“Um …” She looks around the room, everywhere but at me. “I’m, um … I’m tired. I should get to bed.” She finally meets my eyes then, and I hear the word she’s left unspoken—alone.
I clear my throat. “Right. You should. Me too.” I take two steps toward the door. “Night, V,” I whisper.
“Goodnight.”
And then I leave, heading back to my room with my heart pounding in my ears.
Viola just kissed me. And she didn’t slap me and tell me to leave her alone, even if she did kick me out pretty fast.
I’m not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, though. Because if I’m trying to actually be friends with her, I’ve just fucked up my chances once and for all.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Viola
Mason leaves me alone the next day but seeks me out on the plane the following morning, sitting down next to me on the loveseat I’ve claimed. Other than a polite smile and a muttered, “Morning, V,” he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he kissed me two nights ago.
I stare at him for several long moments, not sure what to make of this. Not sure what I expected, honestly. Do I want him to acknowledge the kiss? Isn’t it better just to pretend it never happened?
And it’s not like it means anything to him. Obviously it doesn’t. He’s kissed a million women. I’m literally one in a million. For him a kiss is probably as blasé as a hug is for a normal person. I mean, if it meant something, then he wouldn’t be sitting here next to me, reading a book, and acting like I’m not even here.
“Do you need something, V?” he asks without lifting his eyes from his paperback.
I snap my eyes back to my tablet, where I’m supposed to be reviewing the schedule for the next few days. “Nope. I’m good.”
Closing his book, he leans closer to me, on the boundary of invading my space. One finger tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You sure about that?” His voice is low and rough, and I have to suppress a shiver.
I dart a look around the plane, but no one seems to be paying any attention to us. “What are you doing?” I hiss.
His finger trails down my neck, raising goosebumps in its wake. “You didn’t object to me touching you the other night. In fact, you seemed to enjoy it.”
I tap on the screen, adding a note about one of the interviews to the calendar, trying really hard to ignore the way Mason makes me feel. Even if I did enjoy our kiss—which, I mean, how could I not? He’s an amazing kisser. But that doesn’t actually change anything. I still don’t do casual sex, and that seems to be all he does.
Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. “I’m not one of your groupies, Mason.”
He pulls his hand away, curls his fingers into his palm, and straightens. “I know that, V. I promise I’m not treating you like one.”
I look at him then, raising an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
Shaking his head, he blows out a breath, looking annoyed. “Yeah, I’m pretty fucking sure I know how I act with groupies. And it’s definitely not the way I act with you. For one thing, groupies don’t end up on the plane.”
I snort. “Okay. Right. Since I’m employed by the band, then you can’t possibly be treating me like a groupie. If you say so.”
He studies me for long enough that I turn back to my screen, trying to block him out. I can’t, though. Especially not when he starts talking again. “Groupies are …”
“Disposable?” I supply.
He shoots me a dark glare. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
Realizing I’m not going to get much work done with him sitting here talking to me about his feelings and philosophy regarding the use of groupies, I put my tablet to sleep and sit back against the couch with my arms crossed. “I apologize. Please continue.”
His glare hasn’t lightened. “Groupies have a specific set of expectations. And they understand that whatever happens, isn’t the start of anything serious. That it’s a one-off opportunity. I’ll likely never see them again, and if I do, I won’t remember who they are, because they’re—”
“Not important,” I butt in. “I get it. You really don’t have to go into all this detail explaining something to me that I’ve adequately pieced together already.”
Another glare, and I’m not gonna lie, he looks extra hot when he’s smoldering at me like that. “It’s not that they’re unimportant as people. But they’re strangers. Are random strangers important to you?”
“That’s a false equivalence. I don’t go around having sex with random strangers. If I did have sex with someone, then they would be important to me.”
He studies me. “You’ve never gone on Tinder just looking for a hookup?”
I shake my head. “No. That’s not … I’m not like that. Sex matters to me.”
“It matters to me too,” he declares.
It’s my turn to glare at him. “Clearly. But we have different definitions of how it matters. To you, having it matters very much. To me, it matters in the context of the relationship. Sex is intimate. Vulnerable. A way to get closer to someone you care about. How do I know if I want to get closer to someone I don’t even know? I don’t want random dudes touching me within five seconds of meeting me, much less meeting me with the expectation that they’re going to get in my pants shortly.”
He grunts, like that answer isn’t what he expected. “Okay. So what does that mean? You need a relationship before you have sex? A three date rule? What, specifically?”
I sigh. “I don’t know. It’s not like there’s a hard
