Chapter Eleven

~ FREYA ~

The light from the other side of my eyelids warms the room, but I keep my eyes firmly shut, listening to Mason breathe next to me. He’s awake. I know this somehow instinctively, just because the few times he’s drifted off while I watch Game of Thrones, his breathing is deeper, just this side of snoring.

What now?

My mind scampers, trying to take hold of some logical explanation for why I let myself accost him last night. And it was me; there’s no denying that. I was as horny as an ankole-watusi—and I only know what that is because I grew up watching National Geographic.

Yes, I was the one who attacked Mason last night. The first time.

The second time had been a mutual groping-slash-cuddling incident that led to more sex, and then that third time was all him, when he took me against the kitchen counter after I had arisen from bed to make us a three a.m. snack.

And now, the greatest friendship I’ve enjoyed in my life is poised to change completely.

But no. It doesn’t need to, I remind myself, attempting the same logic as I did last night. Lots of friends end up in bed and then resume their friendship like it never even happened.

Yet I can’t forget that it did happen simply because the man has some fine skills in the sack. I mean, seriously… if that weasel Patrick had half the skills that Mason does, I might have put up with…

Nah.

“I can tell you’re awake, Freya.”

Mason’s voice makes my nipples pucker against the nightshirt I slipped on late last night. The timbre of it has always done something to me, but now, as I face the morning after, it elevates my hormones in a way unlike before.

I peek out from beneath my lashes and see him, sitting in the chair at the opposite side of the bed. “How did you know I was awake?” I ask.

“Because when you’re asleep, your eyes flit around like you’re watching the Army-Navy game in your dreams.”

“If I was watching the Army-Navy game, I’d probably be asleep. You know I hate football.”

“I’ve just failed to convert you.”

His smile falls over me like a soft blanket, comforting and so blissfully easy. But I can’t avoid the topic forever. “So… our first morning after,” I dare to voice.

“Yep.” He answers me as though he hadn’t made me scream like a wanton hussy last night. “And you promised you’d go to Marigold’s with me for breakfast. So get ready.”

“Did you shower yet?”

His eyes widen. “Did I shower yet? Of course. I showered, folded the laundry you had in your dryer, made some coffee, and alphabetized your dry cereals.”

“God, you morning people slay me.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” He flops down on the bed with me and traces his finger along my arm. “If you were a morning person too, imagine all we could have done by now.” The seductive smile he sends me is the first time this morning he seems to fully acknowledge that something happened between us last night, and my whole body comes to life under the slight touch of his hand against my skin.

“You were incredible,” he adds, brushing a lock of my hair behind my ear and then kissing me. It’s barely a whisper of a kiss on my forehead, and it makes me melt.

“You were pretty amazing yourself.” I wish I could come up with a better reply, something witty or seductive or droll. But I’m lucky to even have the strength to talk at all after last night.

“Want your coffee before or after your shower?”

“After.” I struggle to lift myself from the mattress and disappear into the bathroom. Shutting the door, I flick on the exhaust fan, happy to have the white noise so that I can let out a low groan without being heard.

I was prepared for this to be awkward. To have The Talk. What I wasn’t prepared for was him being so casual about it, so calm and easy. I want to shake him and scream, “What does this mean for us, idiot?” But I can’t, of course.

Well, maybe I could. But it hasn’t come to that quite yet.

I hear my cell phone chirp announcing a text in the other room. I let out another groan, but this one is loud enough to even be heard by someone in the next apartment over. “Can you see who that is?”

“Right.”

I don’t need to wait for his answer. I know it’s my mom. She’s got some creepy mom-radar that seems to go off any time I have sex. And the text that generally ensues uses words like “values” and phrases like “in my day…”

I should seriously get my number changed, because a text from my mom kills that lovely post-sex glow. I can only hope she used her voice recognition app so I won’t have to actually know what she wrote.

There’s a long pause in the other room while I strip down and turn on the shower. Tucking my hair beneath a shower cap because I’m too lazy to wash it, I hear Mason’s voice through the door.

“Uh, it’s a text from your mom.”

My stomach churns. The woman’s a damn psychic. Either that or she’s got a nannycam somewhere in my bedroom.

Now there’s a thought that will kill my sex drive.

I’m tempted to have Mason text her back a photo of his junk (which might actually stop her from ever texting me again), when he says, “Uh, I hate to be nosy, but you had an email open from that agent.”

From behind a swath of suds, my face frowns. I didn’t really want to talk about that right now. No girl wants to feel pity from a man after she’s just had sex with him.

“Yeah,” I begin, trying to keep my tone light. “It’s that moron who asked me to turn Zander into a shifter. You know. She rejected me. Figures, doesn’t it?”

“And she didn’t even read your edited copy?”

Shit. He read the email. He is a nosy son-of-a-bitch.

“Yeah, that’s what she says.”

“I can’t believe that. That’s—so—wrong.” He pauses in between words as though he’s trying to control a string of profanities from spewing from his mouth. Wrong? That’s far too reserved for Mason. “I’m so sorry, Freya.”

“No big deal.”

His sympathy’s killing me, and I feel tears threaten the corners of my eyes. Stop it, Mason.

“It is a big deal. You worked your ass off on that.”

I sigh, wishing Mason was as telepathic as my mom right now. “Really, Mason. I just want to forget it. Let’s not talk about it.”