But is that actually what he said?
I rewind the night and replay it in my memory. He just said to pick a club. That he wanted to go out.
I lift my hands in the air in an exaggerated gesture of frustration. “How was I supposed to know you weren’t bringing along all the groupies in a hundred mile radius? That’s what you’ve done every other time you wanted to go out!” I’m being loud. Too loud. But there’s no one here to witness it. And no one can hear me outside of this room.
Well, I suppose it’s possible Dave could if he had his ear to the door. But with how loud the hall is? Eh, that seems unlikely.
Mason takes a step closer to me, the smile gone from his face, that predatory look in his eyes again. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear then softly trails his fingers over my shoulder and down my arm.
The gesture raises goosebumps in its wake. What …? What is he doing to me?
Abruptly he steps back and moves to the low table where the alcohol selection is ranged. Picking up one of the liquor bottles, he looks from it to me. “What’ll you have? There’s champagne. Or shots.” He shakes the bottle a little. “Or we could call the waitress and order mixed drinks. Whichever you prefer.”
“Uh … aren’t I …” I lift a hand and gesture at the closed door. “I’m usually on babysitting duty. I have to stay sober.”
He unscrews the top of the bottle in his hand and pours a stream of clear liquid into a glass. “You’re off the clock tonight, V. Pick your poison.”
I hesitate for another moment, but Mason spears me with a look that means he’s in no mood to deal with more dithering. There’s no one else here. No risk of him getting caught on camera getting blown or fucking someone against a wall. Because the only person available for either of those activities is me, and … yeah. That’s clearly not gonna happen.
“Champagne,” I say in a voice that sounds firmer than I feel.
He gestures me over with a tilt of his head, pulls the champagne bottle out of the bucket with a slosh and peels back the foil. I move closer to pick up a champagne flute, holding it at the ready to catch the bubbles when he pops the cork.
A giggle bursts out of me as effervescent as the wine while he fills my glass. He meets my eyes from under his lowered brows, a smile tipping up his full lips.
And I’m transfixed once again. Caught.
Thankfully he seems unaware of whatever spell he casts on me. Or I don’t cast a similar spell on him, in any case.
Once my glass is filled, almost to the brim, he replaces the bottle in the ice bucket, picks up his glass of liquor, and settles on one of the couches. He pats the seat next to him with his free hand, sipping his drink. “Sit. Talk to me.”
I settle on the couch, but not as close to him as he indicated. I’m not dumb enough for that, at least. Sitting too close would only make it easier for me to fall under his spell. And even though we’re supposed to be friends, I’m not dumb enough to think he wants more from me than that.
Well, from the way he kissed me that first night, I doubt he’d object to a physical relationship.
I’m just not sure I’m built to separate a physical relationship from an emotional one.
I’ve never done it before. And somehow being in close proximity to one’s fuck buddy all the time seems like a recipe for disaster as far as casual relationships go.
Look what happened with Blaire? She had no problem maintaining casual relationships in general. She extolled the virtues of such arrangements to me on multiple occasions when I’d complained about the apparent lack of available men who even wanted a real relationship.
And even she caught feelings for someone she was only supposed to have a casual relationship with. Which sent her even farther away, joining a new tour, where she started yet another casual relationship only to have it turn into more.
Which just proves my point.
Casual relationships can’t happen in the context of a tour. Spending so much time together means feelings will inevitably get involved.
“What are you thinking about so hard over there?” Mason asks, his voice a soft, intimate rumble.
Chapter Nineteen
Mason
Viola’s keeping her distance from me, sitting on the opposite end of the couch, her face going through a range of expressions as she thinks about something.
When I ask what she’s thinking about, her head jerks up and her blue, blue eyes clash with mine. “Huh?”
Looking her up and down, taking in the hint of cleavage over the top of her standard black tank, her legs curled underneath her, I gesture at her with my glass before taking a sip. “You seem like you’re having an argument with yourself over there. Care to share with the class?” I wave my arm at the empty room.
She smirks in response and shakes her head. “No.”
“No?” I arch one eyebrow high up my forehead. That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. Not that I thought she’d actually tell me, at least not everything she’s thinking, but I thought she might splutter out a protest. Or pick some neutral subject. Not a flat refusal.
Her chin lifts in challenge. And god, that spark of defiance sends all my blood rushing south. “You said I’m off the clock. That means I don’t need
