Page 82 of Hidden Resolution
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you give me their number, and I’ll call them?”
“Shrood be me.”
“I get that, but it might be hard for you to explain right now, love.” He steered her back to the sofa, mentally chanting, “I will practice constraint,” as she shifted and wrapped her arms around his neck. Yeah, he might wish to bury his grief in sex, but it didn’t mean others coped the same way.
And there was always the issue of consent. He wasn’t that guy. Ever.
Easing her arms down, he settled her on the couch and tucked a blanket around her.
“Shrur. Now you wanna be all nice and shrit,” she grumbled, reaching for the bottle and frowning when she noticed it was empty.
“What’s the code to unlock your phone?” he asked.
Palms in the air, she gave a double-shouldered shrug. If she weren’t so fucking adorable, he’d strangle her.
“Okay, plan B.”
Facial recognition. By the time he’d convinced her that he didn’t secretly work for the FBI or CIA and unlocking her phone wasn’t part of a conspiracy, he was annoyed. Anyone who’d dealt with his wasted ass in the past was owed a heartfelt apology.
As he waited for Erica’s parents to answer, he worked out what he would say. They were kind when they had no cause to be, accepting his condolences and promising to contact him when they booked a return flight to Stonebrooke.
They didn’t blame Zack for the terrible tragedy Christie had wrought, and Mason was grateful for their generosity toward his brother. He provided his number in the event Shonda was unavailable. With a last promise to take care of her and any future details regarding Erica, he hung up.
Next, he texted Dane to check on Zack a second time and also to fill him in on the Suttons’ plans.
Scraping noises woke Mason from a fitful sleep.
Since wasted Shonda had a serious inability to keep her hands to herself, he’d taken the couch. It allowed him to keep an ear out in case she needed him. His plan had been to stay awake, but he dozed off. As the scraping continued, he struggled to get his bearings and determine the sound’s origin.
He tilted his head.
The front door.
If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear someone was picking the lock.
Soundlessly, he rose and padded to the foyer.
The door eased open an inch, making it no further than Shonda’s ridiculous security stick.
Last night, she’d insisted it would keep out unwanted bombers and pyromaniacs alike. To put her mind at ease and stop the ensuing argument, he’d shoved the damn thing under the handle.
And fuck all if the valiant little stick didn’t do its job.
Heart rate kicking up, he considered his option. There was only one.
In a bold move he’d probably question for months to come, he yanked the bar free and dove for the intruder. Surprise was on his side, and he managed to spin the guy around and shove him face-first into the wall, trapping his arm behind his back.
“What the hell, dude?” the intruder cried.
“Shut up!” Mason snapped, giving the man another slam against the drywall. “Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing, breaking into Shonda’s apartment?”
“She’s my cousin! I have a key for when I’m in town.”
He didn’t slacken his hold. “Cousin? What’s your name?”
“Billy. Can you chill, man? You’re ripping my arm from the socket.”
Mason took stock of Billy. Golden hair to his chin, roughly five-ten, and surfer speak. He scoured his memory, attempting to recall if Shonda had mentioned him. He drew a blank.
