Page 57 of Playing Dirty

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Mason shifted his towel over his shoulder.

Something in his jaw tightened slightly like he regretted saying that out loud.

I studied him.

Really studied him.

Not athlete Mason.

Not party Mason.

Not interview Mason.

Just him.

Tired eyes.

Controlled posture.

Constant restraint like everything in him was held in place by habit.

“You’re bad at lying,” I said quietly.

“I wasn’t lying.”

“Sure.”

He exhaled once through his nose.

Then, unexpectedly:

“You left your coffee.”

That surprised me.

I frowned slightly. “What?”

“At the café,” he said. “You left it.”

I went still.

Because I hadn’t expected him to remember that.

Or care.

“It was empty,” I said.

“I know.”

Pause.

Then he added:

“I kept thinking you’d come back for it.”

That did something strange to the air.

Not dramatic.

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