I’m under no illusions that the strategy of coming in late and leaving a few minutes early will work again today like it did the other day. Mason is too damn stubborn to allow that.
He calls—I send it to voicemail.
He texts—I leave them unread.
He shows up at my dorm—I sleep at the Taylors’ on nights Pops isn’t working.
Why won’t he just go away?
Then there’s the other issue, I think, my gaze sliding to the messenger bag on the passenger seat.
I have no clue what possessed me to bring it with me. I don’t know, maybe I was afraid if I left it at the Taylors’, Pops would somehow find it and take his temper to five-alarm status.
Being the main subject of UofJ411’s content on their Instagram feed is bad enough. The speculation, the rumors, the utter glee at the prospect of Mason being back on the market.
It’s the turn things have taken since my identity leaked that I never expected. Thanks to the rivalry between the schools, the news of my relationship status with our tight end found its way to the last Nittany Lion I would want in the know.
Another glance at the clock on the dash tells me if I’m going to class, I need to leave the sanctuary of my Jeep now.
Gurrrrl, get your ass out of the car, my inner cheerleader scolds.
I adjust the black and white chevron-print infinity scarf around my neck, worrying the thin cotton between my fingers.
I lift and replace the black Yankees hat on my head several times before finally giving in and pushing the door open to exit the vehicle.
Sure enough, waiting outside the lecture hall is Mason Nova. Damn him. I hate that I can’t deny how flipping hot he looks leaning back against the wall, signature backward cap on, feet kicked out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, hands shoved into the pouch of his U of J football hoodie.
Fight and flight war inside me, but before either one can win, Mason looks up and those beautiful seafoam green eyes lock onto me, sending shivers rushing down my spine.
“Hey, babe.” His deep voice rumbles out of his throat and into my chest.
I can’t do this. It’s too hard.
I turn to flee, but Mason’s bear-paw-sized hand wraps around my upper arm, encircling my bicep completely and preventing me from making my retreat.
“I don’t think so. Not this time.” He gives a gentle tug, always conscious of how much smaller I am than him.
Short of literally fighting him off, I have no choice but to follow him into the classroom—except when we step inside, it’s not our lecture hall, but rather an empty one.
“As much as I like seeing you in my hoodie, you do work a leather jacket.” He grabs the folded-over lapels, keeping me in front of him.
“Mason.” I put my hands on his chest, locking my elbows to keep as much distance between us as possible.
“What do I have to do to get you to call me Mase again?”
Why does such a simple request hurt the heart so much?
“Mason.” I try to sidestep, but his hold on my jacket is resolute.
“Skittles.”
I squeak at his nickname for me, the familiarity cutting deeper than I thought possible.
The leather of my jacket creaks as his hold on me tightens, the tips of my toes overlapping the tips of his as I’m forced across the last inch between us.
I drop my head, seeking the shelter the brim of my hat affords me, trying to hide from those light eyes that can see right through me.
As if he’s read my mind, my hat is gone, falling to the floor with a soft thud, and Mason’s warm breath dances across my forehead followed by the softest, gentlest, most heart-wrenching kiss.
No longer able to be stifled, a sob breaks free and tears start to stream. As if I’m not struggling enough, Mason doesn’t pull away, only bending to rest his forehead against mine.
“I miss you, baby.” His words may be whispered, but it doesn’t take away from the steel behind them.
I miss him too. So much. I’m barely sleeping, food’s lost all taste, coffee is (barely) sustaining me, and the only time I feel a micron of peace is when I’m at The Barracks, though even that is touch and go because seeing the twins only makes me think of him.
“You need to let me go, Mason.”
“No.”
Damn stubborn bastard.
“Pl-Please.”
I don’t know how much more I can endure before I break down completely. Every cell in my body wants to merge with his, every breath I take filled with the intoxicating aroma of his body wash.
It’s too much.
He’s too much.
“I’m no good for you.”
I can’t stop seeing those same words penned in harsh black Sharpie.
I had to guess so I hope I got the size right. Figured he deserves a heads-up about what a train wreck you are. Unless…the rumors are true, and he’s already realized you’re no good for him, realized being with someone like YOU can only be career suicide. You ARE your mother’s daughter after all.
It was the last line in the note accompanying the package Liam sent that really hurt.
“The fuck you aren’t,” Mason snarls, completely unaware of my inner turmoil.
He pulls away so fast there’s a breeze. When I finally chance a glance at him, peering through the loose curls that have fallen in front of my face, the only way I can describe his expression is thunderous.
He stomps toward the door, and I don’t know whether to cry out in relief or beg him not to leave. I’m a disaster. I want him to stay but need him to go.
Tears continue to spill down my cheeks in steady rivers, and I’m honestly surprised I’m not dehydrated from the gallons I’ve cried this last week.
I stop breathing when he picks up the backpack I hadn’t even realized he’d brought in with him, but
