Misunderstanding Mason Page 2

  “I can’t do it alone, Mason. She wants an interactive for an app. And Lisa—pain that she is—pays well.”

  Her problem. Not his. He’d offered to split their savings to humor her. She ought to have taken him up on it two weeks ago. He turned back toward his open office door. “I’m obligated, Kirstin.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? You’re always too damn busy.”

  Her words cut through him like a knife. True, he worked late hours and sometimes became obsessed with a project, but despite her claims, he’d never been too busy for her. She’d just stopped asking. Probably around the time she stopped loving him.

  Ignoring the painful sting, he continued down the hall.

  “She’s going to send the prototype to my email address. Would you at least print it off for me and bring it over?”

  “Yeah.” Mason closed the door, blocking her out. He dropped into his leather chair and stared at the 2-D rendition of a dragon on his computer screen. It needed more shading on the belly, deeper reds across the spines. He picked up his electronic pen and tapped it on the green color selector. A bit more green along the tail…

  You’re always too damn busy.

  Fuck.

  He slammed the pen down, shoveled both hands through his hair, and squeezed his eyes shut. She’d said the same thing when she walked out their patio door. If words existed that could make someone feel love, he’d spew every one of them. But he couldn’t fix the fact Kirstin didn’t love him. He might have been able to undo whatever wrongs he’d committed, might have been able to change his schedule so they had more time together. Now, effort, words, and grandiose gestures were meaningless. He’d missed the train somewhere.

  And that Lisa bitch had started it all. Edge Skateboards survived on her husband’s marketing skills, not any genius on Lisa’s part. Beyond all her numerous business failings, the woman’s morals echoed the tenants of Lucifer. Last summer, she’d propositioned Mason less than three feet away from her husband and Kirstin. Whatever else she’d done broke something beyond repair.

  Mason reclined in his chair and stared out the window. What had happened? This simply couldn’t be real. Kirstin knew him better than he knew himself sometimes. How did five years of that kind of closeness just fall apart overnight?

  The chime on his computer alerted him to new email, and he flipped over to their joint account. Sure as shooting, the letter Kirstin mentioned had arrived. Hating it more than he hated the sender, he opened the file and glanced at the attached color photo of a neon green and orange skateboard. Mumbling, he hit the print button.

  Help her.

  No way in hell. All repulsion about Lisa aside, Kirstin wanted out—she was in this on her own. He would not give her the means to run away without a backward glance. If she wanted his aid, she’d have to pay him like every other client. He ought to charge her double for the headaches Lisa Bennet would bring.

  Pulling his chair closer to the screen, Mason opened a new window and set the printout on his upright easel. He picked up his pen, dabbed it in a matching orange swathe. First things first—transpose the photo to a format he could manipulate.

  Chapter Two

  At the sound of husky laughter, Kirstin looked up from her makeshift design table tucked into the corner of Sam and Theresa Roberts’ living room. Across the wide entry, Sam looped his arm around his wife and pulled her into the crook of his side. Television drama temporarily forgotten, he drew Theresa into a lingering kiss.

  Kirstin’s heart twisted. Twelve years together, and they still carried on like lovestruck teens when they thought she wasn’t looking. They’d found glue she and Mason didn’t know how to mix.

  A sharp rap on the patio door in the kitchen startled her out of her melancholy thoughts. Mason! She rose at the same time as Theresa. “I’ll get it, Theresa. Mason’s supposed to bring something over.”

  “Feel up to inviting him in?” Sam asked as Theresa settled back into the couch, his arm around her shoulders once more. “I want to ask him about my grill.”

  This was the part Kirstin hated most—super-imposing her issues on her friends. To keep them from feeling like they needed to choose sides when Mason would be the one remaining behind, she did her best to remain amicable. Even if seeing him made sleeping impossible.

  “Sure,” she answered robotically. Her legs were leaden as she trudged the ten feet to the door. But when her eyes caught his through the thick glass, her pulse drilled into triple time, making her hand shake. She fumbled with the lock, swore beneath her breath, and rolled the door open.

  Mason held up one hand, the color photograph of a skateboard dangling between thumb and index finger. “Mail call.”

  Doing her best to hide the trembling of her fingers, she snatched the photo and clutched it with both hands. “Thanks. Come on in, Sam wants to talk to you.”

  As he passed her, the clean scent of soap filled her nose. She breathed deep, savoring the aroma, picturing the way his dark hair clung to his head, just grazing his shoulders, in the shower. God, she missed him. Even if he was a disaster to her heart.

  Kirstin took the photograph to her card table and returned to the kitchen. “Can I get you some tea, Mason?”

  He turned around as if her simple question surprised him. The faintest hint of a smile graced his mouth. “Sure.” His gaze lingered a heartbeat too long before he turned and greeted Sam with a hearty handshake. But it had touched her long enough to sear her from the inside out.

  Maybe he wasn’t totally indifferent.

  She choked the thought aside. Going there wouldn’t accomplish anything. She’d invest in him again, only to discover another year from now that he appreciated her as much as he did his old plaid recliner. He wouldn’t part with the thing, but he’d moved it into the basement when he’d become obsessed with newer, more modern furniture.

  Resolved to ignore him, she filled a glass with ice and poured his tea, adding two spoonfuls of sugar to sweeten it the way he liked it. As she set the spoon back in the sugar bowl, it dawned on her what she’d done, the automatic way she knew exactly what he liked. Oddly, she couldn’t count a single time where he’d remembered to dump in the extra spoonful of sugar she preferred. Every time he brought her tea—hot or cold—he sweetened it the way he drank it.

  Sighing, Kirstin picked up his glass and took it onto the back deck where Mason and Sam poured over the grill. “Here you go.”

  He looked up, and those icy blue eyes connected with hers. Only this time they weren’t so glacier as they drifted down her midriff top, lingered at the waist of her low-rise shorts, touched her thighs, then jerked back up to lock on her eyes once more. A touch of white fire glinted in his eyes before he deliberately turned back to the grill.

  Kirstin set the glass on the patio table and returned inside, determined to ignore his thorough perusal. The bedroom had never been their trouble. Just because Mason knew how to devour her with a single glance didn’t mean he wanted her—well, for anything other than great sex. She’d been guilty of appreciating him earlier, and it didn’t mean she wanted to crawl back home and pick up where they’d left off.

  She sat back down at her table and picked up the photograph. How in the world was she ever going to accomplish this job? With Mason unwilling to help, that left one other option—hire out the work. Problem was, the going rate for app design exceeded the zero balance in her non-existent savings account.

  Time passed in a vacuum as she stared at the photo, mentally going through a redundant list of options and people she knew in the graphical design world. Before she realized she’d disappeared into a private oasis of mental solitude, a shadow dimmed her tabletop, and Mason’s warm voice was at her ear.

  “I have a working prototype on the tablet at home if you want to see it.”

  She blinked, certain she’d heard wrong, that his statement was a product of her wishful thinking. But his deadpan expression made it impossible to question her hearing. “You’re serious?”


  He nodded. “I reconsidered.”

  Elation surged through her, and Kirstin found herself fighting the overwhelming urge to throw her arms around his neck and hug the life out of him. “Oh, Mason,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  Straightening to his full six-foot two height, he gave her a shrug. “Work’s work. You know my rate.”

  All the joy that had swelled inside her heart plummeted out her toes, hollowing her insides out. She stared, unable to believe his self-satisfied smirk and laughing eyes were real.

  Mason set his hand on her shoulder, gave it an affectionate squeeze. “You know how to reach me.”

  Before she could splutter a sensible response, he strode out the door and down the deck stairs. Dumbfounded, she stared after him. Pay him? He wanted her to pay him when he knew she couldn’t afford to feed herself? That big, insensitive, jerk!

  ****

  Mason dusted his hands off on his jeans and stared at the orange plaid recliner he’d lugged out of the basement. It was really an ugly thing. He’d stuffed it away when they’d gotten newer, better furniture so Kirstin wouldn’t have to look at the falling apart beast. So she wouldn’t be embarrassed by its dilapidated appearance when she held meetings with clients in their front room.

  Now, he intended to relish the security it offered. The only piece of furniture he alone owned—the first piece of furniture he’d purchased the day he embarked for college—it was like Linus’ blanket. Beyond the stains, beyond the fraying seams, this chair had been with him through everything.

  He’d even made love to Kirstin on their first date in the damn thing.

  But he wasn’t thinking about that now. He was relaxing, and he dropped into the dusty cushion with a heavy sigh. The footrest squeaked as he extended it, creaked again when he tossed his bare feet on it. An hour had passed since he’d informed Kirstin he’d do her project for a fee. Plenty of time for her to stew and simmer. Any minute now she’d storm through the back door and—

  “Mason Montgomery you are a class-A jerk!”

  And give him hell.

  He stifled a chuckle. She was so predicable. If she hadn’t shown up, he’d think there was something seriously wrong with her.

  Slowly, he pulled himself out of the recliner and stood to confront her furious scowl. “I’ve been called worse. I think when you stormed out of here a few weeks ago, asshole was at the top of your list.”

  “You know I can’t afford to pay you.” She stuffed her fists on her hips and glared.

  Damn, but she looked hot in those skimpy shorts. If this were just a normal argument, he’d thoroughly enjoy peeling her out of them during a rigorous bout of make-up sex. Instead, he forced his attention off the short scraps of denim and wandered into the kitchen where he plucked a box of Cheez-Its off the countertop and popped a handful in his mouth. No use talking until she finished—she’d bulldoze right over him until she said everything she’d thought of for the last hour.

  “I can’t afford to pay my cell phone bill, in case you’ve missed that on your monthly bank statement. And the one time I ask you for a favor, the one time I need your help more than anything, you charge me for it? How the hell do you expect that to work? Oh! I know!” She thrust an arm across her body, pointing out the patio door. “I’ll go pluck it off the rose bushes. Pay you in petals! How’s that?”

  It took an incredible amount of self-control not to laugh at the spots of indignant color that stained her cheeks or the way her chest heaved. Kirstin angry was about like a pissed off Yorkie. Not that she wasn’t capable of doing serious damage with her tongue, but she was so petite that anger had a comical effect.

  He shrugged again, the safest response that wouldn’t infuriate her more. “I’ll take an IOU. You can pay me when Lisa pays. There should be plenty left for you to do what you need to do.”

  Move. That’s what she needed to do. Wanted to do. His heart twisted as reality sank home again. He wasn’t supposed to be entertained by this. He’d decided to charge her because she was walking out. Giving up on them. On him.

  Mason set the Cheez-Its down, braced his hands on the countertop, and leaned his weight into his arms. “If you don’t like the offer, I can give you some referrals.”

  Kirstin threw her hands into the air and flounced into the recliner. “Right. Like anyone would wait until project completion. You know as well as I that the art has to be paid for when it’s finished, regardless of when the overall project closes.”

  She ran a hand down the worn orange arm, and her frown morphed from angry to curious. “Huh. This thing’s still intact? I thought you’d forgotten it was down there.”

  Rounding the bar, he entered the living room and shook his head. “Always knew exactly where it was.”

  Giving him a grin, she looked up, her anger momentarily set aside. “Do you remember the time—”

  When she abruptly stopped, Mason raised an eyebrow. “Which time?”

  “Never mind.” Sighing, Kirstin stood. “It’s not important now.” With a sad shake of her head, she trailed her fingertips over the back of the chair. “Always kinda liked this thing. It would match the couch if you reupholstered it.”

  Mason stared, speechless. She liked the thing? In all the time they’d been together, all she’d ever done was complain about his orange plaid chair. It was ugly. It took up too much space. It looked like something out of 1970.

  “Anyway.” She stuffed her hands into her back pockets, a posture that pushed her breasts forward and accented the tight fit of her midriff top. “I need the work done. I’ll pay you, as long as you’re okay with my doing so when Lisa settles her bill.”

  Mason swallowed to wet his tightening throat. When that failed to work, he cleared his voice. “All right.” Work… They were talking about work, not the perfect way her breasts fit into his palms, or how much he liked the feel of her nipple against his tongue. He went to the fridge in desperate need of a reason not to face her. “Why don’t you come over in the morning, and we can work on the details together.”

  “Let me check my calendar,” she said with the hint of laughter. “I seem to have sunbathing, reading a book, and waiting on my cell to ring scheduled for most of the day.”

  Despite his current state of uncomfortable distraction, Mason chuckled. “How’s ten sound?”

  “Sounds late for you.”

  “Yeah,” he answered as he grabbed a beer and closed the fridge. “But you hate to get up. And—” he twisted off the cap, “You’re a she-bear in the mornings.”

  “Oh say it, I’m a bitch in the mornings.” Her grin lit her eyes and offset the dimple in her left cheek that he’d always adored.

  Wisely, he said nothing. Tipping his head back, he downed several deep gulps of malty splendor. Maybe tonight he’d get friendly with the rest of the bottles that had been sitting there for several weeks.

  Kirstin went to the door, opened it. The cool evening breeze slipped in, stirring the ever-present scent of cinnamon that came from air fresheners she’d hidden around the house. Halfway out the sliding glass, she stopped and cocked her head. “Why’d you stuff that thing downstairs anyway?”

  Mason blinked. “Why?” Surely, she was joking. She knew why. Or she should know why, whether he’d ever said it directly or not.

  “Yeah, why? If you liked it so much, why not just leave it where you could use it? I’ve never understood that.”

  He pulled a slow swig and swished it around his mouth, trying to make sense of how she could be so ignorant of something so obvious. When no appropriate answer came, he met her curious stare and answered flatly, “So it wouldn’t embarrass you.”

  “Me?” Incredulity filled her voice.

  “Yeah, you.” He gestured at the chair with his half-empty bottle. “That thing’s ugly as sin. Didn’t think you’d want it sitting around when you had clients over.”

  “Oh.”

  A strained moment of silence descended around them as Kirstin studied his face, searching for answers h
e didn’t know the questions to. He shifted his weight, feeling the same old awkwardness rise when he knew he should say something, needed to say something, but nothing sounded right in his head.

  “See you in the morning, Mason.”

  “Yeah,” he murmured to her retreating back. She might see him in the morning, but he had a feeling he’d be seeing a hell of a lot of her tonight when he shut his eyes. Since she’d left, he’d done nothing but relive the years they spent together in dreams. Their first date, the awkwardness he felt when he’d found the courage to pick up the phone and ask her out. The first night he made love to her—the very same night he first took her out—and every other important day they’d shared. Hell, he’d even dreamed about watching television with her.

  As the door rolled closed on the turmoil churning around inside him, the words he used every time they parted, even if just for a few hours, rose to the tip of his tongue. He set them free in a whisper, “Love you, babe.”

  Chapter Three

  Didn’t think you’d want it sitting around when you had clients over.

  Two hours later, Mason’s words still ricocheted through Kirstin’s mind. He’d done so much grumbling about how that damn recliner didn’t match the new leather that she’d have sworn on the cross he ditched it in the basement for aesthetic reasons. Now, a full year after they purchased the new family room furniture, he said he had her in mind.

  How was that possible?

  She frowned. Why did it matter at nearly midnight when she should be sleeping so she wouldn’t be quite as bitchy come morning?

  Kirstin pushed a hand through her hair and flopped back onto the pillows. Overhead, Sam and Theresa’s house was silent. She despised her basement accommodations for that very reason—the quiet made it impossible to think. Down here with the constant hum of the air conditioner and the jangle of pipes, Mason occupied her mind. Like now, when she couldn’t shake the overpowering memory of how she used to sit up in the middle of the night, listening to the noise of their house, watching him sleep. Afraid to believe he was real. Terrified that one day she’d wake up and discover she didn’t mean to him half of what he meant to her.