I go over the message twice. Slowly.
There’s nothing unusual about it. A standard apology, but it reads strange. No sweet introductory greeting. No nickname thrown in, sweetheart or gorgeous or little devil.
I like that one. I like thinking I’m Mason’s greatest temptation. His only sin, he once said.
But this message isn’t his typical style at all. It seems too impersonal for him. Something he might send a stranger, or someone he doesn’t bother to give nicknames to.
What gives?
I quickly type my reply.
Me: That’s okay. How was class?
Mason: Great.
Great . . . that’s it?
Huh.
I stare at the screen, expecting more. More than just one word. I’m certain it’s coming. Maybe a ‘Let’s do breakfast tomorrow instead’, or a ‘Can I have you for lunch?’ to which I will then respond with something overtly sexual, and he will confirm that he does indeed mean lunch in the true meaning of the word, and also the implied innuendo.
‘You eat your strange French toast. I eat you, yeah?’
Warmth spreads low in my belly, until my screen fades to black.
What? Really?
I light up my screen again, confusion pinching my brow.
Well, this is different.
Maybe he’s really busy at the moment? No time to elaborate because . . .
Reasoning settles over me like a thick fog.
Class. He must be starting another class. His typical first one of the day. He can’t text and instruct a class.
Of course. This makes perfect sense. God, Brooke. Use your head.
I convince myself of this completely logical explanation and set my phone on the worktop.
He’ll probably text later, like he usually does. Or stop in at some point.
I smile at the thought.
The front door chimes as I’m setting out my ingredients for the five dozen cupcakes. Movement catches my attention. Joey steps through the doorway wearing dark washed jeans and a bright blue polo. He stares at me, his expression unreadable as he moves across the kitchen.
I open my mouth to utter a greeting, something to ease us back into our regular everyday banter, when he halts me with a hand in the air.
“Let me just start off by saying how much I hate not speaking to you,” he announces, stepping closer and lowering his hand.
My grip tightens on the bag of flour. He does?
“I know this is all my doing. I should’ve apologized to you yesterday but I felt like maybe it would be better if I left you alone. Teasing you like that wasn’t . . . right of me. I regret doing it. I saw how upset I made you and it fucked with my emotions.” He leans a hip against the worktop, his arms tightening across his chest.
Typical Joey. Even in an apology, he makes it all about him. He’s lucky I like him that way.
I cock my head. “Oh, really? It fucked with your emotions?”
“Yes,” he snaps. “I barely ate last night and turned down a quickie in the shower. I hope you realize how little that happens. And by little, I mean never. Billy thought I was coming down with some weird virus that diminished my sex drive. He wanted to take me to the hospital.”
My mouth twitches. I open up the bag of flour. A white cloud of dust bursts onto the back of my hands and sprinkles the wood. “Good Lord. You two are dramatic.”
“Brooke.” Joey squeezes my shoulder, prompting me to look up at him. His sky-blue eyes are sorrowful. “I’m really fucking sorry, okay?”
I feel my throat tighten. “Okay,” I quietly reply.
“It’s like when I fight with Dylan. I can’t handle it. And I fucking hate the whole silent treatment routine.” He removes his hand from my shoulder and flicks his head, tousling his blonde hair. “Let’s never do that mess again.”
“Don’t be an asshole and we won’t.”
His eyes narrow. I let out a quiet laugh, and so does he. Spinning around, he rests his elbows on the worktop and leans into it, exhaling a rushed breath. “Can I be blunt with my opinion for a second?”
“When aren’t you blunt with your opinion?”
“Tuesdays, usually.”
We exchange mocking smiles. I dip a measuring cup into the bag of flour and level out a scoop, dumping it into a large mixing bowl.
Joey looks down at the wood, moving his finger through some spilled flour and making tiny circular patterns. “You’re different with this guy, Brooke. Really different. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re usually more like a puppy with men.”
I wince, dumping more flour into the bowl. “What?”
“A puppy. A cute one. Relax. Like those teacup ones you carry around in your purse.”
“Really? They’re so yappy.”
“I know,” he says playfully, lifting his head. He smiles at my tight expression. “Anyway, you get this new toy, right? One of those bones that squeak.”
“Only when you bite down on them.”
A slow grin pulls across his mouth. “Girl, you have no idea.”