My hands tangle together in my lap.
Have I ever been looked at like this before? With such raw interest, and not with some blatant underlying motive to get me naked and beneath whoever is staring at me?
Probably not, unless I’m related to the person.
We talk until our food arrives, and in between my massive bites of the best damn pancakes in Chicago. Mason polishes off his breakfast minutes before I’ve even made a dent in my tall stack. He drinks his coffee and freshly-squeezed juice while I finish off my plate, and after paying the check, he asks me what my plans are tomorrow morning.
“Sleeping,” I answer, smiling behind my glass when I pick up on his meaning. “No way am I waking up early again tomorrow. I don’t think you realize how vital my sleep is.”
He scratches his jaw. I can practically hear his mind working this out. “Okay. Friday then?”
I shake my head.
“Come on.”
“Why?”
“Because I like having you this early. And I think you had a nice time too. Stop fighting me. It’s just breakfast.”
I stare at him across the booth.
Just breakfast. Somehow, it seems like a lot more to Mason than just sharing a meal at the earliest part of the day. Will this become something regular, a routine we fall into where he orders for me before I even arrive? Not just beverages, but my food? Will he know what I like and how I like it, and on what days I want pancakes with blueberries instead of bacon?
More importantly, do I want him to know it?
I rub a hand down my face. As my eyes scan the table riddled with napkins and half-empty glasses, I spot an advertisement stuck between the salt and pepper shaker. My stomach makes an embarrassing sound as I look at the picture. How did I forget about this? I pinch the laminated picture between my fingers and hold it up for Mason to see.
“I’ll give you Tuesdays.”
He leans forward, taking the picture from me and staring at it. “All you can eat deep-fried stuffed French toast. Wow. Is that . . . Captain Crunch, the cereal? They put cereal on it?”
He looks adorably baffled, like the idea of using crushed up cereal on anything is the strangest suggestion.
“It’s out of this world, and extremely popular. You can only order it on Tuesdays and people will actually call ahead to secure their plates.” I snatch the picture from him and drop it between us. “You want me this early? You can have me on Tuesdays . . . only. Take it or leave it.”
He drops his elbows onto the table and presses his mouth against his hands. “You drive a hard bargain. I was hoping for multiple mornings.”
I shrug, studying my nails and the chipped polish on my thumb, looking anywhere but his face until his foot nudges against mine.
Our eyes lock. He shakes his head, then smiles at the frown pulling down my lips.
Fuck.
“Jerk,” I mutter. Of course I have to react to his phony rejection. I can’t just sit here and feign indifference. Now I look like the one who suggested this.
Well played, you gorgeous bastard. Well played.
He stands and tugs me to my feet, kissing my lips and murmuring, “I’ll take anything you give me, Brooke. Anything.”
I keep my hands tucked into the pockets of my jeans the entire walk to the bakery.
I haven’t sat down once today.
I can’t.
I’m full of nervous energy. Restless. Buzzing around my room like this is my first rodeo, and it’s not. It’s so not.
I’ve been on plenty of dates. Hundreds. Well, okay, maybe not hundreds, but enough where I shouldn’t be this anxious about one freaking dinner. Guys ask me out all the time, and who am I to turn down a free meal before we get down to business? I love to eat. I really love to have sex. Putting two of my favorite things together makes for one very happy Brooke. And hey, if the sex is lousy, at least I get an enjoyable meal out of it.
But that’s just it, right there. A meal is guaranteed tonight, but I have no idea if I’m getting laid. Dinner is pretty cut and dry, but after?
What the hell is happening after?
I, for one, feel like Mason and I know each other well enough for sex, based on his guidelines. More than well enough based on mine. We’ve talked, information has been exchanged. He knows more about me than any other guy I’ve been interested in recently. But is that enough for him?
He said he wants more. How much more? How much does he want from me?
I’ve seen Mason practically every day this week, between breakfast, coincidental, but maybe not so coincidental coffee-shop run-ins, to the occasional treats delivery, which I can’t seem to stop myself from doing. Christ, it’s like a damn compulsion. Even when he pops into the shop for a brief hello I’m shoving a bakery box at him like he’s one of those malnourished children you see on the UNICEF commercials.
Here! Eat this! You poor thing, you’re starving!
It’s his reaction that gets me. That’s why I do it. He takes that box and studies my creations like they should be displayed in a museum somewhere. Like they’re some precious gift. Like I’m giving him something amazing.
Call me crazy, but I’m beginning to feel like maybe I am giving him something more than just a pastry or a cupcake. Maybe he looks at my treats as another piece of me? The more he’s after?
Yeah . . . crazy. That line of thinking right there is completely fucking crazy.
They’re treats. Damn good ones. And he’s just a man who enjoys his dessert.
Period.
As I’m sliding up the zipper on my black pencil skirt, my bedroom door bursts open.
Joey walks in like he owns the place, which, if we’re being technical, he doesn’t. The condo belongs to Billy. But this is Joey, and I’ve learned since moving in here that the concept of knocking before a grand entrance is not something he is privy to.
I’m fully dressed, but it wouldn’t matter. I couldn’t care less if he sees me naked. But at night, when I’m more than likely to engage in a little me time, my door remains locked.
His gaze sweeps over my attire, slow moving and encouraging. He plops down on the bed. “You look hot to trot. What shoes are you wearing with that?”
“Those.” I point to the Steve Madden’s on the floor by the closet.
Okay, okay, so I seriously need to return them to Dylan. And I will.
Next week.
“Earrings?”
I hold up the silver hoops I’ve set out for tonight.
“Lip gloss or lipstick?”
I pull the tube of MAC’s Vegas Volt out of my makeup bag and wiggle it in the air. Joey nods approvingly.
“What’s this?” he asks, plucking the small gift bag off my night table.
Shit.
I move like lightning, snatching it from him before he has a chance to peer inside.
He stares at me, startled. “Jesus. What the hell?”
Clutching the bag against my chest, I hurriedly explain, “It’s nothing. It’s a joke between me and Mason. You wouldn’t get it. Stop snooping around my room and asking me a thousand questions. God.”
I toss the bag on top of the dresser.
My breaths come hurried, air moving in and out of my lungs with desperation. I probably look psychotic.
Maybe he won’t notice? He’s not that perceptive, is he?
“Mm.” Joey lays out on the bed, tucking his hands behind his head and crossing his bare feet at the ankles.
He looks positively delighted.
He noticed.
“Interesting. So you and Mason have inside jokes already? After only knowing each other for five days and one earth-shattering orgasm? Seems a bit fast, don’t you think?”
I roll my eyes, sliding one earring through my ear and moving on to the next.
Earth-shattering? I never said it was earth-shattering.
It was so fucking earth-shattering.
I could ride that man’s long, thick fingers every day and twice on Sundays.