Page 83 of Gin and Lava

“A little word play isn’t playing dumb,” Mason defends. “And I think it would be hot as sin to undress you in your oil-coveredAndromeda.”

“Not when you see that eBay price tag plummet,” I sass, unfolding two white sheets and arranging them on the table.

“Hmmmm,” Mason replies. “Sell the dress and make money, or have the hot memories of Naomi massaging me in an oil covered—”

“I’m already out of the dress,” I point out, turning on my bare heels and strutting over to him. “There will be no memories of oil on the dress, or massages in the dress, or tricking me into screwing you in the dress.”

“You like that dress more than my cock, don’t you, Tate?” Mason picks up one of the envelopes on my kitchen table and presses it to his chest like I’ve spoken blasphemy.

“Careful, Haas,” I warn. “You make me choose between my Andromeda and your cock, and you may be sorely disappointed.”

“Damn girl!” he plays back, clutching the envelope like I’ve stabbed him. “Of course, I’m definitely going to fuck you in that dress now. If only to take it out of the picture.”

“How about I just ask you to take your clothes off and get on my massage table instead?” I offer. “While I’m still in the mood to touch you naked.”

That comment zips through the air with charged energy. It’s everything Sam thinks being a masseuse is about. In fact, this entire situation is what he hated about it: horny guy, late night, alone on my massage table.

Mason fans his face with the piece of mail, pretending he might pass out from my suggestion. But he’s no tease, he simultaneously pulls off his tie and starts to undo the buttons of his dress shirt. Only, his eyes snag on the mail in his hand and he stops halfway through the buttons.

“Are these—?” His brow furrows, and he looks at them confused.

Shit.

“Who’s Sissy Tate from Mercer, Texas?” he asks. “And why are you getting all of her mail?”

I shoot forward and grab the bill from Mason’s hand, only the table is full of them, so he picks up another handful and slips to the far side of the kitchen, using his height to keep me away.

“Those are private,” I hiss.

“These were actually sent to the Texas address,” he says, “then repackaged and sent to you.” He looks at me curiously. “Sissy Tate?”

“Is my mother,” I say sharply—too sharply for it to seem like nothing.

I hold my hand out, palm up, for him to give me the envelopes. They’re none of his business. Mason’s eyes narrow at me, before surrendering the mail.

“You pay your mother’s bills?” he asks, nodding to the large stack still on the table, that I should’ve hid before bringing him here.

“She’s my mother,” I say defensively, despite the anger roiling in my gut. It was stupid to leave these out. But I was distracted by the Andromeda dress, and the beach house, and seeing Sam again.

“You pay your mother’s bills?” Mason echoes, his face still etched with confusion. “Doesn’t she own that fancy beach house your friends are staying at?”

Oh.

Right.

None of this makes sense if you believe my parents own that beach property instead of my aunt.

“Um, not exactly,” I admit, realizing I’m caught.

I could lie—I probablyshouldlie—but I’m not that fast on my feet. Plus, this is Mason. Of everyone I know, he’s the one person who won’t care that my mother’s unemployed and living in the dump-of-a-trailer I grew up in. Or that her full-grown daughter pays her electric bill, and her cable bill, and her water bill, and every other thing in her life that requires money.

“I mean, no,” I clarify. “My motherdoes notown the beach house. She never did.”

“Is it your dad’s? Are your parents divorced?” Mason asks, trying to put the pieces together.

“They were never married.” I look at my mother’s name on the envelope. It’s always just my mother. “My dad hasn’t seen me or my mom since I was in diapers.”

“Oh.” Mason’s cheek pinches. “It’syourbeach house?”

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