Page 78 of Gin and Lava

Mason sneaks a glance at me past Shauri’s icing parade and I shrug, hoping he’s starting to see why I need support for this wedding.

Mason gives me a wink.

“Honestly,” Mason says, turning back to Shauri, “I thought orgasms were a girl’s best friend, and I definitely gave herseveralof those after proposing, so …”

I feel Sam’s eyes cut to me, but I refuse to look at him.

Shauri cackles in laugher. “Oh my gosh, you’re so funny! Isn’t he hilarious?” she asks the group, before turning back to Mason. “You are such a hoot! I’m going to like you, Secret Boyfriend.”

The heat of Sam’s glare burns into the side of my face, and I know he’s wondering who the hell this Mason guy is and where I found him. Sam wouldnevershare intimate details of our private life with anyone, much less a stranger he’s just met. His glare scrutinizes me, asking if I’m okay with Mason spouting off such personal information.

I let a tiny smile hitch my lip, then I turn to meet Sam’s gaze. Sam had his moments in the sack, but if I’m honest, he never gave me multiple orgasms. Sometimes I even faked it because I knew he was tired, and his ego wouldn’t weather the criticism. But the idea that this crass-talkingnobodycould turn me on, much less send me into triple-orgasm territory … it pisses Sam off.

The second our eyes connect, Sam knows I can see the jealousy in his expression. The competitive, philanthropic, I-always-get-what-I-want doctor is steeling his eyes and frowning at me like I have no idea what game I’m playing.

Good.

I like Sam jealous.

I like him wondering who I am now that we’re not together. For once, it makes me feel powerful, and not like the sweet girl who’s always bending to his will.

“Shall we get a table?” I ask, pointing to the restaurant that we’ve yet to go inside. “I’m starving.” I slip my arm around Mason’s waist and nuzzle my face into his neck, lifting my lips to his ear before saying, “You’re absolutely perfect. They’re eating you up. Sam looks like you just kicked him in the balls.”

“You keep using that word, princess …” Mason says quietly against my hair. “I don’t think it means what you think it—”

“Mmmmm,” I moan softly against his neck. “But later tonight, if you live up to that multiple-orgasm comment, you might discover just how perfect you are.”

“Tease.”

“You know I put out,” I whisper back, stepping in front of him with a wicked smile as everyone files into the restaurant.

“Can we skip the eating part”—Mason nods to the restaurant—“and just go to theeatingpart?”

“Nope.” I brush my lips against his. “Torture first.”

Mason groans. “You’re going to owe me one hard Viking-Princess-worthy massage after tonight.”

“I’ll make it unforgettable,” I promise.

23

MASON

The last thing I want is to be seated next to Trifecta, but after everyone finds their seats the only one available for Doctor GQ-Model is to my left. Hell, it would be better if I had to sit next to the bride-to-be, knowing Shauri’s going to hug me three-thousand more times, shooting out of the dark like a face-hugger from the movieAlienand clamping all those spidery fingers around my face.

The consolation is I spend the entire dinner with my hands on my date, purposefully watching Trifecta bray when I touch Naomi. Fifteen fancy degrees of pure hatred is shot in my direction when I put a hand on her knee, or an arm around her shoulder. I think he turns the ugly purple color of Shauri’s dress when I play with the jewelry between Naomi’s breasts.

Look Trifecta, this girl would’ve fallen at your knees and cried if you offered her arealring. But you chose medicine and your career over her, not to mention belittled her when you broke up (Naomi told me the whole story and it was shitty). So yeah, you don’t get a say in where my hands are. Not that Trifecta’s actually saying anything. Instead, he’s shooting glares at Naomi that ask if she’sreally okaywith my hands’ lurid exploring.

When dirty looks don’t pay off, Trifecta decides to go for the jugular by comparing our life’s accomplishments.

“I went to Yale Medical School,” he boasts, making sure Naomi hears (as if she’d forgotten). “What about you, Mason?”

“I have a degree,” I reply calmly. “But I don’t need to go three-hundred-thousand dollars in debt to run a tiki bar.”

“You own a business?” Trifecta says with a sarcastic edge, ignoring my student debt comment.

“I do,” I confirm. “It doesn’t make me rich, but it’s my frat-boy dream job: rum, girls in shirts so tight you can see their tits, drunken debauchery. The catch is”—I elbow him in the ribs—“I get paid for it.”

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