ANYA
THE SOUND OF FOOTSTEPSdown the hallway stirs me awake. I yawn, rubbing my eyes and glancing at my phone, seeing that it’s only 6 a.m. Someone walks past my room again, heading in the opposite direction, then there’s a soft humming of pipes.
My brother never wakes this early, so it must be Mason. I’m not sure Zayden is even home yet. I lie in bed for a few minutes, trying to convince myself to get up. With a sigh, I throw off my blankets, the chilly morning air biting the exposed skin on my legs.
With another yawn, I shuffle out of the room. I run into something hard. And wet. I stumble back, and a strong grip prevents me from toppling over. I stare at a bare, muscled chest with water glistening across it before eventually moving up to meet the brutal intensity of Mason’s eyes as he stares down at me.
‘Good morning,’ I whisper.
‘Morning, Blush,’ he says, lips curving into something that is halfway between a smirk and a smile, his voice raspy with sleep.
My skin warms under his hands. I wonder if this sizzling tension will ever let up. It makes even the simplest encounter feel like I’ve stuck my finger into a power socket.
‘You’re up early,’ I observe, feeling heat rise up my neck because his hands are still on me, burning my skin. I haven’t had this sort of a reaction to a guy in ... well ... ever. It’s only ever been him.
‘I’m always up early.’ He releases me, stepping back and gripping his towel, which has slipped a little. I try hard not to stare at the prominent v-line between his hips and the hard muscles covering his torso. I curse myself when my eyes skim over his stomach and down to the bulge that his towel is covering.
I step to the left at the same time he does. Awkwardly, I step right. So does he. He reaches out again, spinning me so we swap places. He smirks at me before turning and strolling down the hall. My cheeks are on fire and I groan quietly, quickly rushing down the stairs just so I can breathe again.
After using the downstairs bathroom to freshen up, I gravitate to the kitchen to make coffee and breakfast. I’m absently licking Vegemite off a knife when Mason appears.
‘That is a terrible habit,’ he mutters in disgust, actually looking repulsed as he shakes his head, his dark hair falling across his forehead. ‘You and your brother are so alike.’
‘Sorry, Dad.’
Mason eyes me for a moment, then bumps me out of the way with his hip so he can make a coffee. It’s such a familiar gesture that he’s made countless times, but something I haven’t experienced for so long, it makes tears randomly spring to my eyes. Blinking them away, I move out of the kitchen and take a seat in the lounge room. I feel as if I’m teetering on the edge of a breakdown and the tiniest thing will send me spiralling.
I watch his large hands make coffee. The last time I saw Mason was two years ago when he turned up with my brother for my eighteenth birthday.
Flashes of the night whirl around my mind. Drinking, dancing, his hands on my body, sliding underneath my dress and up my sides when no one was watching. We had been flirting on the line of danger for a long time. It had become obvious to everyone, including the girl he was dating at the time, even though neither of us would have ever cheated.
I can almost feel his hands on my thighs, travelling up them ...
‘What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?’ Mason asks, turning to face me. He raises a mug to his lips, peering over at me.
‘Thinking about my eighteenth birthday.’
Mason chokes on his coffee. I coolly watch him turn a shade of dark red as he splutters, the hot liquid sloshing over the side of the mug. He hisses when some of it lands on him. He hurries to get his hand under the tap, clearing his throat awkwardly.
‘You never reached out to me,’ I continue after he finally gains his composure. ‘You just left.’
He places his cup down and flattens his hands on the benchtop. He bows his head. Silence stretches between us, making the air thick, and it feels hard to breathe. I’m not sure I can do this. I’ve had enough heartache in the past few years to last me a lifetime. I don’t need this.
And then the door opens.
‘Anya!’
I drag my gaze from the man before me and a genuine grin takes over my face when I see my brother. I stumble to my feet and launch myself at him. He spins me around, hugging me so tight I fear a rib might crack.
‘Hi!’ I beam at him, reaching up and tousling his hair. ‘You need a haircut.’
He reaches out, pinching the skin on my bicep with his pointer finger and thumb. ‘You need to eat more.’
Since the break-up with Dylan and Phoebe, I’ve shed a few kilos. I’ve always been the same weight, never able to lose any with exercise or a change of diet, and yet in the past few weeks the weight has fallen off me.
‘Who knew heartbreak was a great way to diet?’ I say dryly. I wasn’t in love with Dylan, as much as I tried to be, but the heartbreak of losing my friend feels as sharp as the pointy end of a knife.
The smile slips from his mouth, twisting into an angry snarl. I knew he would be beating himself up over this. He tried his best to prevent this very thing from happening. He has always been overprotective and, honestly, with some of his friends he had good reason to be. As much of a nuisance as it was at times, I’ve never despised him for it.
