Chapter Fifteen
In theory, this was supposed to be a simple, straightforward fieldwork session. I was going to take initial surveys of each of the plots and tally up the plant species. I came prepared. I brought my identification guides, sunscreen, and my trusty research notebook.
What I didn’t prepare for was being completely distracted by a shirtless, six-foot-two lifeguard with wind-tousled hair and a crooked smile.
So here I am, crouched in a patch of dune grass, daydreaming about sucking Mason Burke’s dick instead of focusing on the impact of invasive species on the fragile lakeshore ecosystem.
I’m supposed to be a scientist. I pride myself on being logical and rational. Yet I’m willingly letting my prefrontal cortex be hijacked by hormones and nonsensical feelings.
But God, I want to kiss him again.
Groaning, I force myself to turn my back to the lifeguard tower and focus on my work. I move methodically through the plots, counting all of the Pitcher’s Thistle and Spotted Knapweed, the latter of which is a pesky invasive species with vibrant purple flowers. The work is soothing, and I start to fall into a rhythm.
That is, until my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Mason:hey. wanna have lunch 2gether?
Hunter:Yes. :) Meet me in the shed?
He replies with a thumbs-up emoji. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head down the park trail, winding between beech and maple trees. I take a few grounding breaths, focusing on the scent of distant lake water mixed with decaying leaves. I count each step as I hike down the trail, feeling the squish of decaying forest matter beneath my boots. It helps me pretend I’m still in control of myself.
When I reach the maintenance shed, I unlock the door and slip inside. The musty air hits me immediately. On the ground, I notice the overlapping shoe prints we left behind a few nights ago, faint now but still visible in the layer of dirt.
They make me smile.
What can I say? I’m a man of logic and evidence. And those shoe prints are clear, tangible evidence that I really did hook up with Mason that night in the shed, and again yesterday at my house. That it wasn’t just a dream.
“Hey, you,” Mason says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. His cheeks are a little pink from the sun.
“Hey,” I say, rising on my toes to kiss him.
His lips meet mine, urgent but sweet. His arms wrap around my waist and tug me closer. His body slots against mine, firm and warm. His palm migrates to grope my ass, squeezing hard, and I gasp into his mouth.
He suddenly pulls back, breathless. “Sorry.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why are you apologizing?”
“Because I only have fifteen minutes left on my break,” he mutters, running his fingers through his hair, “and I really shouldn’t be starting anything.”
“It’s fine, Mason—”
“No, it’s not. I can’t go back to work with a boner.”
Oh.Oh.
I glance down, and sure enough, he’s hard. My brain struggles to accept the fact thatIdid that to him.
I feel myself blushing, flustered and secretly flattered. “Okay. Let’s, uh—let’seat, then.”
Mason nods and grabs his lunchbox. We sit cross-legged on the dusty floor, the shed providing a small pocket of cool relief from the blazing sun outside.
Before he eats, he fiddles with the buttons on his insulin pump, entering numbers with calm efficiency. The tiny device makes a quiet mechanical whirl, barely audible. I don’t say anything—I don’t want to make a big deal out of it—but I can’t help watching the way he does it like second nature. Like breathing.
I open my lunchbox and take out the salad I packed, peeling the lid off and drizzling raspberry vinaigrette across the greens.
Mason eyes it, grimacing. “Are you sure you’re a real Michigander?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Yes. Why?”
