Page 125 of All Your Reasons Why

“No big deal,” I say, plopping down. I reach for another wine cooler and carefully construct a calm, clear text message, which I type out and send to Mason.

41

ROWAN

Why was alcohol even invented?What a stupid idea alcohol is.

I lean back on the couch, groaning.

I’ve gulped down a packet of hangover helper, and I’ve taken a shower, but it’s not helping. Everything hurts and I’m dying. Thank heavens it’s the weekend so I don’t have to drag myself in to work looking like last week’s roadkill, because I’m already on Cecelia’s shiznit list.

I curl up on my sofa, squinting at the remnants of last night’s girl-fest. Shelby and Tasha helped me clean up some of it before they staggered on home, but we were all hammered. There are empty cookie and fudge packages scattered on the sofa and coffee table, which proves we were a mess.

My head is pounding with a steady rhythm and I’m dreading having to call Mason and spell everything out.

Pound, pound, pound ...

I massage my temples.

No, wait, that’s not my head, it’s the door. Someone’s pounding on the door.

I get up and stumble over. “What?” I yell. It can’t be Shelby again, can it? She sleeps in after late-night parties.

“It’s me. I got your text,” Mason booms from the other side of the door. I’m suddenly aware that I am wearing bunny slippers, a faded pink tank top, and neon-yellow sweatpants, and my hair is a snarled rat’s nest.

Oh, to heck with it. I’m not trying to seduce him.

I pull open the door and look at him through bleary eyes. He’s got a bruise on the right side of his face, which is not surprising because he had a game last night. Still, I wince at the sight of it. I don’t like to see him hurting.

Mason lights up at the sight of me. He’s still so ruggedly handsome that it hurts to look at him. He’s wearing a knit cap and a puffer jacket, and there’s a dusting of snow on his hat and shoulders.

He walks in, holding a tray with cups of coffee, a bag of bagels, and a bottle of aspirin.

“I thought you might need this,” he says.

“What? Why?” I blink at him.

“I could tell you were having quite the party last night.” He walks past me and sits down on the couch, setting down the coffee and bagels. Then he sheds his coat and tosses it over the arm of the sofa.

I look at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“That text you sent? The one that was in Martian?” He leans down and picks up an empty wine cooler bottle and looks for a place to put it, then sets it down on the end table.

I glower at him. “That was a highly thought-out well-constructed communication from a professional publicist. Give me that aspirin.” I grab it from him, pour three into my hand, and wash it down with black coffee.

He pulls out his phone and calls up my text, then holds his phone out to me.

I lean over to read it, trying not to get too close to him because I know I’m a weakling when it comes to resisting him—even when I feel like this.

“Mxson, w tlk to me tom abt yor coch.”

I wince and straighten back up. “Oh. Okay. Well, Shelby, Tasha, and I had a few wine coolers.”

“A few?” he says, lifting an eyebrow.

I cross my eyes and it hurts. “Ugh,” I say, kneading my head. “We drank while we were watching the game last night ...”

“You watched the game?” Mason flashes me a grin and arches his eyebrows. “I’m flattered.”

---