Page 164 of Gin and Lava

“Mason,” I say finally, needing to address the elephant at the wedding. “Why are you here? You said—”

“Let’s dance,” he interrupts, turning toward the pitched tent under which a live band is playing a lazy tune. “You know I love to dance.”

His offer reminds me of that first night at Ned and Olivia’s wedding when I didn’t want to be single and alone, and Mason was kind enough to swirl me around the dance floor like a gentleman. Only, it’s early at this wedding, and dinner hasn’t even been served.

“It’s cocktail hour,” I say, pointing at the empty dance floor. “No one is dancing.”

“Well, someone has to get this party started.” Mason holds out his hand for me to take. “Unless, you actually give two fucks what everyone at this wedding thinks.”

“It’s not that. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea,” I say honestly.

“It’s just a dance, Tate. I think I’ll survive it.”

“Yeah, but you said—”

“Haven’t you learned to ignore all the things I say, Princess?” He offers me his hand again. “Now, are you going to live your life, or stand on the sidelines?” He tosses me a dashing smile, and even with the sunburn he looks incredibly handsome.

Part of me knows I should decline. That would be the polite thing to do. That would be kind. But another part of me can’t help herself, taking his hand and letting the soft squeeze of his fingers send a flutter all the way down to my toes.

He swirls me into place on the dance floor, just the two of us and the lazy jazz of the band drawling on the breeze.

“Now, let’s be careful,” he says with a soft tease as he places my hands on his shoulders, reminding me there’s a vicious sunburn under his suit. “I know Viking Princesses can get carried away.”

I give him a smirk. “You don’t think I can be gentle?”

But then his hand wraps around my waist and all of my senses wake up. The word gentle feels like a bomb I’ve placed between us. Gentle is exactly what Mason was when we were naked in my bed, and he made love to me like I was the only woman that existed.

“I think you can be everything you want to be, Naomi,” he whispers in my ear, before turning us to the music. It’s a simple waltz, four steps in the shape of a box, and yet I feel like I’m spinning, lifted from the ground and floating in his arms.

I close my eyes, and when his cheek presses against mine I feel the heat of that sunburn all through my jaw.

We dance cheek-to-cheek for the whole song, silent and holding and being present in the moment. When the next song starts, I open my eyes to notice others have joined us on the dance floor, and we aren’t the only ones swaying back and forth.

“I—” I start, closing my eyes again and taking a deep breath. “I told Sam it wasn’t real,” I admit. “I told him the truth about us, about how our relationship was a charade to make him jealous.” Mason stiffens, but stays quiet. “And I told him about my past, about not owning the beach house.”

Mason moves us slowly back and forth as the next song starts, letting my confession sit in the air between us. He’s quiet for so long I start to wonder if he wishes I hadn’t told Sam. But it’s only because of Mason that I was brave enough to share who I truly am.

“I’m proud of you, Princess,” he says finally, swirling me around the dance floor several more times, his hands soft and tender at my waist. But then he stops dancing. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have crashed this wedding. Especially if you told everyone we were never together, and if you and Sam are …”

His voice drops. Then his hands drop. He pulls back to look at me with a tight smile on his sunburnt lips, before he bends forward and kisses the center of my forehead. It’s tender and sweet, a good-bye before leaving.

“Sorry for being the guy who shows up when he isn’t wanted.” He lets out a long exhale, before turning and walking off the dance floor.

“Wait Mason, Sam and I—we aren’t—”

But he’s out of earshot and bee-lining it for the door.

55

MASON

What’s that saying?Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice—oh fuck it, I’m an idiot.

I storm through the parking lot toward my car and peel off my suit coat. Yes, it stings like a motherfucker just from moving my arms. Actually, the pain is nice. It’s real and angry. It’s better than all that sweetness that makes me completely unable to resist Naomi.

Esme’s a champ for wanting Naomi and I to be something we aren’t. Honestly, it’s a huge win that Esme even thinks I’m worthy of her friend. Just weeks ago she would’ve laughed in my face if I’d been foolish enough to express interest.

But truth is truth, and it’s always going to bite you in the ass. If Naomi’s telling everyone we aren’t together—not that we broke up, but that we werenevertogether, that our relationship was fake—then yeah, that’s my cue to make my final exit. Cue the dramatic music and roll the end credits.

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