Page 29 of Mason

Mason bobs his head with excitement. “I know, right? Some theatre in Canada was selling the thing, and I actually flew there to make a bid on this guy.”

“He’s amazing,” I say, still staring at the gigantic beast. It must cost Mason thousands of dollars to keep the dragon working, but talk about making an impression! Dragging my eyes from the ceiling, I survey the rest of the room. More movie props, some I recognize, many that I don’t. On the opposite wall from the flat screen, a bank of pinball machines, as well as the fortuneteller from the movie BIG, flank an antique popcorn maker that even empty emits a buttery scent.

“If I looked in your garage, would I find a DeLorean?”

He rocks back on his heels. “You would. As well as a 1967 Shelby GT 500.”

“Eleanor,” I say, with reverence. “I know the movie.”

“Impressive,” he says. “Come, let’s make you something to eat. I know you’re hungry.”

I suspect the flutter in my stomach has little to do with food, but I slip out of the theatre room and back into the master suite, and then follow Mason to the kitchen. He gestures to the stools on the other side of the breakfast nook. “Relax. I’ll see what I’ve got in the fridge. I can’t promise anything gourmet.”

“I’m not picky,” I say, which is true. Dad was a better chef than Mom, and after he left, we lived on Mac and Cheese and pizza, more out of survival in the beginning, and then because it had become normal. Mom never inspired a love of cooking, and when I moved into my apartment, food became more of a luxury than necessity. I could happily live on bagels and Cheeze Whiz. “But I am thirsty.”

Mason reaches up to grab a bottle of red wine from a built-in rack above the toaster, and sets it on the counter. “One step ahead of you.”

I study the label while he pulls out the corkscrew and two glasses.

“If you’d prefer a different variety, I’m sure I’ve got something in the wine room. Champagne?”

I dip my head shyly. “This is perfect.”

It’s certainly more expensive than any wine I’ve bought, and I commit the label to memory in case I ever have a chance to share it with Renee.

Mason holds up a carton of eggs. “Hope you like cheese omelets, because that’s about all I have.”

“Delicious.”

Mason hands me a grater and a brick of marble cheese. As I get to work, I’m surprised at how comfortable it seems—a surreal normalcy in a situation that is anything but. Mason’s apartment boasts of extreme wealth, but watching him scramble eggs and pour them into a sizzling frying pan reminds me that he’s just a guy.

An incredibly hot, sexy guy.

And very complex.

Busting through his barriers won’t be easy, but if this—whatever this is—is going to work, I need to try. I deserve to be happy.

“Did your mom cook?”

Mason scoffs. “Mom took off when I was just a kid. And Dad never remarried. A couple of his lady friends could pull off a decent grilled cheese sandwich, but they were more beauty than brains.” He lifts the pan off the element and tosses the omelet in the air. It flips, and lands with perfect execution.

“Whoa,” I say, genuinely impressed. “Those skills don’t come naturally.”

His voice goes quiet. “Mrs. Kratky taught me a few kitchen tricks.”

A lump forms in the back of my throat at the mention of his former teacher’s name. I recognize it from the headlines—she was caught in the crossfire of the shooter who riddled that small Maine classroom with bullets, killing everyone except Mason, Lucas, and Holden. From reading the interviews, I know how important Mrs. Kratky was to him. Almost like a surrogate mother.

I absently swirl my wine. “Mrs. Kratky sounds like a great lady.”

Mason dumps cheese into the pan. “She was. The best, actually.”

The somber tone of his voice tugs on my heartstrings. “I’m sorry.”

“You never forget something like that.” He cuts the omelet in half with a spatula and slides them on two separate plates. “The visions are still so vivid. Like a nightmare playing on a constant loop.” His voice catches a little. “It’s hard to talk about with anyone except Lucas and Holden…which is maybe why they come off a little possessive.”

“Of course that makes sense,” I say, feeling a twinge of guilt for my temper tantrum in Hawaii. I can’t begin to imagine the grief that still haunts them. I cover Mason’s hand with mine. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

He grimaces. “That’s not what my therapist would have said.”