“Is it okay?” he asked again.
She only nodded, mutely.
“Coffee coming up,” he said. “As soon as I figure out how to use this thing. Mine at home is a single cup.”
“A Keurig?”
He shook his head. “The kind you pour beans into and it dispenses a single cup.”
“At the touch of a button? I’ve seen those, and it’s now official. I hate you.”
He lifted a finger. “Envy, Stanton. You gotta get the words right, now that you’re a writer and all.”
“Yeah, yeah, let me handle this.”
She walked up beside him and hip checked him out of the way, realizing too late how overly familiar that was. Damn dreams. He only chuckled, though, and hip checked her back, lingering just long enough for her to catch that smell of cloves and orange before he moved away.
“I officially put you in charge of all beverages.” He handed her the coffee bag. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Very soundly,” she said, firmer than necessary. Then she stopped. “I don’t remember going to bed. And I woke in my clothing.”
“You fell asleep outside. I carried you in.” He leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Youarevery easy to get in bed, Stanton.”
She hit Eject on that image fast and measured coffee into the machine. “So what’s for breakfast?”
She tried to lean past him to see the stove, but he moved in front of it.
“You’ll find out. Settle in with your coffee and relax. It’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes, but if you’re hungry, I cut up fruit. Breakfast appetizers.”
She noticed the plate and reached for a piece of pineapple. “You are a god.”
Godsend.She’d meant to say “godsend.” Damn it.
Mason only grinned. “Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Now takethe plate to the table, and I’ll pour the coffee when it’s ready. That much I can do.”
Breakfast had been amazing. He’d made two kinds of blintzes—one mushroom, the other cheese filling with berry sauce served alongside turkey sausage hash and fruit. She’d eaten far too much, and she didn’t care.
Mason had insisted he wasn’t a great cook. From anyone else, that would now seem like false modesty. But Mason Moretti didn’t know the meaning of the words, and when she’d gushed, he’d looked at her sidelong, as if she might be mocking him. That wasn’t the Mason she knew.
Or was it?
Because she had seen that Mason before, in the kid who’d hesitated to write his newspaper articles, who’d ducked her praise and mumbled about them being “okay” and “nothing like yours.”
Of course he hadn’t produced Pulitzer prose, but it had been good. And breakfast wasn’t gourmet, but it’d been good.
That wasn’t enough for Mason, was it?
What had he told her once, about writing and school in general?
My dad says to stick with what I’m really good at.
His father. The original asshole. No, the real asshole.
Gemma’s parents had been endlessly encouraging with zero expectations. Explore life. Have fun. Learn new things. What would it be like to have the opposite—all expectations and no encouragement to move beyond them?
She’d have to remember that about Mason. For now, she wasenjoying a damn near perfect morning, starting with an incredible breakfast and then quiet hours to write while he swam.
When she reached the end of her time, she closed the laptop to see a sight that made up for a less than stellar writing session. Mason Moretti, in wet swim trunks, heading straight for her.
