Bren

 

“This is it. Which I guess you know.”

Mason opened the door to his apartment, and again I was greeted by the cool, modern lines of his penthouse suite that I was sure I’d never see again. The glass wall along the back of the room framed the fading sunset and the outline of the city, and as he flicked on the lights, I was blown away by the crisp, sharp lines of his cream-and-slate-gray furniture.

After we’d left the zoo, I’d gone home after work for a quick shower and changed into a gauzy sundress in pale peach. Based on Mason’s lingering perusal, he approved of my wardrobe change.

I slipped off my sandals and then padded toward the kitchen, trying to beat back the memory of the last time I’d been here, half-naked and searching for my clothes, but I couldn’t help it. Internally I cringed at my former self, the guilt of having slunk out like a coward sinking in the more I got to know him.

“The place is beautiful,” I said, though inside I began to wonder where—in all the glass coffee tables and chrome fixtures—a baby might fit in. Maybe a stainless-steel crib to match the decor?

But we weren’t thinking about babies. We were thinking about…what?

Ever since I’d thought there was a possibility of this baby, I’d hardly been able to think of anything else. And now, faced with the prospect of having to talk, I wasn’t sure I had a word left to say that wasn’t about custody or how I wanted our potential child to be raised.

“Thanks,” he said, and for a moment I’d forgotten what he was thanking me for. The apartment, right. I’d said he had a nice apartment.

He followed me into the kitchen after slipping off his own shoes, then opened the fridge door and pulled out a bottle of water. “Thirsty?”

I shook my head.

He closed the door and leaned back against it. “Is everything okay? You’re quiet.”

“Yeah.” I swallowed. “Just not sure what to say.”

“Then let me guide you.” He smiled warmly, sending a shiver of awareness through me. “First, tell me what you want to eat that isn’t soft cheese, sushi, or alcohol-related?”

I laughed despite myself. “Well, uh, I don’t know what you have.”

He shrugged. “I can make you anything. There’s steak and the makings of tortillas. Quesadillas? Fajitas? Pasta? Or there’s chicken if you’re less into red meat.”

“Steak sounds good.” I gave him another nervous nod and he pulled the package from the fridge—a rectangular container with two massive porterhouse steaks inside.

“You were going to make fajitas with a porterhouse?” I asked.

He grabbed a frying pan hanging from the rack over the island and shrugged. “I was going to make you whatever you wanted. Now tell me, what do you like with your steak?”

“More steak?” I said, and he laughed.

“You got it.” He grabbed a bag of slivered almonds from a nearby cabinet, then moved back to the fridge for some green beans. I watched as he moved quietly and quickly, never consulting a cookbook.

“You actually cook,” I said, recognizing his total comfort in the kitchen with a start. Was there anything this man couldn’t do?

He nodded. “I do. When my mom was sick, my dad did the cooking and he was god-awful. I figured someone had to figure out how to make edible food or we would all waste away even if she beat the cancer.”

I smiled. The story was a familiar one—it was the same thing I’d done when my father had passed away. Of course, I’d been only twelve back then, but with my father gone, my mother hardly ever remembered to eat, let alone to feed me.

I’d never gotten good enough to make anything fancy without a recipe, but I knew my way around a gas range, which was still more than I could ever say for my mom.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his deep voice breaking through my thoughts.

“Nothing. Well, I was thinking I should help you. And that it must have been hard, watching your mom so sick like that.” No point in mentioning that I could empathize from experience. I still didn’t know how close I really wanted to get with Mason. I barely knew him, even if our DNA were friends.

“We all have our trials,” he said, deftly moving the indigents around before he reached for another pan. “And you stay exactly where you are. I don’t want you lifting a finger.”

“I could get used to that,” I said with a chuckle.

But you better not get used to it, Bren Matthews. Because if you do, you’ll find yourself flying straight out of the frying pan and into the fire.

He smiled back at me, then focused in on his work again, heating the pans and sautéing the almonds while I imagined myself falling so far and so deep I wouldn’t know where I ended and he began. No. Not gonna happen. “You know, you’d think that it would have been a huge toll on them, what happened with my mom, but my parents really made the best of it. Every day we did something together as a family. I mean, I know now that was because we didn’t know how many days my mom might have left, but then?” He shrugged a shoulder, then moved back to the fridge for a forgotten ingredient. “It was just, I don’t know, good. To see my parents together and happy together in spite of everything. It makes you feel like anything is possible, seeing two people like that.”

“I know what you mean.” I’d said the words without thinking—or rather, without realizing what I’d done. I didn’t want to open the door to my past. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Of course, he would have to meet my mother eventually, and when he did, the whole sordid affair would come out—how happy my life had been when my parents had been together. And how completely and totally inconsolable she had been since my dad’s passing.

My throat tightened, and I cleared it as I watched him move around the kitchen. Mason went right back to preparing dinner and didn’t seem to notice all the words that remained unsaid.

He tossed two cloves of garlic and a bundle of thyme into the heating pan, and a savory, mouthwatering aroma filled the air. 

“Anyway,” he said. “I feel like I talk all the time about myself and I don’t know enough about you.”

I blinked. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Anything, anything at all. Like, why do you go by your middle name?”

“My middle name is Brennan, but I prefer Bren,” I said.

“That’s cool.” He nodded. “Why did your parents name you Ashley?”

I rolled my eyes. “The stupidest reason you can imagine.”

“You have to remember I’ve seen a lot of people name babies stupid things for stupid reasons. Ashley hardly seems far out there.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, my mom and dad met at an old-timey sort of movie theater and it was playing Gone With the Wind that night. So, you know, my mom named me Ashley because she fell in love with that character.”

“That’s not stupid. That’s actually very sweet.” The steak sizzled in the pan behind him and he turned around to tend the meat. “Ashley was a middle name, too. It could have been worse, because they could have used his first name and called you George.”

I snorted and leaned back in my chair. “I like Bren a lot better. It’s a family name. My grandma was Bren, too.”

He nodded. “Family connections are important. But it’s nice to have a love story in your name. Like a little reminder.”

All the more reason to go by Bren, I thought. Every sorrowful lilt of my mother’s voice was reminder enough of my parent’s tragedy of a love story—I didn’t need to add my name to the list.

“Are your parents still together?” he asked.

A knife dug between my ribs, and I chewed on the inside of my cheek, wondering how best to answer him. I wasn’t about to lie to him—but I didn’t need to say all of it either. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“No,” I said simply.

He nodded, and silence fell between us for a long moment before he slid a plate—steamy and hot—in front of me. On it was a massive serving of porterhouse and green beans amandine.

“Wow, this looks incredible,” I said, then waited as he slid a knife and fork toward me and then joined me at the island to eat.

“Your steak is smaller than mine,” I said. “Let’s swap.”

“You said you like your steak with more steak, and you might be eating for two.”

“And if I’m not?” I said.

“Then you still get more steak. Seems like a win-win to me.” He cut into his steak, then said, “Shit, I forgot to ask—are you okay with medium?”

“Perfect,” I said, then started in on my food. With every bite, I was more amazed with his prowess in the kitchen, and I was on the point of telling him as much when he started to speak again.

“Your job is amazing,” he said. “Watching what you do.” He shook his head. “I’m impressed.”

“Well, I don’t save lives or anything.”

“I’ll bet you do,” he countered. “Animals need to be cared for just as much as humans.”

My heart melted a little, and I swallowed hard, trying not to get sucked in to the whirling, twirling human vortex of perfection that was Mason Bentley.

“Anyway, what else do you want to know about me?” I asked.

“What was your favorite toy when you were a kid?”

“What?” I laughed.

“I’m serious. You can tell a lot about a person based on their favorite childhood toy.”

“Even if it was just a doll?” I raised my eyebrows, then took another bite of my green beans.

“What kind of doll?”

“A veterinarian doll set I got for my seventh birthday.” It had been a special gift from my father. He’d run all through all the surrounding cities trying to find one just for me. That was just the kind of guy he’d been.

“What was her name?”

I blushed. “Oh God.”

“Come on,” he coaxed.

“Valerie Veterinarian.” 

“You still have her?” he asked.

“No.” I shook my head. “Lost her in a move. But what about you? Favorite childhood toy?”

“Too many to name.”

“Ah, so you were spoiled,” I teased.

“I was well-loved,” he amended with a wide grin.

“I see.” I nodded. “Well, gun to your head, what was your favorite?”

“I don’t know. I guess…I had a stuffed giraffe when I was little. I mean, really little. There are a bunch of pictures of me with it.”

“What was his name?” I asked.

He shrugged. “We had no need for names. Our connection was more spiritual than that.”

I laughed out loud. “Right. Well, good to know.”

We finished our meal and before I got the chance to clean up, Mason grabbed my dish and handled everything for me. Which left me to sit there, wondering what came next. Our conversation was a little awkward, but that was to be expected. We were still in the getting-to-know-you stage. But he was trying—cooking for me, asking questions about me, and attempting to make me feel comfortable. He was one of the good guys—and that’s what scared me.

I couldn’t very well eat and run.

Worse, I didn’t want to.

I wanted to run, all right. Run straight into his bedroom and thank him for dinner in the most intimate way I could. But then, of course, that was only because I knew this time could never be as good as the last.

If I slept with him tonight—which I definitely wasn’t going to—but if I did? Maybe I’d finally have a lukewarm memory to wash away the searing hotness of our first night together. There was no way it could be as good as I remembered. No way.

Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself as I tried to justify still wanting to sleep with him.

Which I totally wasn’t going to do.

“Want to watch a little TV?” Mason asked as he stepped away from the sink, rolling his thick shoulders to stretch and leaving me with my tongue hanging out.

“TV sounds good,” I said, wondering if I should plant the seed for my early departure now so it would be an easy, hassle-free extraction.

“Cool. Pick your poison.” He turned on the flat-screen TV hanging on the wall opposite his bedroom, his Netflix cue already loaded.

“Lots of car shows.” I nodded toward the screen.

“Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then settled back onto his cream-colored sofa. “I’ve got one I’m working on. Probably not worth the price I pay to store it, but it’s a hobby.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“A Mustang,” he said. “My dad taught me how to work on old muscle cars when I was growing up. It helps to have something to do with your hands or to unwind after a bad day.”

I could think of something he could do to occupy his hands. Shaking the mental image away of his weight pinning me to the bed while I moaned, I moved toward the sofa.

“I can understand that,” I said.

In fact, the similarities in our lives growing up were almost eerily similar. Before my father had gotten sick, I spent almost every Saturday in our garage, watching him as he toiled over a Cadillac he’d inherited from my grandfather. He used to tell me that oil ran in our blood and that—once I figured out my true calling—there’d finally be a mechanic in the family.

Every time I’d laugh and he’d explain that he was kidding, but that if I ever wanted to work on the car I could join him. Instead, I’d always sat on my stool and handed him tools as he fiddled with this or that and tried to explain to me what he was doing. I never understood, of course. I was too young then.

But selling that Cadillac once he was gone to help my mom get on her feet financially? That had been one of the hardest days of my life. Handing over the keys had been like handing over a part of my dad to some random stranger.

“Maybe not car stuff,” I said. “You ever watch Jane the Virgin? That’s a pretty funny show.”

“No, what’s it about?”

“It’s about a girl who accidentally gets pregnant and—” I heard myself, then stopped. “You know what? That one is probably a bad idea too.”

He laughed. “Maybe we should just talk.” He patted the seat beside him on the sofa, and I could feel his gaze raking over me, surveying me. He knew, of course, what was underneath my clothes. He’d already seen me—all of me.

So why did I still feel so exposed? Because baring my body was far easier than stripping away the curtain to my soul.

Joining him on the couch, I crossed my legs if only to dull the ache that rose inside me at the smell of his spicy-sweet cologne. “What do you want to talk about now?” I asked.

“You. Always you,” he said.

I grabbed a nearby throw pillow and hugged it close. “Well, not much to say there. You know where I work and my favorite childhood toy. That’s about all of it.”

He laughed, then moved a little closer, so close that his arm brushed against mine. “Do you date much? Any serious relationships you want to rehash? Bad blind dates, maybe? Tinder horror stories?”

“Well…” I thought hard about my answer. What I did technically couldn’t be called dating. Unless, of course, he counted my long-term, committed relationship with my friendly bedside vibrator. If that were the case, I’d bet at this point I could petition for common law marriage.

“Not quite,” I said.

“So before me, the last guy was?”

“Years ago,” I confessed, averting my gaze.

“I wondered,” he murmured.

“Something about me just screams cat lady?” I joked.

“No.” He shook his head. “You were…I could tell.”

“How could you tell?” I narrowed my eyes, wondering what in the hell he meant. That I was so inexperienced and rusty it gave me away? White hot annoyance crept up my spine and landed on the back of my neck. Maybe I’d just discovered a minor flaw marring his perfect resume.

“Honestly? You were just so tight,” he said, his voice dropping lower. “I’ve been wondering ever since then if it was because you hadn’t been with anyone for a while, or if maybe you always feel that way. So wet and warm and—”

There was no denying the surge of need building between my thighs now, and my breath caught as I met his gaze. “I-I don’t know.”

His eyes went dark and his jaw tensed.

“Only one way to find out,” he said.