V. She’s granted me the right to a nickname. A nickname no one else uses.
In my lust-fogged brain, that seems more significant than it probably is.
Chapter Sixteen
Viola
I’m not quite sure what I expected when I approached Mason and asked to be friends. But it wasn’t being tackled.
And it certainly wasn’t what’s happened since.
Mason has stopped avoiding me. Which I should be happy about. Right? That’s what I wanted. I wanted him to treat me like everyone else.
Except that “friendly” Mason doesn’t treat me the same way the other guys treat me. Oh no.
He still stares at me, just like he’s been doing for weeks. Only this time it’s up close and even harder to ignore. If I ask him what he’s looking at, he just gives me a lazy smile and says, “You.”
And when he calls me V?
Oh ma gahhh. It’s like he caresses that single syllable with his tongue on its way past his lips.
And thinking about his tongue and his lips is dangerous. Incendiary.
Especially given how often I catch him staring at me.
These aren’t polite glances or even absentminded abstract gazes.
No. These stares are hungry. Like he’s a wolf prowling through the forest, and I’m a lonely deer, barely aware there might be danger lurking nearby.
To make matters worse, he’s not only ready on time for everything, he’s actually become helpful. Solicitous, even.
He takes my suitcase from me. Asks if I’ve remembered to eat when I’m checking up on him. Invites me to sit next to him at the group dinners before shows and offers to get me refills.
It’s … disconcerting. I don’t know what to do with this version of Mason.
He looks at me and raises his eyebrows as he chews his bite of chicken at the pre-show dinner. “Do I have something on my face, V?”
Gah. There he goes again. I shake my head. “No. You’re … fine.” You’re perfect, is what I almost said.
My mother would say that my dalliance with popular fiction has addled my brain. I’ve read too many stories with broody bad boy heroes, and now I’m seeing one in the flawed man who’s gone from a thorn in my side to … a girlish fantasy.
I drag my attention back to my own dinner, scooping up a forkful of risotto. The caterer tonight is excellent. I’ll make a note to use them again if we ever come back through here.
But risotto and chicken and caterers can’t hold my thoughts for long. Not with Mason seeming to take up all the air in our vicinity. Not when I’m thoroughly attuned to his every glance, every breath, every move.
Why am I so hung up on him?
It doesn’t make sense. He was mean to me. Even if he’s not mean to me now, even if the nickname I presented as an option feels like a wicked promise or a dirty secret between us in his mouth, even if …
I rub my forehead with my fingertips. I completely lost my train of thought there, caught up in the dirty secrets and wicked promises of his voice, his lips, his tongue. And it doesn’t help that the memory of those lips and tongue on mine is still as fresh as if it happened yesterday instead of two months ago.
My mom’s right, though. Too many romance novels have addled my brain. Mason’s not some romance hero. He’s not going to fall madly in love with me because I bring him snacks and water.
“Hey.” He nudges my arm. “Are you okay? Should I get Blaire’s special cold prevention recipe and force it down your throat?”
I turn to look at him, my face still resting on my hand. His brows are adorably wrinkled, his lips wet and shiny, framed by artfully trimmed scruff. He’s never without it. It looks like he’s forgotten to shave in a few days, but since it’s always the same length, it’s clear he maintains it that way.
I offer him a smile. “I’m fine. No need to threaten me like that.”
His forehead smooths, and an answering smile pulls at his lips. “So you admit it’s a threat.”
Chuckling, I sit up straight and push my food around my plate before scooping up another bite of chicken and rice. “I’ve never been on the receiving end, so I’m just taking your word for it.”
When I glance at him, he’s got his mouth open like he’s about to speak, but seems to be locked in an internal conflict on whether or not to actually say what he wants to. “What?” I prompt, trying to fight down a smile. For some reason, I’m almost always smiling around him these days.
He makes a low rumbly sound in his chest and shakes his head, looking away as he reaches for his drink. “Nothin’,” he says in that gruff tone he sometimes gets.
But now I’m curious. I poke him in the side, and he flinches away. “Tell me,” I demand, poking him again.
Flinching away, his mouth full of water, he makes a sound of protest. When I go to poke him again, he catches my hand and holds it hostage. Undeterred, I poke him with my free hand. “Let go! And tell me what you were going to say.”
He shakes his head, deftly capturing my other hand and pulling both arms across his body so that I’m almost lying across his lap. I twist and squirm, trying to get free, but his grip is like iron. “Gah! Let me go!” But I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice.
“Are you going to stop poking me in the ribs?” His own laughter rumbles out of his chest with the question.
Shaking my hair out of my face, I glare up at him. “Are you going to tell me what you were going to say?”
“No.” His eyes flicker all over my face.
“Then you have your answer.”
