Chapter Eight

 

- MASON -

 

The sun bakes the brackish water into us as we lie on the blanket, now saturated. I force myself to keep my eyes on the blue sky above us. Yet still they fight me, wanting to roll sideways to catch a glimpse of Freya as she lies next to me, so wet, and so vulnerable.

My cock twitches. Dammit, not now. I roll over onto my chest to hide my apparent interest, and rest my head on one folded arm.

Why now? I can’t help wondering. The first time I met Freya, I was as interested in her as I am in any single woman. She’s cute, in that nerdy kind of way, with an energy that sizzles behind her eyes, especially when she’s tapping things into her computer.

But shit, she’s my friend. To get something started up with her right before I leave would destroy the longest non-familial relationship with a woman I’ve ever had in my life (even if it is a sexless one).

I dare to glance at her and can’t resist a smile when she looks over at me. Her mascara has streaked under her eyes and I love that she probably knows and doesn’t seem to care. That’s the cool thing about friendship with Freya. I get to see her as she really is. The women I date always worry too much about their appearance, as though I might bolt the moment I see a hair out of place. It bugs me that they see me that way. Shouldn’t the whole purpose of dating and eventually marriage be to find someone you are comfortable with all the time, even if you’re sick or crabby or just ate a can of beans?

And did the “m” word actually slip into my mind without bringing on its usual sense of dread?

Shit. I must be getting old.

“Are you okay?” Her voice cuts into my internal diatribe.

“Yeah. Fine. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous activity.”

I don’t dare respond or I might tell her just how dangerous.

She turns to me, and she still has droplets of water on her long eyelashes. “Okay, so I’ll take the bait. What are you thinking about?”

“I think two years out of the field has made me a little soft,” I ponder.

A single eyebrow rises on her forehead. I always wonder how people can do that.

“There’s not an ounce of soft on you,” she quips back.

Still on my belly, I feel my cock twitch as a reminder. She has no idea how right she is about that statement. “No, I mean… nah, forget it.” I don’t want to have this conversation, or I might actually admit that I’ve started wanting more out of my relationships than a month or two of unrepentantly great sex.

“No, I won’t forget it. What do you—”

“Mosquito,” I say, whisking my hand in her direction. It’s the only thing I know that will have one hundred percent effectiveness in changing the subject with her.

Her eyes bug out and she darts upward, lunging for her bag.

“Dammit. The water washed away my repellant,” she mutters, shaking the can and dousing herself again.

I snicker and, feeling more in control of my hormones, lift myself into a sitting position.

“Want some more?” Freya asks, extending the can my way.

“You know I don’t.”

I watch her as she shrugs. Her mouth is curved upward on one side and I swear she’s got the most adorable expression. Freya has zero awareness of her own cuteness factor, which makes her all the more appealing.

A billionaire SEAL. Is that what it takes to turn this woman on? I wonder, remembering the way her nipples drew tight after I’d thrown her into the water.

I can’t think about things like that, though. Not with Freya. For two years she’s been the closest friend I had in this town.

But remembering the way that t-shirt of hers was clinging to her breasts just a matter of minutes ago, I’m feeling a little more than just friendly.

She lies back down on the ground beside me and stares at the sky above her thoughtfully. “When are we going to do it?”

I nearly sputter at her question, considering there’s only one thing I’m imagining doing with Freya right now, especially with her reclining on a blanket in wet clothes. “What?”

She lifts herself slightly off the blanket to look at me. Her hair is still damp and it’s cemented itself to the side of her face. My hand can’t resist moving toward her to free the tresses. I pause slightly when the pad of my index finger touches her skin, because I feel a spark when I touch her now, and if I hold it there a little longer, I might feel it again.

It just feels that good. That right.

“Crabbing. You’re leaving soon. We won’t have a chance.”

There seems to be an emptiness in her words. Or maybe that’s just me.

“Freya, I’ll be four hours away. I can come up sometime and take you. Or you can come down to me. There are plenty of crabs in Little Creek.”

“Will you be gone a lot?”

I shrug. “Never know.”

When she plops back down to the ground, her breasts jiggle slightly. Why did I have to notice that? I feel a pressure in my groin that is pretty damn inappropriate right now.

Freya is my friend. My good friend. That’s all. There was never even a chance to be anything but. When she was single, I was dating someone. When I was single, she was dating someone. It was probably for the best. We never would have lasted this long had we ever gone down a different path. I don’t think, anyway.

But now, as I look at her, I can’t help remembering that this is the first time we’ve both actually been available at the same time. There’s this part of me that wants to explore this feeling I have when I look at her now. And there’s another part of me that wants to ignore it because now is not the time for me to be wrecking a perfectly good friendship for something that will not last.

“What if I need to revise the book again and you’re away?”

“Try this, Freya. Don’t edit the book anymore. It hardly resembles what you started off with, you know.”

She tilts her head. “Don’t you think it’s better for all these changes?”

Gazing at her blankly, I try to hold my answer in until I know she really wants to hear it.

“Be honest,” she says, cutting past all the bullshit I was ready to lay on her.

“No. I liked it more back when he was just an ordinary SEAL.”

She frowns slightly, but in her eyes, I can see she agrees with me. “I really want to get published, Mason. Or else I’ll feel like I’ve blown the last two years of my life for nothing.”

My spine straightens. “Nothing? You think you wasted the last two years? And here I thought we were having fun.”

“We were having fun. But what do I have to show for it?”

I look at her, trying to remember that she’s twenty-three. When I met her, she was a senior at St. John’s College, head always buried in the classics, barely able to have a legal drink. She’s only been out of college a year, and she seems to have already declared herself a failure.

It’s only a five-year stretch to remember myself at that age, still measuring myself by how many awards I had pinned to my chest—back before some shrapnel mangled a tendon requiring surgery and physical therapy, and landing me here for a little recuperation time.

I didn’t earn a single award while I’ve been here, save the one they’ll pin on me tomorrow—the Navy Commendation Medal—which I can’t help feeling I would have earned even if I’d collected dust while sitting at a desk for two years (which, in fact, is kind of what I feel like I did).

But I had fun. I wouldn’t trade it.

“Who says you have to have something to show for everything you do?” I ask her. “What are your friends from college doing that’s so damned special?”

She shrugs. “They mostly have jobs in DC or Baltimore. Something more significant than working at an antique bookstore.”

“You’ve been listening to that putz Patrick too much.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Freya, you’re going to take so many roads in your life. Not just one. And some will be dead ends. Patrick comes to mind,” I can’t resist adding with a wry grin, earning a smack on my shoulder in return. “Others will be U-turns. But eventually, you’ll find a road that you stay on for a while.” As I say it, I can’t help thinking that if she’d never tried to write her book, we never would have been brought together. And I don’t like the idea of my life without her.

Strange.

“That’s pretty poetic, Mason. Maybe you should write a book.”

“Maybe I will someday.” I smile. “You’re coming to my hail-and-farewell tomorrow, right?”

She leans over toward me, propping her head up with one hand and firing me a smile that is nothing short of breathtaking. Was she always this gorgeous? Or is it some special vibe that all women give off to attract a mate when they’re officially single?

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.” She pauses. “Will Harris be there?”

“I guess.” I bristle at the sound of another man’s name on her lips, which is odd because it never had bothered me before. “You like Harris?”

She yawns, and I can tell that she was up late last night writing the scenes.

“He’s nice enough,” she says. “It just would be good to see a familiar face. That’s all.”

Harris is just one year into his tour at the Academy. Suddenly it annoys me to think that my officemate—whom I’d even call a friend—will be here with Freya when I’m not. It shouldn’t bother me. He’s a good guy, and I’d rather see Freya hook up with him than any of the losers she usually ends up with like that Patrick douche.

But it still gnaws away at me, even as Freya’s eyes flutter shut and she drifts off for a nap in the warm sun.

I join her, thinking it amusing that after two years, I’ll finally be able to say I slept with Freya.

Sadly, sex isn’t part of the deal.