Page 22 of Faking it for Gran's Sake

I push my palms to the ground trying to create a healthy distance. “I hope you didn’t get grass stains on your precious suit.” My sarcastic tone rings loud and clear.

Before he releases me, he says, “Falling for you is worth more than a stuffy suit.”

I freeze. My gaze roams his face, searching for answers. Is he still in love with me, or has he fallen in love again?

Mason rolls me to the side, props himself on his elbow, and leans his head in his palm, looking intently into my eyes. “What’s the verdict? Am I spontaneous enough, or do I need to provide more evidence?” He gently removes some grass clippings from my hair.

My lips part to say something, but I’m unsure how to respond. Mason’s fingers cradle my neck, and his thumb caresses my cheek. I close my eyes, begging him to kiss me, but I won’t make the first move. I’m not going to be responsible for what happens next.

I sense him come close, and his lips brush mine. I relax my mouth but don’t kiss him back. He trails sweet kisses across my jawline and toward my earlobe. He whispers, “How am I doing in the not-boring department?”

Mason is definitely not boring when it comes to kissing. He makes his way back to my mouth, every press of his lips teasing me. I resist fully giving in to him.

His mouth is warm and moist, and the sensation turns me to jelly.

I’m trembling so much that the ground might crack open and swallow me whole.

Hold up. There’s a rumble in the distance. My eyes spring open, and Mason jerks back. We both notice the lawnmower heading our way. We scramble to stand and brush the grass from our clothes. Mason grabs his shoes and my hand before tugging me toward the playground.

Once we reach the swings where Mason’s socks remain, I drop my hands and point back to the field. “That didn’t happen. Erase it from your memory.”

He chuckles. “There’s no way I’m gonna forget that kiss.”

“What kiss? I didn’t kiss you.”

“Okay, live in denial then.” He smirks.

Oh, he’s impossible. Impossibly irresistible.

Mason turns his back to me, collects his socks, and shakes out the sand.

I call out, “No more kissing until the wedding day. And three seconds is long enough.”

He sits on his backside and slips on a sock. He doesn’t turn to me but replies, “Sure thing. If there’s any kissing between now and the wedding day, it will be because you’ve initiated it.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen.”

“We’ll see.” He says it with annoying confidence. Confidence that sells million-dollar deals. But money won’t buy me. Quality time is my currency.

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