The sexy, infuriating jackass grins at me and shuts the bedroom door.
What just happened?
Grabbing my pillow, I shove it over my face to muffle my scream of frustration. I should have seen this coming. WhenMason wants something, he’s relentless. I should know. He even told me point-blank last night that he wanted me back. That he came here for me. Well, too damn bad.
Tell that to my stomach which is full of excited butterflies. Or my heart which is thumping wildly in anticipation of being pursued by Mason. Or the rest of my body which is now lit up like a freaking Christmas tree.
Get a grip, Aria.
Mason is the enemy. A gorgeous, mouth-watering, sexy enemy.
He broke your heart,the functioning part of my brain reminds me.
Then perhaps he’s the perfect man to put the pieces back together, my heart replies.
Yep. I’m totally screwed. And not in the good way I’m now craving after last night’s kiss. Stupid, perfidious hormones.
When my phone goes off again, I reach for it and ignore reading the half dozen text messages waiting for me and go straight to the source.
Me: You busy?
Kama’s reply is instantaneous.
Kama: I was about to call Brandon’s number to make sure you were still alive.
I hit the icon to call her.
“Are you doing the walk of shame right now?”
I throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. “No. And why are you whispering?”
“Then why haven’t you texted me back?” she shouts.
Cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder, I yank clothes out of my chest of drawers. “Mason is here.”
“Why areyouwhispering?” she asks, then, “What did you just say?”
I literally run into the bathroom, lock the door, and slump against it.
“Mason is in my house, fixing me chocolate chip pancakes.”
Total silence.
“I thought his name was Michael. Geesh, what a sucky coincidence.”
I place my phone on the vanity and hit speaker.
Shucking on the pair of sweats I grabbed, I reply in exasperation, “I did go out with Michael. But then Mason kissed me.”
“Are you drunk?”
I pull the hoodie over my head. “Are you even listening to me?”
When I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I gasp in horror. It looks like I slept with a litter of baby racoons. My hair is a tangled, sticking-up mess, and I have black mascara circles under my eyes because I forgot to wash my face before collapsing into bed last night.
“It’s kind of hard to keep up when you call your date by two different names.”
I grab a washcloth, wet it under the faucet, add some soap, and scrub vigorously.
