Page 10 of Dean Daddy

“You can’t make a decision like that for me. Your home isn’t my home. I’ve never even lived there,” I argue.

“Marcie, we need to do what’s best for you. This affair is going to break your heart and possibly impact your career,” she tells me.

Mason reaches under the table and holds my hand. I look at him and he winks back.

“No, mom. I’m staying here,” I affirm.

“I’ll take care of Marcie. You don’t have to worry about her career or her heart,” Mason tells her before we get up and walk out.

“I don’t like this. I’ve never fought with my mother like this before,” I whisper.

“When she sees that we’re serious, she’ll come around, kid. I promise,” he assures me. “You have to give it a little time. You know, a cooling-off period.”

“So, now what?” I ask him.

“Now, I’m taking the rest of the day off and we’re going to buy you some furniture.”

“I told you that I can’t afford it right now,” I remind him.

“And I told you that it doesn’t matter. You can pay me back or not, but either way, I’m going to make sure that you have a comfortable place to live.”

* * *

“We needto run to my place so I can change and pick up my truck,” Mason tells me.

“You have a truck?” I ask.

“I do. I’m what you might call a micro-farmer. I bought an old farmhouse on the edge of town. Between remodeling the house and prepping the land for my garden, I needed a farm truck,” he explains.

I can’t wait to see his place. In my mind, I pictured him living in some sleek, modern condo with stark white walls and abstract paintings that cost more than my rent. Now, I’m intrigued by the thought of watching him work shirtless in the hot summer sun. His muscular body glistening with sweat as he plows, or tills, or whatever the correct term would be.

We pull down a dusty gravel road bordered by white-railed fences. At the end of the road stands a two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch that’s been freshly painted white with blue trim. A cherry-red antique truck is parked under a carport beside it.

“This is my place,” he tells me and I bounce in my seat.

“This is amazing!” I can’t help but gush because somehow, everything here suits him.

“I’m still perfecting the interiors. You won’t be so impressed when you come inside,” he grins.

He unlocks the tall oak door and I admire the stained glass window in the center. Inside is an entry that opens up to a large living room and farmhouse-style kitchen. He was right about it still needing work. Upon close inspection, it’s clear that the walls need paint and the floors need sanding, but it’s easy to see the potential.

“Make yourself at home while I change,” he tells me and I go to the kitchen and look out the windows at the rolling meadow outside. I summered in the English countryside and Mason’s place has the same kind of charm.

He returns wearing a pair of tight jeans and a black tee shirt. His shirt sleeves are pushed up, exposing his huge biceps and a black tattoo of a cross on his left forearm. He looks like he stepped out of an issue of Muscle and Fitness.

“Is there a story behind the tattoo?” I ask.

“Yes, I was young and impulsive once,” he shrugs.

“Something tells me you’re still a little impulsive.”

“How so?”

“Well, this thing between us sure escalated quickly.”

“That wasn’t an impulse, little girl. That was destiny,” he says, taking me in his arms.

“Do you have plans for all this land?”

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