Fuck. Was the smiley face too much? Too juvenile? Is punctuation in texting lame? What if he thinks I’m clingy? Or—
My phone pings, and relief washes over me.
Mason:me 2. r u busy rn?
Hunter:Nope. Do you want to come over?
Mason:be there in 20
Normally, the excessive acronyms would make me cringe, but it’s oddly endearing coming from Mason.
Launching myself into the bathroom, I scrub my face, brush my teeth with way too much toothpaste, and give my tongue the deepest clean of its life. I wrestle my hair into something that looks halfway presentable.
Next: outfit. Almost all of the clothes in my closet are thrifted or designer, the latter of which are gifts from my parents. I manage to find a pair of gray sweatpants and a purple tank top that clings just right. Casual. Cute. Chill. Like I’m not trying too hard to impress him, even though I am.
When the doorbell rings, I wait a few seconds before opening it. Just long enough to seem cool. Not desperate.
Then I swing the door open, and my lungs freeze.
Mason stands there, lit by the warm-toned porch light, looking stupidly hot. He’s in a plain black T-shirt that hugs his muscled chest and arms like it’s plastered to his skin. His light brown hair is damp, curling at the ends, and he’s wearing black joggers with scuffed sneakers. There’s something boyish in the way he stands, one hand stuffed into his pocket, the other holding his keys.
“Hey,” I greet, my voice cracking embarrassingly high.
“Hey,” he replies, eyes sweeping over me in a way that makes my skin feel hot.
I step aside. “Um, come in.”
He walks past me into the foyer, glancing around like he’s in a museum. I suddenly become hyperaware of the absurdity of this house. The marble floors, the oversized windows, the perfectly staged décor and furniture that looks like a set design.
My face burns. “I know it’s a lot.”
“No kidding,” Mason says, his voice full of amusement. He steps farther into the open-concept layout, peering into the sleek kitchen. “This place is insane.”
There’s a massive island in the middle of the kitchen with a sparkling white quartz countertop. Mason runs his hand over it and whistles. “This counter’s bigger than my entire bathroom.”
“My parents insisted,” I mutter, scratching the back of my neck. “It was the only furnished rental they could find on short notice.”
He looks back at me, one brow raised. “So, you’re like…richrich, huh?”
“I’m not,” I say quickly. “My parents are.”
He laughs. “Sure. That’s what rich people say.”
I bite my bottom lip. “Yeah, well…”
He pauses at the window above the sink and stares at the lake. The waves lap calmly at the shore, the beach cloaked in orange light as the sun sinks into the horizon.
“Nice view,” he muses.
“Mhm.”
He doesn’t look at me as he speaks. “Growing up, all the kids who lived here went to private schools. A bunch of real estate guys came in a few years back and bought up most of the houses. Now they’re all rentals and Airbnbs.”
“It’s a nice neighborhood,” I offer.
He turns back toward me, hands braced on the lip of the countertop. His gaze pins me in place, intense and searching, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “So, what do you wanna do tonight, Hunter?”
A nervous laugh slips out of me. I wave a hand vaguely toward the living room. “Um, maybe we can sit? Or—uh—hang out?”
