I wasn’t going to admit that wasn’t the only thing to freak me out last night, but I felt more honest by confessing one of them.
Mason barked out an incredulous sound. “The picture board? Mom didn’t really show you that, did she? God, Sarah hasn’t used that stupid thing in over a year, and she only needed it in extreme situations when she was too excited or distressed to talk properly.” He rumbled out a frustrated sound. “I swear, I love my mother to death, but sometimes the woman is way too overprotective. She can treat Sarah as if she’s still two.”
I grinned, because I’d had the exact same thought last night. “Yeah, I figured the board was unnecessary about one-point-eight seconds after your mom left when I touched a picture of the TV and Sarah rolled her eyes at me.”
Mason chuckled, and oh, my God, the sound was amazing. “That sounds like Sarah.”
I nodded, waiting a moment to talk so I could catch my breath. “And the whole blended supper thing—”
“Also unnecessary.” Mason shook his head in disgust.
I snorted. “Well, I should hope so. When she took a cookie off the table, I almost had a heart attack, trying to remember the steps to CPR in case she choked.” Leaning closer, I confessed, “Actually, after seeing that, I made us some s’mores for our campfire later on.”
He leaned in close too, pitching his voice low and intimate. “I know. She told me.”
Right. I’d forgotten he’d already said Sarah had told him everything.
God, he smelled good.
Holding my breath so I wouldn’t give in to temptation and lean any further his way to inhale copious gulps of his scent, I straightened and turned to my lunch. “She’s a sweet girl.”
Sarah. Sarah was our only reason for communication. Don’t forget that, Reese.
“She is,” Mason agreed affably as he watched me open my ranch dressing packet and liberally smother my salad.
I sighed. “It’s a shame she wasn’t invited to that slumber party.”
“Oh, you don’t have to convince me. I know.” Then he threw me for a loop by asking, “Do you always eat rabbit food?”
“Hmm?” I glanced at my salad, then sent him a strange look. “Uh, you ate what I was going to have for breakfast. What do you think?”
His eyes gleamed with a victory that confused me until he pointed an accusing finger. “Aha. I knew that was your breakfast you gave me.”
Crap. Busted. I hated it when I opened my big mouth and ousted myself. “Whatever,” I grumbled moodily. “I bet you didn’t.”
“Oh, I knew.” He lifted one eyebrow, and oh my gawd, he looked really good doing that. Not fair. “You think a drink bought for a guy would be a white chocolate mocha espresso? Really?”
I sniffed. “Hey, I thought you said you liked it.”
“I did. It was way too sweet though. Like girly sweet.” His smile grew seductive as he added, “Must be your lucky day. I just so happen to like it extra sweet.”
Holy guacamole. Was that a double entendre? I swear that was a double entendre. Someone hold my panties on for me because Mason Lowe was freaking flirting with me, using double entendres.
Shaking my head, I muttered, “You are so…”
He grinned. “Charming? Handsome? Intriguing?”
All three, not that I’d ever admit it to him. He appeared to have a big enough ego as it was. I scowled hard. “I was going to say confusing.”
“Ahh.” He nodded in an astute manner. “We’ll slot that under intriguing.”
“Actually, I think it really deserves its own classification.”
“Fine. Whatever you like.” Shrugging as if it made no difference to him, he sent me a look full of smug, glittering eyes.
Oh, now he was just being overly placating to make the little woman feel better. Grr. Every breath he took irritated me. Or maybe it was just me that irritated me, because as much as I wanted my emotions to stand firm against him, I was too utterly thrilled to be sitting next to him, talking to him, breathing in his handsome, charming, intriguing essence.
Man, I was lame. But I didn’t care. I was eating lunch with Mason Lowe. Squee!
Rolling my eyes to conceal the thrill party going on inside me, I smarted back, “I do like.”
As I picked my tomatoes off the top of my salad and piled them onto a napkin to the side, Mason’s gaze zoomed in on them like some kind of heat-seeking missile. “Aren’t you going to eat those?” He sounded scandalized that I was setting them aside.
I wrinkled my nose. “What? My tomatoes? Eww.”
He shook his head. “How can you not like tomatoes?”
“I don’t know. It’s nothing personal against them. I’m sure they’re very pleasant in a social setting, and they’re fine in, like, ketchup and spaghetti and stuff. I just don’t want them on my salad.”
He continued to gaze longingly at them like they were bacon…or chocolate…or bacon-chocolate muffins. Okay, that sounded nasty, but you get where I was going with that, right?