve been Mr. Alexander for long enough now that I’m used to it... though I don’t always appreciate it when it’s used in the wrong setting,” Mason pointedly says. I don’t look at him. I know he’s scolding me, which is more than rude in my opinion, since he’s the one who’s dragged me into this home where I’m clearly uncomfortable. I want to demand to know when we’re leaving. I never should’ve agreed to this trip.

His mother seems to feel the tension rising so she gives both of us another brilliant smile. “I made your favorite breakfastpastry,” she says as she moves to the oven and opens the door. It’s turned off, but clearly still warm. I don’t want to admit it smells delicious, and my mouth immediately begins to water.

“There’s not a better cook in all of Oregon, Mother,” he says with a smile as he leads me to the breakfast bar and waits for me to sit before he takes the seat next to me. “That’s saying something since there are some world-class chefs in Portland.”

She laughs as she begins to plate the gooey-looking dessert, then passes it over to us. “We both know I only put it in the oven this morning,” she says. “Mary clearly put it together for us.”

“You weren’t supposed to give that away,” Mason says with another laugh. I haven’t known him long, but this is a different person from the one I saw a few times at the office. That man is hard. This one is sweet and, even more shocking, relaxed.

“We don’t want Chloe to have expectations and then have her find out my definition of a homecooked meal is thawing something that’s already been prepared. I’m very good at that,” she says.

I want to tell her that it doesn’t matter what I think because this is a one-and-done visit. It worries me that she might think there’s more between Mason and me than there is. He’s simply my boss. That’s all. If I say this enough times, I’m going to believe it. Brainwashing is a true and powerful thing.

Sherry moves to a fancy looking espresso machine, hits a button, and begins making shots of coffee. She turns to look at me. “What do you like in your coffee, Chloe?” She pulls out three mugs and begins putting the shots into the cups. She then starts frothing milk, and I’m not sure what to say.

“Anything is fine,” I tell her.

She gives a laugh. “Oh, we all know that isn’t true. We all have a preference for our perfect cup of coffee. My favorite is a peppermint mocha. I have one every day,” she says as she pulls down some syrup and begins adding it to one of the cups.“Mason’s boring. He likes dark roast with only a splash of cream. I can’t get him to try any flavor. He says that takes away from the high-quality espresso beans he researched and has shipped here. I disagree.”

“If it’s no trouble, I wouldn’t mind trying your peppermint mocha,” I say, feeling almost giddy at the prospect. I didn’t know home espresso machines existed. I don’t do much online browsing. It’s no fun to window shop when you can’t afford to buy too much. I don’t mind this most of the time, but in this moment I’m a little green with envy over the idea of making a fresh coffee-house-style morning cup of Joe.

“The problem with drinking this coffee is you’re going to become addicted and need one every single morning,” she says. She then winks at me. “I do have some influence with your boss. I might negotiate a couple of these machines in the offices. It would be good for morale.”

Mason laughs. “That can be arranged.”

She hands over the coffee and I take a sip; it’s utter perfection, just as she promised. “I wouldn’t argue with that,” I say before focusing back on the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.

The conversation is light as we eat our pastry and have another cup of coffee. An hour easily passes, and I’ve forgotten I don’t want to be here. I like Mason’s mom a lot. She’s a good person. I shouldn’t like her, and this game is growing more dangerous by the second, but I can’t control how I feel about someone.

When it’s time to leave, Sherry gives us both a hug as we exit, and I have to tell myself it’s simply a kind gesture. I’m never going to see this woman again. Unfortunately, I’m one of those people who goes all in when I like someone. But I can’t get any further involved with Mason than I already am... and this means not liking his mother.

After we leave, we go to some shops and get the work done that’s the excuse for this little adventure, but I still don’t feel better about this day. I’ve enjoyed it way too much. I’ve enjoyed the drive, enjoyed spending time with Mason’s mother, and enjoyed walking around town with my boss.

This isn’t good; it’s not good at all.

By the time he brings me back home, the sun is leaving the sky. I’m wretched and feeling unfaithful. I might not be cheating, but I’m more than a little attracted to another man while coming home to my boyfriend of ten years. I still don’t have the answer to what I’ll do. I know what Ineedto do, what Ishoulddo, but I can’t get myself to do it. Why? Because maybe I don’t want this to stop, maybe I’m broken. Maybe, just maybe, I’m telling myself this so I can do what I want to do instead of what I should do. Who knows?

Chapter Twelve

Mason

I stand before my canvas, a beautiful woman sprawled across the long table, her body bare, waiting for my touch. Normally, in this moment, I’m awake, turned on, and ready to make magic happen. For some reason, though, I can barely look at the canvas before me.

The scent of fresh paint lingers in the air, mixing with the intoxicating aroma of warmed skin that normally fills me with anticipation. I should feel something — excitement, hunger, even the smallest flicker of desire — but the only thing burning in my veins is frustration.

My brush hovers above her stomach, the bristles barely grazing her soft flesh. Normally, this is the moment I relish the most, the first stroke, the first transformation of a normal human body into a perfect piece of art. But as I trace lines of crimson and sapphire across the rise of her hip, all I can think about is Chloe.

Chloe’s body should be the one beneath my hands, writhing as I turn her into my own personal masterpiece. She should be gasping as the cold paint kisses her skin, trembling from thesheer anticipation of what comes next. I can already see it — the curve of her waist, the perfect expanse of her thighs, the way she’ll melt beneath me when I finally take her.

The woman currently lying on the table arches, a definite invitation. I’d normally be tempted. I’d sate my needs as I’ve never been one to hold back when I want to press forward. But this woman isn’t Chloe.

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