Or, its you. The way you look at me. The things you say. That could be it.
He taps his menu against mine.
Our eyes meet, and the moment he smiles, maybe a bit apologetically, I forget all about my secret agenda to tease him and get him hard underneath this table. The way Mason is looking at me . . . it’s sweet, and candid, and maybe I’ve never had a man take me to dinner without the expectation of sex, but I don’t want to admit that, and I’m also bizarrely happy Mason isn’t doing this for that same reason. I no longer want to take away from the conversation or anything else this dinner will entail.
And I also don’t want to think about how strangely okay I am with that revelation.
He jerks his chin, motioning for me to pick out my dish.
I resume looking at the menu, really focusing in on the words in front of me for the first time since I opened it. Everything is in Italian. Even the drinks.
What the . . .
My gaze travels the length of the menu, right, then back to the left. My eyes narrow. I lean closer. I have no idea what I’m reading. Well, not reading. Reading implies understanding, and that’s definitely not what’s happening here. It’s more of a guessing game, really. Maybe when the waiter arrives I can just point to the cheapest entrée and hope for the best?
Mason must sense my confusion. I’m sure it’s obvious, I’m close to flipping this thing upside down and taking a go at it that way. Or pulling up Google translations on my iPhone. But before I have a chance to do any of that, my menu is stripped out of my hands.
“Hey,” I protest.
Mason smiles, almost wickedly, folding the menu in front of him. “What do you like? Pasta? Seafood? Do you want a chicken dish?”
I shoot him a puzzled look. “Um . . . yeah, sure, I like pasta and seafood. I like pretty much anything except for eggplant.”
The waiter arrives at our table. I sit back in my chair and watch, stunned, as Mason, who up until this moment was already killing me with his accent, fires off our orders in perfect Italian.
Holy. Fuck.
There’s no stutter, no uncertain pause as he trips over a word or two. It’s beautifully fluent, hot as Hell, and I’m melting in my seat at this surprising man across from me.
Seriously? Is there anything he’s not amazing at?
Yoga. Being a decent person. Consuming large quantities of treats and still managing to look like a sex God.
The waiter steps away. I pry my mouth off the floor.
“You’re not really playing fair,” I say after I collect myself.
Mason looks at me thoughtfully, concealing his possible understanding of what I’m referring to. “What do you mean?”
“You just completely blew me away by speaking Italian. I was not expecting that.”
He limply shrugs.
No big deal. Mastering a language is apparently second nature to this guy.
He runs his finger over the edge of his perfectly folded napkin. “I was a bored kid. My oldest sister visited Italy one summer, and I got into her language books she left behind. I spoke it better than she did by the time she got back.”
Our drinks arrive, and I gulp two mouthfuls of wine before I can ask my next question.
“You taught yourself another language? How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen? Mason, that’s insane,” I chuckle.
He snickers, picking his own glass up for a taste. “Is it?”
“Yes. Do you know what I was doing when I was fifteen? My entire world revolved around cheerleading and boys. I hated school. You couldn’t pay me to learn a language. That is . . .” I pause, leaning back in my seat.
Who is this guy?
“That’s amazing. You are amazing.”
He looks across the table, staring at me with an unreadable expression, stretching out the silence between us by holding up his finger when I open my mouth to speak.
My lips pinch together. I fidget with my hands in my lap, counting the seconds. I hate silence. I especially hate it when I have absolutely no idea what the other person is thinking.
And Mason is a vault right now. He’s not giving anything away.
Finally, after swallowing a mouthful of wine, he speaks. “Sorry. I have no idea what all you just said. I stopped listening after you mentioned something about you being a cheerleader. And then I spent all that time just now picturing it.”
Heat burns across my face. “Ah, you like that, do ya?”
He nods.
“I did it through college. I was an all-star.”
“Do you still have the uniform?” he asks above his glass.
Yes.
“Maybe.”
“You should wear it for me sometime.”
YES.
“Maybe.”
Now Mason is the one smirking, but this smirk is dangerous. One hundred percent alluring. A hunter who doesn’t need to chase his prey. They come walking right over to him, ready to hand over their destiny without question. Without pause.
I would run at him. I am talking a full-blown sprint. There would be no walking in his direction.
“Do you like to camp?”
His rapid change of subject rips my mind out of the gutter. I had been thinking about sitting on that smirk of his.
I shake my head through a laugh. “Camp? Seriously? As in sleeping outdoors with bugs and wild animals? No showers. No toilets. Just you and nature? Is that what you’re talking about?”
He smiles. “That’s the textbook definition of camping, yes.”
“Then no. Not at all. But you know what I do like? Air conditioning. Civilization. Beds. I love beds.”