last job was so terrible. “I worked at an insurance agency.”

He hisses. “I can already see how this could go wrong in so many ways.”

With a chuckle, I raise my glass to my lips again, surprised that I only get a few drips. Mason reaches forward with the bottle and refills my glass again. I blink at the bubbly liquid. How many glasses have I had now? Shrugging, I sip it again. It’s good. And the bubbles tickle my nose. And I’m warm and relaxed and Mason is asking me questions about me and not ordering me around and I’m just going to go with it because soon this little bubble of contentment will pop and we’ll be back to our strained version of friendship where we’re not really friends but at least we maybe don’t hate each other anymore.

I should maybe stop drinking the champagne though.

One more sip. “Right. Yes. My boss was only a few years older than me, but he talked down to me like I was twelve and dumber than rocks.”

Mason looks affronted on my behalf. “What? Seriously?”

I nod solemnly. “Seriously. He’d explain things to me a million times, like I couldn’t figure it out the first time. Or the second. Or the third. And so on. Once he asked me to email a particular client list, and then got mad at me for emailing them, saying he didn’t actually want me to do that and now I’d embarrassed him.” I hold up a finger. “That was actually the last straw. I’d already interviewed with you guys and was planning on giving my notice that day, but instead I just told him I quit, effective immediately, and here we are.” Residual anger at him calling me a liar simmers through my bloodstream, but I do my best to shrug it off, staring down at my half-empty champagne flute and twisting it between my fingers.

Mason’s hand lands on my foot, warm and heavy, his thumb drawing tiny circles around my ankle bone. “That sucks, V. I’m sorry.” He sucks in a breath and holds it for a second before expelling it on a sigh. “And I’m sorry I was such a dick when you started. I was …” He shakes his head. “It’s not an excuse, though. I was in a bad place, but that still doesn’t make it right that I treated you so badly.”

“You’ve apologized already,” I remind him.

He nods, his dark hair falling forward, but he pushes it back with his free hand. “I know. But somehow I feel like you don’t quite believe me.”

“I do,” I say softly. And I do. Now. I believed him before, intellectually, but somehow this time, in this setting, unprompted by anything but my story of my old job, his apology settles deeper into my soul. It feels real. Honest. Sincere.

Something about revelation and forgiveness is making me extra tired, though. Or maybe that’s just the tour catching up to me plus however many glasses of champagne I’ve had. My limbs feel heavy, and my neck doesn’t want to hold my head up anymore. Setting my champagne down on the table, I slump a little farther down the couch, resting my head against the back.

Mason pulls both my feet into his lap and caresses my calves and shins. It’s soothing. And unexpected. And I don’t quite know what to make of it, but I’m too tired to examine what’s happening too closely.

“We should head back,” he says after several minutes. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

Rousing myself, I pull my feet out of his lap and sit up, slipping my shoes back on as I blink a few times and rub my eyes. “That sounds good. I’m really tired.”

Mason stands and crosses the room. Opening the door, he pokes his head out, telling Dave to get the car brought around I presume, then comes back in our private room. His eyes never leave mine as he approaches, and there’s a soft look on his face I’ve never seen before. He holds out a hand and pulls me to my feet, staring down into my eyes without relinquishing his hold on my hand.

My throat works convulsively as I’m caught in this staring contest with him, and when I wet my lips with my tongue, his gaze zeroes in on the motion. His lips part and his chest inflates as he inhales, but then he seems to shake himself out of a trance and drops my hand. Stepping back, he shoves his hands in his pockets and gives me a small smile. “Shall we?”

All I can do is nod. I’m afraid my voice will be either a breathless whisper or a croak if I try to answer, and I’m not willing to risk either one. He gestures for me to precede him to the door and follows close behind me as Dave leads us through the maze back downstairs to the back door of the club.

Once in the car, we’re back to our usual roles, me on one side of the backseat, Mason on the other, both of us staring out our separate windows.

Except I keep stealing glances at him, trying to be surreptitious about watching the way the streetlights and headlights play over his features, his sharp cheekbones, square jaw, sensual lips.

Good god. Sensual lips?

What the fuck am I thinking?

I’ve definitely had way too much champagne.

Mason doesn’t like me. Not really. Sure, he might think I’m hot, might fancy a quick fuck, but that’s not what I want. And whatever tenderness or affection he might’ve shown me tonight is an anomaly. Or part of some elaborate scheme to get into my pants.

I’m not sure what’s going on with him, but apology aside, trying to be his friend will never work.

Chapter Twenty-One

Mason

From the way Viola was almost asleep on the couch at the club, I’m worried I might have to carry her to her room by the time we get to the hotel.

But she seems to

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