Page 21 of What are the Chances

Charlotte

THE SUN IS OUT, pouring into every little nook and cranny of the landscape, kissing it with warmth and infusing it with happiness. I’m grateful for the sunglasses I have perched on my face, hiding how often my gaze wanders over Mason’s face and body. He’s wearing a dark green Henley with the sleeves rolled up, showcasing forearms corded with muscles accountants shouldn’t have. Every time he moves, his shirt shifts, revealing his chest, abs, and the other unfair things someone with the world’s most boring job shouldn’t have. Seriously, he probably sits in some boring, whitewashed cubicle all day, typing numbers into a computer. He must spend every minute of his free time at the gym. Who knows? The shirt is insanely inappropriate, and the further we walk into town, the closer I get to ducking into a tourist shop just to buy him the baggiest shirt I can find.

He has a pair of dark sunglasses and dark blue jeans that fit into him snugly and perfectly. I wish I could snag a burlap sack, toss it over him, and douse the image he’s creating with his come-visit-Ireland-because-of-hunks-like-this look he has going on. It doesn’t help matters at all he’s stopped treating me with animosity. No, he’s being absurdly nice, sweet even, and it’s the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. I can already tell my mind is crossing the line from detesting Mason to thinking outrageously inappropriate thoughts—I’m starting to think of him as a friend. A friend who also happens to be insanely gorgeous.

“Okay, I’m a wee bit out of habit, so forgive me,” Mason says, his finger pointing at a dot on the small tourist map he found at the visitor center. “But I’m pretty sure the church we’re looking for is up here and around the corner.” He glances over at me but keeps his finger in place. I lean over a fraction, the movement causing us to step to the side of the sidewalk and stop.

I try to follow Mason’s finger, but all the blue and red lines along the map aren’t making any sense. It also could have something to do with the fact Mason’s cedar scent is suddenly overwhelming my senses. Was I half animal or something? I have the deepest urge to stick my nose to his throat and inhale until it hurts. He’s literally clouding my judgment. God, I’m strange.

Trying to snap out of it, I shake my head and correct myself, giving him a wide berth.

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I’m not sure what to look at,” I resign, urging myself to move forward.

The street is bustling with activity, which makes walking with any kind of distance from Mason difficult. He follows me and keeps his gait loose and low-key like he has all the time in the world to find this church. To be honest, I feel like we do. I was on a mission to find my family, but I’m past the point of pretending I’m not enjoying Mason’s company.

We turn the corner and there ahead is the large church Mason had promised.

Pointy.

It’s the first thing I think as I ogle the old, stone building. It has a substantial, pointed roof with a large bell at the top. Mason picks up his steps, grabbing my hand as we draw closer.

“Come on, let’s see if anyone can help us,” he says over his shoulder. “They’re supposed to have business hours, but who knows.” He powers forward, and I can’t help but feel my chest fill with warmth. His eyes are lit with excitement, his body obviously buzzing with curiosity of what we might find out. His excitement only intensifies mine.

I try to relax and calm myself. We’re about to ask if we can examine some of the older historical records the church has been entrusted with. Once upon a time, nearly everyone in town attended one church before there were multiple, and this was the oldest one standing. The records act as a census, showing plot locations, family connections, and more. It’s a start, and if this doesn’t work, there’s the library containing older census records and an actual heritage center outside the city limits.

Mason has all these ideas to help me find the answers I came here for. His eagerness to help is a vibrant thing, buzzing under my skin. That mixed with my growing attraction to him and sleeping next to him at night is a problem—a very confusing problem. One I need to be cautious of and treat like a dangerous disease that could be caught if the correct precautions aren’t taken.

#

We’ve spent the last hour pouring over a large, dusty, leather-bound book. I didn’t expect Mason to actually help me read all the names. I thought he’d lie down in a pew or something and take a power nap, but he was right next to me, scanning page after page. I sit back a fraction and watch him as he skims through another page. A rogue piece of hair falls slightly over his forehead, and his beautiful eyes narrow, reading the words printed along each page. Deep in thought, he continues gnawing on his pencil, and damn if I couldn’t break my eyes away from his lips.

My stomach dips, and guilt assaults me. I have no right looking at him like this. I have a boyfriend at home. One I was still learning to forgive, but he’s there just the same.

“I think we should head out,” Mason says, standing up from his chair. “We have a lead that will take us over to Killoo. It’ll take a good bit of the day to get there.” He raises his arms, stretching his body, his Henley lifting up, showing those abs and the lower V dipping below his jeans.

I swallow and shut my eyes, closing the large book with a bit of a thud. I slowly stand and follow Mason out of the large building.

“What’s the plan?” I ask, readjusting my sunglasses. “If it will take us a while, should we call for a ride?”

Mason looks in one direction down the street, then swings his head to scan the other, obviously searching for something. A second later, he’s jogging over to a man who’s loading flowers into the back of a small delivery truck. I stay where I am, crossing my arms over my stomach, butterflies dancing in my belly as I watch Mason. From what I’m able to tell, it looks like he’s trying to convince the florist to drive us, pointing to me, then the truck.

A moment later, after the gentleman with the flowers agrees to whatever Mason asked, Mason jogs back over to me with a brilliant smile on his face.

“Found us a ride,” he breathes.

I look past him at the small truck. From the looks of it, it could barely fit the driver.

“Are we sitting in the back?” I ask, shading my eyes to get a better look at our new mode of transportation.

“Uh, no,” Mason gives a half-hearted laugh. “Where we’re headed has a bit of an incline, so riding in the back won’t be possible.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, pressing his lips together in a flat line. “We’re going to share a seat.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for my reaction, instead, he grabs my hand and leads me over to the light green truck filled with every flower imaginable. To be honest, it reminds me of Mason’s mother’s garden.

“Mason!” I whisper-yell, trying to regain his attention. “That’s not legal. We can’t share a seat.”

“This is Ireland, not America,” he explains over his shoulder. “We won’t get in trouble. Besides, you want to walk there?”

We stop in front of the truck’s passenger door, the delivery man already inside. I swallow my nerves and let Mason open the door. If we’re doing this, I’m not going to make the first move. If I don’t, I’m not making any choices. And if I’m not the one making any choices, I can’t be found guilty. Right?

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