Page 53 of I Heart Mason Cartwright
“It does, doesn’t it?” She looks down at her phone. “Oh, ready for another furniture debacle?” She looks at it closer. “Actually, I think I kind of like this one.” She holds the phone out to me.
“I like that,” I say of the set. The frame is reminiscent of driftwood, and the dresser is a decent size without being too obtrusive. “Remind me which room this will go in.”
“Well,” she says rubbing the spot behind her left ear—the habit I kind of like about her—before continuing, “at first I was thinking the room with the little private patio, but that’s too close to my room and I do not need to hear y’all having sex.” She blushes and takes a long sip of her margarita.
“I . . .” I start. Not knowing what I intend to say. But it doesn’t matter because she keeps talking.
“So, now I’m thinking the one at the far end of the hall with a view of the beach.”
I clear my throat, and stupidly blurt, “We don’t have sex. I mean, we haven’t.” I feel my face heat. How ironic that I’m now the one blushing.
She looks at me, head tilted. “You’re engaged and you haven’t had sex?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, the second word ending on an upswing, making me sound moronic.
Why did I say that? It’s totally inappropriate and none of her business.
She continues talking, “How do you stay in the same room, the same bed even, and not have sex?”
“I—”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “That is absolutely none of my business.”
I clear my throat. Again.
“Just forget this whole part of the conversation. Let’s go back to the guest room. Oh wait, that’s how this all got started. Well, pretend it’s a guest room you won’t be staying in.”
Oh thank god. I’ve said enough for one day.
I laugh, but it’s an uneasy laugh, and sounds unnatural. “Well, if you want the guest room to have a patio, you could always add one if you want.”
“I don’t want y’all stayingthatlong.” She laughs. “Can’t make it too nice. You’ve gotta get back to Southlake sometime.”
“Southlake? As in Texas?”
“Yeah. Where we’re from? Where AshLynn lives.”
“I’m not living in Southlake,” I tell her.
“AshLynn agreed to move?”
“Well . . . no. I mean, we haven’t talked about it,” I say. “But Texas is a non-starter for me.”
“Huh,” Willow says. “Y’all haven’t really talked about much, have you?”
Our food arrives saving us from further conversation on the point. Willow eats half her food before pushing the plate away. “I can’t. I’m so done. I never want to see food again.”
The server comes by to check on us. “Another round?” she asks.
Willow looks at me, then decides for herself. “I have no walls to knock down thanks to margarita number one, so, yes, please to number two.”
“What the hell, me too,” I say, then pull Willow's plate over to my side of the table. “May I?”
“Of course. It’s so good, I just can’t. I’ve got a food baby as it is. Who knows how long it will take for that to birth. Or digest. Go through me, or whatever. Actually, that’s gross. Forget I said that.” She leans her head back against the chair top and closes her eyes.
I dig in to her food, she’s right, it is good. I finish her meal as well as mine, plus more chips. It’s not until I’m finishing my second beer that I feel full.
“Wow, you can really pack it away,” Willow says. “Where does it go?” She peeks under the table as a joke. I laugh.
