Page 163 of Gin and Lava

“Mason?” I turn to find him standing behind me in the same grey suit from Ned and Olivia’s wedding, only his face is the color of a bruised pomegranate.

“I see you prefer to chew, gag, and spit them out,” Mason says, nodding to the carnage in my hand. “Maybe bow-tied balls are out. Which is surprising, seeing that I know how masterfully youcanswallow—”

“What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Well, I can’t resist two chicks making out,” he replies, holding up his phone. “Esme sent me some pretty saucy photos, and I hear there might be some mud-pit wrestling with the bride later.” He shrugs suggestively, then winces, that sunburn obviously painful.

“Are you okay?” I ask, throwing my used napkin in the trash before reaching up to touch his sunburnt cheek. “That burn is—”

“Epic? Yes, when I decide to go all in on something stupid, I don’t hold back.”

“Does it hurt?” My knuckles brush his cheekbone and he visibly shivers—though I’m not sure that’s pain. I drop my hand. “Sorry, that was—”

Selfish.

Mean.

He told me he loves me, and there I go caressing his face like a tease.

“Sorry,” I echo, jamming my hands into the pockets of my dress. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, it hurts,” Mason says plainly, looking into me in that way that makes my insides quiver, and I don’t think he’s talking about his sunburn anymore.

I avert my eyes, unable to face the heat of what he’s saying.

“Nice dress, by the way,” he says, and I almost laugh, unable to hold back from shooting him an incendiary glare. “It reminds me of—”

“If you say anything about what we did in my truck,” I cut him off, “I will slap that third-degree burned face of yours without any regrets!”

“Viking Princess,” he tsk-tsks me with a cluck of his tongue. “Always so violent.”

“You bring out the worst in me, Haas.”

“Or the best,” he winks, then points at my dress again. “This ensemble is missing some very important one-of-a-kind artwork.” He motions to my ears and neck. He’s talking about my jewelry—of which I’m not wearing any.

“I—I just—” I mumble, thinking of all my pieces still lumped in the box he left on my work bench. “I wasn’t ready to wear it.”

“You saw the website though,” he says softly. “Yourwebsite.”

“Oh my gosh, it’s gorgeous, Mason! I can’t believe you made that. It’s like a dream come true. It looks like a real brand!”

“It’s your brand. Your work.”

“Smoke and mirrors and photoshop filters,” I downplay.

“So is every other fancy brand you see,” he counters. “And there’s no place your jewelry looks more beautiful than—” He points to my bare neck.

I blush and look away. “I don’t even know when you found the time! A photoshoot, a website, a branding plan. You’re like Superman.”

“And my cock’s your kryptonite?” he tosses at me with a wink. And honestly, if things hadn’t gotten serious between us, I’d make a crack about how truthful that statement is. But of course, I can’t.

Mason shrugs like he feels that hesitation in me. “You find time for what’s important, Princess. Even without your jewelry, you look gorgeous in that dress.”

He says that too sweetly, forcing me to make a joke to break the tension. “And out of it, too, huh?” He gives me a cheeky smile as if he knows I can’t handle all his kindness and adoration.

And I can’t.

Guilt lines my insides like fat and frosting, making me sick. I respect Mason too much to string him along again.

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