Page 48 of Rising Heat
“What if I were home?”
“I knocked first.”
“I could’ve been in the shower.”
A small smirk curves the edge of his mouth. Brief but devastating, sending an electric pulse shooting between my thighs as I think about this man catching me naked in the shower.
My vagina betrays me yet again.
“You weren’t.”
I clear my throat to try to stop the flush from rising up my cheeks.
For a second, his reserve seems to slip, and I already hate what the sight does to me.
“You’re Mack—”
“Mason.”
The correction is quiet and deliberate, with about six feet of distance packed into one word.
Asshole.
“Right,” I say. “Mason. Sorry. Tyler talks about you like you’re either Batman or a sleep paralysis demon, so I wasn’t exactly working with a clear picture.”
“Sleep paralysis demon feels harsh.”
“Breaking and entering feels harsh.”
He nods at the spoon.
“And you were planning to, what? Fight me with a kitchen utensil? Deadly.”
He squints, his voice laced with sarcasm.
“You still could’ve texted. Called. Sent a carrier pigeon. Smoke signal. Literally anything.”
He studies me for a beat, his attention steady enough to make me want to look away.
I don’t give him the satisfaction.
“You’d have worried about it all day.”
“That’s not your decision to make.”
“It only took twenty minutes.”.
“That isn’t the point.”
“No,” he says evenly. “The point is your sink works.”
He moves to pack up his toolbag.
The conversation should be over, but the urge hits before I can stop it.
To call after him. To tell him it’s fine. To whatever version of myself makes things easier for everyone else.
“Sorry, I just—”
