Page 103 of Gin and Lava

Mason maneuvers to the edge of the mattress and gets up awkwardly, making me think he was just as turned on by that kiss as I was. He shuffles over to me and moves my blonde hair off of my neck, then he kisses the skin above my collarbone with a softness that makes me close my eyes and savor it.

He steps away and moves past me. When I turn, Mason’s pushing open the screen door and is walking outside into the night.

“Haas?”

“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Save me a plate of whatever they’re making.”

I almost ask if he’s alright, but he’s already walking down the path toward the purple and gold horizon. The sun is hidden behind the sea, its last rays of gold silhouetting him.

It’s easier to let him go.

It’s easier to ignore what hums in my chest like a brand.

It’s Mason, I tell myself, over and over again.It’s Mason. It’s Mason.

As if repeating his name will change something.

30

MASON

Naomi snores.

Not like a freight train or anything, but there’s a soft rumbling that escapes her mouth with every breath. The moon has set, and it’s dark in the sunroom. The ocean waves lap softly in the distance, and there’s a blanket of silence that’s finally covered the beach house. Two hours ago that dark living room was full of laughter and tequila shots, and drunken games of charades. With a dozen people around—including Trifecta’s permanentfuck-youglare—it was easy to play the fake boyfriend.

Ignore that kiss and focus on making everyone laugh.

Mix a few drinks and obliterate Trifecta’s team.

Be as obscene as possible when it’s my turn, and let whoever putBrokeback Mountainin the charades pot wish they hadn’t.

Lying here in the dark, this fake boyfriend thing doesn’t feel so fake. Not with my arm draped over her hip. Not with me eyeing that flimsy tank-top she’s wearing and wanting to slip my hand under it.

The friendly thing would be to sleep on the far side of the bed, but air mattresses are shit. This thing keeps deflating an inch every hour, making it impossible to do anything but give into gravity and roll into the center divot. Thus, Naomi is sleeping in a flimsy tank top and shorts with her back pressed against me in the perfect spooning curl. It’s fucking torture.

If I didn’t like it so much.

I mean, Naomi’s even beautiful when she snores.

I should get out of the bed and sleep on the floor. But how would it look if the wedding party walked out here in the morning and saw me on the other side of the room? That would be suspicious, wouldn’t it? Even if I claimed she had the herp.

Yup, I’m fabricating stupid reasons to keep Naomi pressed against me all night.

Because I’m an idiot.

And Ned’s right. I want Naomi sleeping in my bed like this—all the time. Those long legs tangled in mine. That soft body stretched against me in the morning. Her ass grazing my crotch and inspiring all kinds of Viking Princess antics.

I tell myself it’s just sex. That I’m the asshole who thinks with his dick and wants one thing. That’s all my tiny Mason brain can handle. I’m just going to lie here all night and perv on her. Imagine touching her skin. Imagine her sliding my hand inside her shorts.

No kissing.

Because if we start kissing again …

Shit.

I’m not going to get any sleep.

As carefully as I can, I roll away from her, snag my phone off the window ledge and open up the Pinterest app. I scroll through Naomi’s vision boards again, impressed. She won’t give herself credit, but she really has the foundation for a marketable brand. And the way she talks about it … I’m not going to think about that kiss.

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