I should sleep too. Should take advantage of this real bed and relative safety while I have it, but I'm too wired. Too aware of how easily I just trusted a complete stranger. Too conscious of how fucking good Mason looked in his flannel shirt.
I shouldn't be attracted to him. Shouldn't be thinking about what those big hands would feel like on my body or whether that rough voice would sound different in bed. I haven't had sex in over three years, and my vibrator died somewhere in Nevada two months ago.
I force myself into the bathroom and strip off my clothes, catching my reflection in the mirror. The fluorescent light is harsh and unforgiving. My breasts are too big, heavy andpendulous. My stomach is soft and rounded, stretched skin from pregnancy that never bounced back. My thighs are thick, rubbing together when I walk.
I was always curvy, but after having Rosie, I never lost the extra weight. Never had the time or energy or money to worry about getting back to some imaginary ideal body. I'm just trying to survive, to keep my daughter fed and safe.
But looking at myself now, I can't help wondering what Mason saw when he looked at me. Did he see the exhaustion? The extra weight? The stretch marks and cellulite and all the imperfections I usually try to ignore? Did he see someone worth helping, or just someone desperate enough to accept help from anyone?
I turn away from the mirror and step into the shower. The hot water is instant and endless, a luxury I'd forgotten existed after months of questionable motel showers and gas station bathroom sinks. I stand under the spray and let myself cry. Just for a minute. Just long enough to release some of the pressure that's been building in my chest for six months.
Then I wash my hair, scrub my skin until it's pink and clean, and step out feeling marginally more human.
There's a robe hanging on the back of the door—Sierra's, probably. I pull it on, soft terry cloth that smells like lavender detergent. It's just a tiny bit small across my chest and hips, but it's clean and warm and I don't care.
I pad back into the bedroom and climb into bed next to Rosie, pulling her against me. She makes a small sound and snuggles closer, her little hand fisting in the robe.
"We're okay, baby girl," I whisper. "We're going to be okay."
I almost believe it.
Sleep comes faster than expected, pulling me under before I can overthink everything that happened tonight. Before I can second-guess following Mason here or wonder what the morning will bring. For the first time in months, I sleep deeply. Dreamlessly. Without waking every hour to check the locks or listen for approaching footsteps.
Next Day
When I wake, sunlight is streaming through the bedroom window. Real sunlight, not the harsh glare of parking lot lights. Rosie is sprawled across my chest, drooling slightly, her hair a wild tangle.
And I can smell coffee.
I sit up slowly, trying not to wake Rosie. The smell is definitely coffee, rich and strong, coming from the kitchen. Did I make coffee last night? No. I was too exhausted to do anything but check the locks and fall into bed.
Which means someone else made coffee.
My heart starts racing. Someone is in the cottage. Someone got past the locks I checked three times before sleeping. I slide out of bed and grab my pepper spray from the nightstand, moving quietly toward the bedroom door. Through the crack, I can see into the living room. Empty. But the kitchen—
Mason is standing at the stove, his back to me, cooking something that smells like bacon and eggs. He's wearing different clothes than last night—a henley that clings to his broad back and jeans that hug his ass in a way that should be illegal. He turns around, and I see his profile. Strong jaw, dark stubble, big, strong hands that make me wonder if he could scoop me up and put me on top of the kitchen counter.
"I know you're awake," he says. "I heard you moving around. Made breakfast if you're hungry."
I should be furious. Should demand to know how he got in, what the fuck he thinks he's doing cooking breakfast like we are longtime friends who haven't seen each other in a while. But all I can think is that nobody's cooked me breakfast in three years.
And that his ass really does look incredible in those jeans.
Fuck.
Chapter 4 - Mason
I'm a fucking idiot.
What the hell was I thinking, using the master key to let myself into the cottage and making breakfast like some kind of—what? Thoughtful host? Good Samaritan? I see Lily standing in the bedroom doorway, pepper spray clutched in her hand, eyes wide with fear and confusion, and I realize exactly how badly I've fucked up.
I should've knocked. Should've called first. Should've done literally anything other than break into the place where she's sleeping with her kid and start cooking bacon like a goddamn creep.
"Fuck." The word comes out harsh. "I'm sorry. I should've… Christ, I should've knocked."
Her fingers are still around the pepper spray. She's wearing Sierra's robe, and I can see her pulse racing in her throat. The same fear I saw last night when I approached her car, except now it's justified because I actually did something threatening.
"I thought it'd be a nice gesture," I continue, knowing how stupid that sounds even as I say it. "Making breakfast. Having coffee ready. But I wasn't thinking about how it'd look from your perspective. How it'd feel to wake up and hear someone in the kitchen."
