Page 17 of What are the Chances

Mason

I’M LYING IN THE middle of the bed, my arms crossed over my chest, my chin tipped up, facing the ceiling. The sound of the shower coming through the tiny door in my parents’ attic rings through my ears. I wanted to fall asleep the second Charlotte stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t stop the thoughts running through my mind. It wasn’t only the confusion I still felt over what had happened with the strange old man who had shown up at my door, a sad, reluctant Charlotte standing behind him, her hair a mess, still damp from the pouring rain. Luckily, she was wearing her tall rain boots, so I took comfort knowing she wasn’t completely clueless when it came to the unforgiving Ireland weather.

When the old man had told me the reason he had to bring Charlotte back to my house, my stomach dipped, causing my throat to constrict with an unfamiliar sickness. Some piece of shit human stole her wallet. I wanted nothing more than to get in my father’s car, drive down to the pub, find the man, and beat the living shit out of him—even if I was barefoot and only wearing my sweatpants and a t-shirt.

The longer I lie on the bed in silence, the more my anger grows at our situation. Charlotte screams tourist, not only with her thick American accent, but the way she carries herself. She’s apprehensive and cautious. Innocent. The thought of someone taking advantage of her causes my blood to boil.

My skin flashes with heat, and a thin sheen of sweat forms along my forehead. Sitting up, I frantically remove my t-shirt, hoping the cool air will calm me down. Feeling the cold air dancing across my skin, I lie back down on the bed, only this time, I turn on my side, away from the bathroom door. I cross my arms once again, hoping my anger with her will pass.

I lie in silence, thinking of all the things I have left to say to her when I hear the bathroom door swing open, listening to her small feet pad across the rug covering most of the hardwood floor. The other side of the bed dips slightly, and I feel her climbing under the covers, her movements rough. She jerks the blanket back, digging her legs underneath the covers, then jerks them back over her.

Pressing my lips into a flat line, I inhale heavy, deep breaths, forcing myself to remain quiet. Charlotte must think I’ve already fallen asleep because she doesn’t say a word as she shifts on the bed, making herself comfortable, her back briefly brushing against mine. I ignore the sudden rush of blood coursing through my body at her touch and focus on the white wall in front of me. The room is dim and the shadow of the moon, peeking through the small window above our bed, shines a white glow down on us. Her constant shifting causes me to bounce slightly on the bed, and my frustration with her becomes too much for me to keep my silence.

“Fucking Christ, Charlotte. What are you doing?” Turning around, I sit up and face her.

She’s still lying on her side, angrily adjusting the pillow beneath her head. Her bare shoulder peeks beneath the fluffy blanket covering the lower half of her body. My fingers flex against the mattress at my side, realizing she’s wearing a small, thin strapped tank top. Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” she bitterly says. “Did I wake you?”

“No. I wasn’t even asleep. But do you have to move around like that? It’s obnoxious.”

Her body stills, and her eyes remain focused in front of her. Her shoulder rises and falls with her steady breaths, and for a moment I regret my words. Why can’t I ever be nice to the woman? She’s in a foreign country, and her wallet has been stolen, her first day here. I sigh and bend my leg, resting my arm over my knee.

“I’m sorry. I know you’ve had a bad day,” I say, hoping it will somehow make her feel better.

“I don’t need you to apologize. I’ll be fine,” she grits out.

I scoff in disbelief and shake my head—stubborn ass woman.

Suddenly, she sits up, turning to face me, her eyes narrowed.

I was right, she is wearing a thinly strapped tank top, and fuck if it wasn’t affecting me. Luckily, the blanket is still covering my lower half, hiding the evidence of what she does to me.

“What, Mason? Spit it out,” she yells.

“Nothing.” Laughing, I grin and shake my head again.

“Obviously, it isn’t nothing.”

Her wide eyes continue to stare at me, then she nods.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking, so I’ll go ahead and say it, spare you from having to scold me. I know you’re doing everything in your power not to say what you really feel.”

Refusing to meet her gaze, I hold out my hand, inviting her to continue.

“Enlighten me then.”

“Well.” She inhales a deep, dramatic breath and slowly breathes it out before she continues. “You’re going to tell me I should have listened to Sam and not gone out by myself. You’re going to say I should have paid closer attention to where I was and what I was doing.” She dramatically drops her hands onto the blanket at her sides and looks up at the ceiling. “Also, I’m obviously a tourist and people always try to take advantage of people like me an oblivious American. Does that sound about right?” Rolling her head to the side, she stares at me, waiting for me to agree with her.

I pause and allow the silence to fall between us. Looking away, I focus my attention on a loose thread in the blanket, twirling it between my fingers, refusing to allow her to be right.

“You forgot the part where you allowed a complete stranger to drive you all the way here.” Again, I’m not sure why I continue making these remarks. Something about pushing Charlotte’s buttons turns me on.

Feeling her shift beside me, a pillow suddenly smacks the side of my face.

“Holy hell.” I push back the pillow and watch as it falls over Charlotte’s lap and onto the floor. “What was that for?” I rub my cheek, but I find myself smiling.

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