The please breaks something in my chest.
Mason stalks past me and wrenches open the hall closet door with more force than necessary. Glass bottles rattle on the top shelf. He stands there for a beat, shoulders heaving, before speaking without looking at me.
“You don’t keep blankets in here any more.”
I clear my throat, trying to remember how to form words around the lump lodged there. “Mabie moved them to the upstairs linen closet a few months back. We don’t get overnight visitors like we used to.”
Mason scoffs, the sound bitter and sharp. “I’m surprised this closet isn’t full of Dom’s endless collection of leather jackets.”
“Dom doesn’t live here anymore. Has an apartment over the bar.” I lean against the opposite wall, keeping the narrow hallway between us like it’s a demilitarized zone. “His old room will probably always be the way he left it, though. I’m not big on change.”
Mason huffs something under his breath that sounds like “typical,” though it’s hard to say for sure.
I follow Mason into the kitchen as he gathers supplies, watching his precise movements with growing frustration.
The room is silent except for the soft clink of glass jars being pulled from the pantry. Mason moves through my kitchen with the efficiency of someone cataloging an inventory—checking labels, setting aside items in neat rows on the counter. He hasn’t looked at me once since we came downstairs.
“Dried fruit?” I suggest, reaching for a container on the top shelf.
“Phoenix doesn’t like the way dried fruit sticks in her teeth,” Mason snaps, not looking up from the jar of honey he’s examining.
I set the container down slowly. “Right. Of course.”
More silence. More methodical gathering of supplies. Mason pulls down crackers, arranges bottles of water, finds the good chocolates Mabie keeps hidden behind the flour.
“You seem to do a lot more for Phoenix than I would expect of an assistant,” I say carefully.
His hands still on a package of almonds. “Phoenix pays me to do whatever she needs me to do.”
“But it’s more than that, isn’t it.”
The words hang between us. Not quite a question. An observation that demands acknowledgment.
Mason’s fingers tighten on the almonds hard enough that the package crinkles. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Then his shoulders drop half an inch and something that might be resignation crosses his face.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.” He sets the almonds down with exaggerated care, still not looking at me. “It doesn’t matter how I feel about Phoenix. It doesn’t matter that I—“ He stops. Swallows hard. “It doesn’tmatter because she sees me as her assistant. Her friend, maybe. But that’s all.”
The pain in his voice is a physical thing, sharp enough to cut.
“Is that why you left?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “Because someone like Phoenix is what you actually wanted?”
Mason’s head snaps up, eyes blazing. “I’m not doing this.”
He turns to leave, but I can’t let him walk away. Not again. Not after ten years of silence and unanswered questions.
I move into his space before rational thought can stop me—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that the scent of chamomile and black pepper wraps around me like a physical thing.
Mason goes very still. His pupils dilate and I catch the flash of alarm in his eyes before his expression shutters.
“If you can look me in the eye,” I say, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, “and honestly say there is nothing left between us, then I’ll stay on the other side of the house for the duration of your stay.”
His breath catches. I’m close enough to see his pulse hammering in his throat, close enough to watch his scent shift—the sharp spike of arousal cutting through the carefully maintained neutrality.
We stare at each other. His lip trembles. His pupils blow wider.
