Page 28 of Mason

While he made good on his promise to leave the island, he spent most of the long flight home on his laptop or phone, texting, emailing, researching.

“Do you plan to make me work all night?” I ask eventually.

Mason’s eyes glaze over with instant longing, and I blush, not realizing until too late the sexual undertone of my words. My stomach flutters.

“I thought I’d at least make you dinner,” he says, winking. “Hungry?”

My grin is so wide it makes my cheeks ache. “Famished.”

* * *

Mason’s penthouse suite in Upstate New York is more than double the size of my childhood home. Long and narrow, the walls and windows stretch impossibly far in both directions, the length of the open concept space broken up by expensive looking furniture and a curved brick pony wall peppered with exotic flowers and an impressive waterfall that flows into a small pool.

“Whoa,” I say. And then again when a splash cuts through the silence. “What the hell was that?”

“Koi,” Mason says. He drapes his jacket over a bar stool and plucks a can of fish food from a cabinet near the pond. “Would you like to see them feed?”

I slip off my shoes, walk barefoot across the hardwood and peer into the swirling depths of water. An orange and red fish surfaces, as though in greeting, and then dips back under the water, winding through a maze of rocks and plant life. A second koi follows close behind, flipping its fins in beautiful display.

Mason sprinkles food into the water and several more fish peck at the pellets until the water froths from the feeding frenzy.

“How many fish do you have?” I say, losing count at half a dozen.

Mason shrugs. “Eight—maybe nine. I rescue them from pet stores.”

I tilt my head. “Rescue?”

He sprinkles more food into the water. “People buy koi not realizing how big they get. Or they put them in outdoor ponds, then don’t know what to do with them in the colder months. They trade them in for smaller fish.”

“That’s so sad,” I say, surprised, but also touched by his obvious care. “I didn’t realize that was even a thing.”

Mason’s lips form a crooked smile. “It’s definitely a thing.” He brushes off his hands and walks over to a glass coffee table where mail is stacked in three neat piles. A polished silver statue of the machine from the Terminator movie acts a centerpiece, gleaming under the natural light that filters in through the oversized windows.

Most of the available wall space is bare, sans a couple of abstract pieces of art and a framed Chuck Norris poster that also looks signed. Bile creeps up my throat—my father practically worships that man.

“You’re quite the movie buff,” I say.

“Memorabilia mostly,” he says. He sets down his mail, unopened, and holds out his hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”

He leads me to the far end of his suite, winding through the gourmet kitchen that morphs into the dining room with a chandelier so large and impressive it might have been ripped from the set of Phantom of the Opera. The dining area transforms into another seating area, and behind it, an actual room that is the master suite.

My jaw drops. The room is crimson and cream, with plush carpets and lush bedding. A four poster, king-sized bed takes up at least half of the space, an intentional focal point that does something to my insides. My throat goes dry as my thoughts veer off course, reimagining our night of passion in Hawaii. I cross one leg in front in a futile attempt to lessen the dull ache of yearning, but I’m tingling with desire.

A door at the back of the room is padlocked shut.

Mason tugs me toward it. “This way.”

Unease pricks at the back of my neck. “You’re not a murderer, are you?” I say, not fully teasing. It occurs to me how easily I seem to follow Mason—out of the city, out of my comfort zone—and the first inkling of nervous anticipation tightens my chest.

Mason shoots me a devilish look. “Only on Wednesdays. Sundays are for prayer and stuff.”

“And stuff?” I say, broadening my smile. It’s so easy to be with this version of Mason, the intense but genuinely interesting guy that he becomes outside the office and away from his partners.

He unlocks the padlock and eases open the door. I blink into the dim light, and then widen my gaze with awe. At the back of the space, a giant flat screen drops down from a rounded ceiling that is painted black and dotted with glowing dots that form constellations and stars. But the virtual galaxy isn’t what makes my breath catch. A giant dragon curls around a thick pole, massive jaw open and pointed to the rows of couch seating below.

“Check this out,” Mason says. He flicks a switch and an overhead blue light shines down on the dragon, highlighting its purple and red complexion. An eerie melody filters through the surround sound speakers. My skin prickles with anticipation.

Seconds later, the dragon’s head sways from side to side, his impressive jaw opening and then snapping shut. I’m transfixed, mesmerized by the music, the lights, the animation. The creature opens its maw once more and a burst of flame erupts from his mouth. Sudden heat splashes over my face and I gasp. “Holy shit.”