I arrive at Mason’s place at six that night, and pull up to park my car in his large semicircular driveway. My little subcompact looks comically out of place in front of his mansion. I lock the doors, even though I’m pretty sure no one is going to break into it here. Then I go up to the front door and ring the bell. A few seconds later, he answers.

“Hey, doll,” he grins, opening the door wide to let me through. He’s dressed casually, in a tight Under Armor shirt, jeans, and bare feet. He smells like soap, and something else I can’t figure out that makes me want to jump his bones.

“Come on into the kitchen,” Mason says, grabbing my hand and leading me back. The unexpected contact feels even more intimate than it was two days ago in the lawyers’ office, because now we’re alone. And fake-engaged. I should pull away, but I don’t.

I’ve been to Mason’s place once before, but I’m still surprised by how big it is. The kitchen feels almost as big as my entire apartment. There’s a large island right in the middle, and a dining room off to the side. Mason offers me a drink, and then moves to the other side of the island in front of the stove, where a variety of pots are boiling and simmering.

“Huh. So it looks like you really can cook,” I say, leaning against the island.

Mason glances back at me with a quick smile. “I live alone, so I kinda had to learn,” he says with a shrug. Then he winks at me. “I’m making us a romantic dinner for our anniversary.”

I laugh and shake my head. “You didn’t do me any favors, sending those flowers.”

He frowns. “I thought you said you liked them.”

“I liked the flowers. I didn’t love all the attention I got from them.”

“Get used to attention,” he tells me, turning toward the pots. “It comes with the territory.”

Mason tells me he’s making steak with mushrooms and roasted potatoes with blue cheese sauce. “But I can put the mushrooms and the blue cheese sauce on the side if you aren’t a fan.”

“No, it all sounds really good,” I murmur, taking a sip of the red wine he’s poured me. “Can I help you with anything?” I offer. “I could set the table as you work, or something.”

He gives an approving nod, and directs me to where I can find the plates and the silverware. I carry everything over to the table and set it.

“Do you need help with anything else?” I ask when I’m back in the kitchen.

He waves a hand without turning around. “Nah, sit down and enjoy your wine. I’m almost done, just give me a few minutes.”

I sit down at the island and watch him work for a bit. Since he’s concentrating on something else, I have a chance to check him out without him knowing it. God, he is objectively smoking hot. I’m guessing that almost any woman he encounters flirts with him mercilessly. A pang of jealousy spikes through me, surprising me. I suppress a laugh at how ridiculous that is. I have no claim on Mason at all. Other than our business relationship, that is.

But what if he decides to hook up with someone while we’re supposed to be together?

The contract didn’t cover that. It never occurred to me until just now that that might be a problem. But Mason has basically just signed up for a year of pretending to be in a relationship with me. Which means a year of not having sex with any other girls, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s hard to believe that Mason would risk the damage to his reputation if he were caught “cheating” on me.

But it’s also pretty damn hard to imagine Mason Robichaud being celibate for an entire year.

“Food’s done!”

I jump a little as Mason’s voice startles me. He’s already transferring some trays to the dining room, and I’m too stunned to offer help again.

I realize I have no idea how long I’ve been daydreaming.

Mason flashes me a knowing smirk. “Checking out my ass?”

“You wish,” I toss back automatically, but it sounds forced, even to me. “It smells good,” I add, hoping to change the subject.

“Thanks. Grab your glass and come eat.”

I do what he says, sliding into the chair that he holds out for me. The perfect gentleman. “Thanks,” I murmur, and wait as he sits down across from me.

“You’re welcome. Dig in.”

I do. It’s delicious. The meat is really tender, and the potatoes are perfectly seasoned. It’s amazing to think that Mason made this. I kind of want to gush about it, but I don’t really want to give him the satisfaction. Mason is cocky enough as it is.

After a few bites, I take a sip of my wine, savoring it. “This wine is really good,” I tell him, holding up my glass. “It goes really well with the steak.”

“Yeah? Glad to hear it. I usually use a delivery service instead of going grocery shopping myself, so I asked he guy at the store to pick something out. I’m not much of a specialist. May I?”

Before I can say anything, he picks up the glass and takes a sip himself. “Yeah, that is good!” he grins.

“Wait, aren’t you supposed to…” I trail off, a little shocked and embarrassed. “I mean, I didn’t think you were supposed to drink.”

He laughs, but there’s a slight edge to it. “Yeah. I avoid it in public,” he tells me. “And for the most part, I just don’t drink at all anymore. But I’m not an alcoholic, Anna. Far from it.”

“But… then why were you in rehab?” My face flushes hot. I don’t want to make him feel bad, but the question came out before I could stop it.

“It’s okay,” he nods, as though he’s reading my mind. “You can ask. The fact is, I was never in rehab.”

“I don’t get it.” I shake my head, frowning at him. “But you were in rehab. It was all over the news.”

“Yeah,” he snorts. “It sure was. You can thank the media for that bullshit.”

“I’m the media,” I point out, a little defensively.

“Well, then you know how bloodthirsty they can be. And when they smell a juicy story,” he continues bitterly, “that’s all that matters. Whether it’s true or not.”

The challenge in Mason’s eyes makes me drop my gaze from his for a second. But I can still feel him looking at me. He’s angry, though he’s trying to hold it back. It’s hard not to feel like a little of the anger is directed at me.

“You’re saying the story about you being in rehab isn’t true?” I ask, still confused.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

My immediate impulse is not to believe him. It seems pretty far-fetched that the whole story is a complete fabrication.

But it is true what he says about the power of a juicy story sometimes taking on a life of its own. I’ve certainly seen it happen.

I don’t personally know any journalists who would actually lie. But I do know that sometimes there’s a tendency to spin a story, to make a more exciting version. But in those cases, there’s still always a kernel of truth that the story starts from.

“Mason, that doesn’t make any sense,” I say weakly. “If what you say is true, then how would a story like that have gotten out?”

“It was my brother.”

“Your brother?” I repeat.

“Yeah.” Mason sighs, and leans back in his chair, a weary expression on his face. “My older brother Derek. He’s had a problem with alcohol for a while. Years. He can’t really hold down a job. Can’t keep a relationship. My parents are kind of the only people who still stick by him through it all. Even though he screws them over pretty much every chance he gets.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out noisily. “I was spotted at the rehab facility one day while I was visiting. Someone got film of me that makes it look like I was staying there, and ran with it. The rest is history.”

“So, wait.” I shake my head. “You’re telling me the reports about your alcohol problem, the photos that came out… none of it was true?” It’s pretty hard to believe what Mason is saying. I don’t know what the point would be of him lying to me about this, though.

“Yeah. As far as I understand, whoever got the video sold it as an anonymous source to the website that broke the story. The whole thing got out of control and went viral.” His jaw tenses as he looks down angrily at his plate. “The website refused to print a retraction, even when I told them I could prove it wasn’t me. But by that time, the Rockets had backed out of our contract anyway, and I was left twisting in the wind.” Mason’s lip curls. “And the worst thing is? The fucking stint in rehab didn’t even take. Derek was back outside and using again within a month. So it was all for nothing.”

I consider his words, horrified. If what he’s saying is true, I can’t even imagine what it’s been like for him to watch his career slip through his fingers — for something he didn’t even do.

And now, he has to be constantly careful in public to avoid fanning the flames.

I look at him, and his eyes lock onto mine. They don’t flick away. Instinctively, somehow I just know he’s telling me the truth.

“That’s the first alcohol I’ve bought in almost a year,” he says quietly, nodding toward the bottle.

The mood between us has turned solemn. I feel terrible for Mason. At the same time, there’s something between us — an intimacy — that wasn’t there before. Clearly, confiding in me with this story was not part of the terms of the contract. This was something he told me, just because he wanted to. As far as the rest of the world knows, Mason Robichaud is a recovering alcoholic.

“You didn’t have to,” I said. “Buy the wine. Just for me.”

“I know.” He shrugs, then one corner of his mouth turns up. “But it’s our anniversary, after all. I wanted to make it special.”

I laugh softly. “Thanks for telling me, Mason. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

Mason doesn’t respond. He just takes another bite of his steak.

“Go grab another glass,” I finally say. “This wine is too good not to share.”