His eyes twinkle at me. Wow, this guy is unrepentant in daylight. I like it, but I should probably avoid indulging him, mostly because of how out of practice I am at the whole sex thing. Though I get the sense that a single weekend with him will get me wholly reacquainted with it.
The problem is that sex would make it too easy to avoid conversation, so finding a suitably benign topic, I grab on like it’s a life raft in an ocean of my own desire.
“So you and Wyatt have worked together for a while?”
“Since the start of this assignment. I thought he was a stuck-up prick at first, but he always comes through for me. Looked like he and your friend hit it off last night.” He wags his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his cocoa.
“That they did. I’ve never seen Nina so into a guy before. Usually she chews them up and spits them out, but I think she might want to see him again. Which is good, but . . .” I frown and he immediately picks up on it.
“You worried about something? I can vouch for him.”
“It isn’t him I’m worried about.” I look at him, debating how much to open up about my brother.
His gaze is intent, the earlier irreverence replaced by a focus I don’t think I’ve ever had from a man before—certainly not Barnaby. Except I have felt that level of focus before . . . from a certain patient who, despite just having surgery for a wound that could leave him paralyzed, found the wherewithal to proposition me moments after regaining consciousness.
“Callie, talk to me,” he says, carefully scooting closer. He reaches out and takes my hand. “What are you worried about? Is it the DEA thing?”
I wince. “Kind of. But it isn’t what you think, exactly.” Heaving a sigh, I set down my mug and turn to face him. “I had a brother. Chris . . .”
I trail off, suddenly finding it difficult to get the words out. Evidently it isn’t just Nina who I need to be worried about, but me too. Mason’s eyebrows dip, the more serious expression adding a hint of danger to his already devastating good looks. He seems to grasp what I’m trying to say, but only nods and squeezes my hand as he waits for me to continue.
Taking a shaky breath, I say, “Chris was six years older, so as girls do, Nina and I both idolized him. She had a crush on him for years. Probably her whole life.”
“Booth reminds you of him somehow?” he asks.
“Not just looks, Mason. Chris was a DEA agent. He was killed on assignment.”
Mason blinks rapidly and leans back a little, mouth opening, then closing without saying anything. He takes a breath through his nose and looks down at his mug with a slow nod. “So you think she’s latching onto Booth because he reminds her of your brother, Chris . . . Was his last name Nicolo like you? Maybe Booth knows the story.”
I huff a laugh. “No, we didn’t use our full last names once we started our careers. Mom and Dad kept their last names when they got married, but Chris and I were hyphenated. He kept Mom’s name for professional reasons, I kept Dad’s. My full name is Callista Angelica Longo-Nicolo. Since Chris went into the intelligence sector where Mom rules, he chose to use her last name. And since I followed in Dad’s footsteps and became a doctor, I kept his.”
I shrug as if it’s that simple, even though it’s far from it. Mom has never quite forgiven me for dropping “Longo” from my name, and I’d wager that doing it may have driven a deeper wedge between her and Dad than I intended.
Mason is quiet for several seconds, just looking at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time. It’s a little disconcerting, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Has he figured out that my Mom’s a senator? Not everyone is in tune with politics the way my family is. He may not even know a Senator Katherine Longo exists.
Finally he shakes his head and sighs. “I’m sorry about your brother. I can ask Booth if he knows anything about what happened, if you want.”
“No. If they’ve got something good going on, I think she’ll bring it up to him on her own. I just hope she doesn’t see him as a substitute, you know? She was as devastated as I was when Chris died. I think it’s part of the reason she’s so hard on men.”
He leans over and sets his mug on the coffee table, leaning back with a groan and a nod. “I don’t know what I’d do if any of my brothers died. But I guess they all know exactly how it feels to lose one.” He pulls the blanket tighter around him and sighs, letting his head fall back atop the couch cushions so he’s staring at the ceiling.
“Is there more to the story than you told me last night?” I ask, though I’m a little distracted by the bare expanse of his throat, the light dusting of stubble just beneath his chin giving way to smooth, tan skin. The ink doesn’t start until just beneath his collarbone, but from there down, he’s covered. Tracing my gaze across one stretch of ink, I see another scar that I’m positive was one of the wounds I actually stitched for him that day three years ago.
“Not much,” he says. He lifts his head and looks at me, and I tear my gaze away from the top of his chest, flushing at the smirk that greets me.
Flustered, I stand and
