Page 134 of Beautiful Collide

She stands near the center of the group, making my pulse race in that dress.

Damn, she looks good.

Like a goddess sent down from heaven to torture me.

“You got it bad.”

I barely register Mason’s words.

When I do, I tear my gaze away from Molly. “What?”

“Dane might be stupid enough not to see the way you look at his sister, but I do.” He knocks back the rest of his drink. “You want her, dude.”

“Nah.” I shake my head, trying to play it off, replacing my tequila with a new beer bottle. “It’s not like that.”

But my voice sounds off. Too casual. Too forced.

Mason squints at me like he’s reading a damn book, and my chest tightens.

Shit.

My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the noise of the bar. He can’t know. No way. Molly would kill me.

If Mason has figured it out, it’s only a matter of time before it gets back to Dane—and I don’t even want to entertain that nightmare.

My grip tightens around the beer bottle in my hand as I try to keep my face neutral, but my thoughts are spiraling.

How the hell did he catch on?

I’ve been careful.

We’vebeen careful.

No stolen glances in front of the team. No brushing hands, no sneaking out of rooms together. Nothing. Well, other than that time in the hall.

But I swear he didn’t see us.

Yet here Mason is, acting like he’s got front-row seats to my unraveling.

If Mason tells Molly I’ve slipped up—even a little—she’ll lose it. She’ll panic. She’ll think this whole thing is blowing up in our faces, and then what?

She’ll end it.

She’ll shut me out faster than I can blink, and this thing between us—whatever it is—will be over.

The thought of it makes me feel like I’ve taken a slap shot to the chest.

I can’t let that happen.

Iwon’tlet that happen.

I force out a laugh, trying to sell the lie better this time. “Mason, you’ve had one too many, man. You’re seeing things.”

Mason doesn’t buy it. He never does. He just smirks knowingly, leaning back in his chair like he’s got all the time in the world.

“You keep telling yourself that,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table.

I don’t respond and just take a long pull of my drink, trying not to let him see that he’s hit a nerve.

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