I shift in my seat to see him better.
“After graduating CU, I enrolled online at the University of Chicago and got my certification six months ago. While completing that, I created an LLC and was lucky enough to know a few authors I had met on Instagram that were willing to give me a chance. I copy edit, but I also proofread, beta read, and do developmental editing. My clientele is mostly romance authors… what?” I ask when his smile keeps growing as I ramble.
He parks the truck and turns the ignition off.
“Nothing.”
My chin dips in incredulity at his non-answer, and I cross my arms over my chest, getting defensive as my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment for going on about my work like an idiot.
Mason reaches over the center console and brushes a hand down my cheek. My breath stills at the gentle contact, and I have to force my eyelids not to flutter close.
“Hey, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Shut down. I love listening to you talk. I want to know everything.”
“Then why were you smiling?”
It’s a stupid question brought on by my own insecurities. For some insane reason, I want Mason to be proud of me for following my dream and accomplishing exactly what I said I wanted to do.
“Because I’m happy.”
Oh.I wasn’t expecting that answer.
“Because I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you,” he continues.
Idefinitelywasn’t expectingthatanswer. And if I were spouting self-truths, I’ve missed him too.
I turn the tables on him and ask, “Where did you go after graduation?”
“Tampa. Hated it.”
Mason glides a finger down the curve of my neck; his touch is seductive, and it takes everything in me not to moan when his fingertips trace a line from my neck down my arm to my wrist.
He shouldn’t touch me like this. I shouldn’t let him. It’ll only blur the lines I just mentally drew in the sand about us becoming friends.
But I don’t stop him. Nor do I stop him when he leans over and lightly kisses my temple near my ear, causing a million fluttery pinpricks of need to erupt all over my skin and cascade down my body like a sensual waterfall.
“We’re here,” he whispers in that husky, deep voice I remember so well and dream about often.
Not able to break free of the magic his simple, chaste kiss has me under, all I can do it utter, “Huh?”
The driver’s side door shuts, breaking me from the spell, and I look around, trying to figure out where we are.
Mason opens my door and offers his hand to help me down.
“This is where you wanted to take me?” I ask in confusion when I see the letters spelling out “Dearborne High School” on the concrete and brick façade of the enormous building. “To Brandon’s school?”
As soon as my feet touch the parking lot, Mason threads our fingers together and starts walking, not giving me an option but to follow.
I tug on my hand. “Mason, I don’t—”
“I never told you about my past. About my childhood growing up or what happened here,” he says, and it’s the desolate tone of his voice that shuts me up. The pain I can hear that’s infused in every spoken word.
I think back to all our conversations and realize he’s right. Mason called his best friends, Bennett and Carter, his brothers, and I chalked it up to how close they were and assumed he said it because he was an only child. However, when I would ask about his parents, where he grew up, his childhood, or anything too personal, Mason would change the subject. Funny how I never picked up on that or thought it was odd. My vision was clouded by the rose-tinted glasses of falling in love, I guess.
I don’t ask him what he meant bywhat happened here. Because I already know, and it’s not only from the news and newspaper reports I saw. Brandon goes here, so it’s impossible not to know about the horrific school shooting that took place six years ago. My stomach curdles when understanding slams into me. Mason never told me the name of the town he was from, only that it was a small town in the Appalachian region of the state.
