The moon highlights the fading tear tracks on her cheeks and I stand up. She’s young. Perhaps she was homesick tonight.
I’ll let her sleep. We’ll address this in the morning.
Chapter Twelve
In which Mason decides to Address This Issue.
Afton…
The house is quiet when I wake up, and I’m hoping this meanshe’sgone. No false, comforting gestures, no wooden attempts at endearment.
No touching me.
My treacherous center still warms hopefully when I think about all the things he’d done to me and I keep sternly redirecting myself. Giving me three orgasms doesn’t make him any less of a heartless, manipulative bastard.
Taking my time with a long shower and getting dressed as slowly as possible, I finally head downstairs, hoping to see Talon in his black suit, drinking his black coffee.
Unfortunately, it’s Mason sitting in the kitchen, watching something on his laptop.
“Good morning,” he drawls, looking me over thoroughly. “Did you sleep well?”
“Just fine, thank you,” I lied. Can I back slowly out the door and down the hall with any scrap of dignity intact?
He resolves my dilemma. “Sit down, darling. I made breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.” Oh, the lies are piling up.
Mason’s beautiful face is cold and remote before he manufactures a smile. “Nonetheless, you didn’t eat dinner last night. So, I’ll make a plate and you’ll eat what you can.”
I’m frozen in place, but when he heads toward me, I step around him and seat myself at the table. He opens the warming section of his fancy Wolfe oven and takes out a tray of bacon, eggs and something that looks like scones.
“Orange juice or cranberry?”
“Uh, cranberry please.” The bizarre moment of domesticity is making this worse. I don’t know if he’s trying to establish normalcy again, but it would feel more realistic if it was a dark, stormy night and he was locking me in the attic.
He’s wearing a perfectly-fitting dark grey suit and a crisp white shirt and for a moment, I wish I’d never heard his conversation, that he could have fooled me for a while longer. Seeing the polar indifference slip out from under that gorgeous face and nice manners makes his attempt at appearing kind even more offensive.
“There you go.” He puts the plate in front of me and I can smell him, pine trees and winter, something that smells slightly like gunpowder. “The scones are called tattie scones, they’re essentially fried mashed potatoes and delicious.”
“Thank you.”
We eat in silence for a moment as he looks over stock numbers on his laptop, making a couple of notes on his phone before setting them aside. When I force myself to look up from my plate, he’s lounging in his chair, one finger running over his lower lip.
“You’re upset,” he says abruptly. “Can you tell me why?”
“Why would you think that?” I deflect.
That thick finger running over his lip… his fingers are calloused. They rasped against my skin that night-
What in the actual hell is wrong with me?
“You didn’t respond to my texts, you didn’t eat, and you moved into the guest bedroom,” he says. “Help me understand.”
I wonder if he knows how mechanical he sounds.
“We did everything we were supposed to do, right?” I lean back, keeping eye contact through sheer force of will.
One elegant brow raises. “What do you mean, darling?”
