Page 44 of What are the Chances

Charlotte

THE WARM STONE UNDER my fingertips centers me as I think of Mason’s question. What do I want to know? About a million tiny things that don’t really matter but make a difference to me.

I want to know why he sometimes looks like he’s in pain when he watches me, and why he secretly smiles when I try speaking like a native. I want to know why he really came here and what his life is like in L.A. I want to know about his family and his childhood and if he ever wants to get married or have kids. I want to be crazy and clingy and scrapbook receipts from meals we’ve eaten together. But really, none of it matters, and men won’t usually respond to all that nonsense, so I settle for my most consistent question.

“Why did you leave Ireland?”

I watch as his eyes widen in surprise and his right foot shifts back a foot or so as if he’s preparing himself for the conversation. He rubs absently at his face as though he had a beard to run his long fingers through although he doesn’t. It’s something I love about him, he’s always clean and smooth. Even watching him touch his face has me hot and bothered, leaving me wondering how sacrilegious it would be to have him take me against one of these ancient walls.

“That’s a bit of a story, Char. Not one I’m sure we’re ready to have.” He reluctantly breathes out, then shifts his body again as if he isn’t sure whether to stand still or walk to where I am.

He wants to touch me—I know it, I can feel it—but he’s holding back. Like he’s expecting something to divide us, and he’s just preparing for the fallout. It makes my heart hurt and beat wildly in my chest.

Just like last night when he assumed I wanted to stay at Alma’s, how quick he was to give up. He isn’t convinced I want this. I narrow my eyes at him as frustration slowly builds in me like a pressure cooker.

“Just a few moments ago, you seemed perfectly fine with me opening up about my breakup with Kyle.” I open my hands wide to showcase the large room we’re standing in. “Why would it be fit for that conversation and not the one about why you left?”

Mason brings his hands to his hips and raises his face to the open sky, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Why don’t we start with something smaller? Not quite so devastating and raw. Maybe we can make it a game.” He tilts his head down, and I can see his green eyes sparkle with amusement. Dammit, maybe he is willing to answer all my strange, obsessive questions.

“What kind of game?” Folding my arms across my chest, I stare him down with my best “don’t test me” face.

He laughs, and it feels like someone just tugged on an invisible string that’s been unknowingly attached to my chest. I push it down, just like I pushed down those damn emotions that came with his nickname for me—Mianach

Something I plan to get tattooed at some point somewhere on my skin. I love that he calls me his. I’m just not totally sure I’m ready to admit he’s mine. Even though I want that, I can’t accept the danger accepting it poses to my heart.

“I was thinking we could make a day of it,” he explains. “I’ll ask you small things, and you ask me small things until we build up to our big questions. We each get one point for every question we answer, and if by the end of the night we have at least ten points, it guarantees a full-length answer to the one big question we both have for each other.”

He stalks closer to me, his dark jeans hugging his thighs with every step. I tilt my head back as his boots go toe to toe with my sandals.

“Then at the end of the night,” he continues, “once we’ve confessed... maybe we can have a ride.”

His Irish accent wraps around me and stirs something deep in my lower belly. I let out a little laugh as his lips make contact with my neck. Wrapping my arms around him, I pull him closer.

“What kind of ride? Like on a horse?”

Mason’s shoulders start shifting underneath my fingers—he’s laughing.

Leaning back, I look at his face. “Why are you laughing at me?”

He’s nearly got tears coming out of his eyes. He presses his forefinger to his eyes as more laughter spills from him.

“Char, a ride means sex. I was insinuating we have sex after we talk.” He lets out another series of laughs before he clears his throat and takes my hand. I’m not even embarrassed anymore by my ignorance when it comes to Irish slang.

“Fine, we can play your game, but I have every intention of making my questions really difficult for you to answer, and you can’t lie,” I respond as he leads me back to the car.

“Deal,” he nods and smiles. “I won’t lie, but neither can you.”

He opens my door for me but pauses as I lean in to enter. Gripping my waist, he pulls me against his chest and kisses me. His lips are soft, but the kiss is demanding as if he’s saying he’s sorry for his earlier blunder.

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. He’s an idiot sometimes, but I want him to be my idiot even if I’m too much of a chicken to actually admit it to myself. His hand grabs my ass, and I let out a little moan into his mouth. Pulling back just a little, I whisper in his ear.

“I might not be able to wait until tonight for that ride.”

“Don’t say things like that to me when we’re standing outside a church, Char,” he says, laughing into my neck.

I laugh too, looking back at the tall structure and rethink my ideas about letting loose somewhere that has a cemetery so close. Best not to tempt the good Lord.

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