Well, fuckin’ hell. From the moment I stepped through the door of the bar, it was abundantly clear who Mason Hartley was. And I knew immediately that he was going to be a piece of work.

Those clear blue eyes stared out at me like two beacons, even in the dim light. Wicker and Barrel was crowded because it always was, but nobody could have missed the sandy-blond guy with glasses, sitting up perfectly straight on one of the bar stools, staring at the front door—at me—like a dog waiting for its owner to get home. Or more accurately, like a deer in the headlights looking at a giant grizzly bear.

I liked the idea that he was watching me like I was something ferocious.

As soon as I caught his gaze, though, he looked back down at the bar, sheepish and almost embarrassed.

“Hey there, Kade,” Joe, the owner of the bar, said in his signature southern drawl. He threw a towel over his shoulder as he came over to the front of the room, giving me a big slap on the back. “What’s goin’ on tonight? Just here for a drink? Or you got a client?”

I gave him one nod, breaking eye contact with Mason. “Pretty sure that’s him over there at the bar. It’s gotta be. Fifteen minutes early.”

“Oh, the gentleman in the khakis? He’s been here for thirty minutes, sipping that same glass of white wine. Tried to talk to him because he seemed… real wound up and tense or something, but he wouldn’t say much to me at all. Think he might be kind of shy-like.”

“I’ll get him to talk,” I said.

“Might have a little trouble there, Kade.”

I shook my head, smiling at Joe. “I can get anyone to talk.”

“Well, he’s cute, after all. If you can’t coach him, maybe you can bring him home.”

Joe laughed, but I remained serious. “I don’t sleep with clients, Joe. You know that full well.”

I’d been coming to Wicker and Barrel ever since I moved to Mistview Heights a decade ago, and Joe had been one of my buddies ever since. He gave a shit about his bar and the people in it. I felt at home here, and it was the first place I’d ever really felt at home.

“Well, godspeed and good luck to ya,” Joe said, giving me a tiny salute as I made my way to the bar. Peanut shells crunched under my boots as I walked over slowly, and two drunk guys were hogging the jukebox, playing one Rolling Stones tune after another.

Mason dropped his gaze as I walked toward him, and for a split second,, I thought he might actually flee the scene.

“Mason Hartley?” I said as I approached, holding out my hand. “Kade Thompson.”

Instantly, his cheeks flushed a strawberry red, and he gave me one quick glance as he reached out, putting his smaller, cold hand in mine.

“Y—yeah, that’s Mason. I mean—that’s me. I am Mason Hartley, sir. I mean, Kade,” he said, stumbling over each word as if he was trying to say all of them at the same time. “Shoot,” he muttered under his breath as he turned back to the bar, grabbing his white wine and taking a sip.

I had to hold myself back from laughing. He was adorable, after all, but I was sure that now would not be a good time to laugh with someone as shy as him.

He probably wouldn’t have believed I was laughing because he was cute, anyway.

“S—so, where are you from?” he said, in his soft but surprisingly deep voice. “I’m from around here, so I’m used to the cold—but, hah, it’s been below freezing a couple nights. Did you hear about the frost warning—”

I shook my head as I looked down at him, allowing myself to smile. “No,” I said.

“No? You didn’t hear about it? Well, be sure to cover your plants—”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said. “I mean no, we are not doing this song and dance right now. We can do the small talk thing some other time. First, you’re coming with me.”

Mason was looking at me like I’d just told him he had ten minutes left to live.

I nodded at Fran, the bartender on duty tonight, and she came over quickly.

“Been a minute since I’ve seen you, Kade darlin’,” she said. “What can I get you?”

“Get us two bourbons, and pour heavy,” I said. “Got any of the Marionno? Tonight’s not a bottom shelf kind of night.”

“We sure do for you, Kade,” she said.

“You’re the best,” I replied.

Mason finished off his white wine, and Fran returned with our bourbons. I thanked her and left a hefty tip, then gestured across the room.

“C’mon,” I told Mason, and I strode off to the far end of the bar. When we’d reached the pool tables, I picked up a cue, handing it over to Mason.

“Oh, I’m not so good at billiards,” he said.

“You don’t have to be. We’re just gonna play a round,” I said.

I watched as he took a sip of the bourbon, half expecting him to spit it out. But he swallowed like a champ. “Ah… Kade, about the… life coaching—you see, I’m really not—”

I shook my head. “Trust me, we are going to talk later,” I said. “We are going to talk a lot, about everything, and you’re going to beg me to stop. But for now, you don’t have to say a thing. We’re just gonna play. How does that sound?”

I could see the visible relief on Mason’s face. I wondered if anyone had ever said something like that to him—told him that for the next many minutes, he didn’t have to try to talk.

Because talking was clearly something he was nervous about right now. And my goal, as a confidence coach and as a person, was to make Mason feel as comfortable as humanly possible.

I slid a handful of quarters into the slot at the far end of one of the pool tables and began to rack the balls. When Mason picked out his pool cue, he reached for a napkin and wiped off the base of the cue.

“Just a simple game of 8-ball,” I said, glancing over at Mason, who was taking another sip of the bourbon. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, watching me work, almost like he was studying my every move.

And I liked the feeling of being watched. The first half hour with any new client was always crucial: I had to make sure to put them at ease but also to shock their system. Mason’s default crutch was clearly to talk about the weather, and I had to nip that in the bud right off the bat.

Already I could sense that Mason was going to be an incredible learner. He listened and was maddeningly attentive as he watched me. Half my clients would have been minutes deep into some story about their stamp collection by now, but Mason was beautifully receptive.

After a few practice strokes, I broke the balls at the center of the table with confidence. The loud crack filled the air, and we were off, trading back and forth between solids and stripes.

Mason wasn’t perfect, but he was a better player than he’d let on. We played without speaking, and the bar was plenty loud enough to fill the air: ambient chatter and laughter, more and more Stones songs, and the regular hits of cues on billiards balls. I sipped my whiskey, watching as Mason grew more and more comfortable.

He was very careful and very good at performing a task. Whatever he lacked in conversational skills, he certainly made up for in intense focus. I swore I could have poured my drink on him and he still would have his eyes glued to the pool table, planning his shots, zeroing in on each ball and making silent calculations in his mind.

And it was a nice view, anyway, leaning back on the tall table behind me and watching him work. If he weren’t a client, I knew I’d try to take him home.

“Hah!” he cried out, and I jumped a little at the sudden noise. He’d made a perfect shot, hitting a cluster of three balls and sending each of them into a pocket. “That was awesome,” he said before bringing his hand up to his mouth. “Oops. Sorry. I’m not supposed to talk.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re allowed,” I said. “So long as you want to.”

I made one more shot, but on the next one, he sank the final 8-ball, ending the game. I walked over and held up my hand for a high five, and he gingerly gave me one.

“Congratulations,” I said. “And welcome to your first confidence coaching lesson.”

His face fell again, and he quickly took another sip of bourbon. “Um—yeah, about that,” he said. “I was trying to say earlier, before the pool game—I’m not actually looking for life coaching or confidence coaching or anything. This is all a bit of a misunderstanding with my friend.”

I raised one eyebrow. He raked a hand through his hair, and already I could see the exasperation returning to his face.

“You see, my roommate, Terry, is the one who bought me these, but I’m not going to do it.”

He bit his bottom lip as he stared up at me, looking all kinds of sexy and clearly having no clue about it.

“You sure about that, Mason?” I asked. I could already feel myself deflating, though—Mason was my first client this month, and I desperately needed the business. My bank account was a horror show.

“Very sure, indeed,” he said, taking a deep breath.

“Why did she sign you up?” I asked.

Mason shook his head, sitting down on one of the barstools near the pool table. “It’s a long story. It doesn’t matter, really.”

“It matters to me,” I said, pulling up a stool right across from him and looking him in the eye. “What’s up?”

“Well, Terry just knew about how many… uh… failed dates I’d had this year, and I made the mistake of telling her that I wanted to find a… well, a boyfriend before Christmas.”

He looked over at the table where I’d set my drink and instinctively reached over, pushing a coaster under my glass, even though there were dozens of other drink stains on the table.

“Why do you need a boyfriend by Christmas?” I asked, studying him. We were closer than ever, now, and I could see the softness of his gaze behind his glasses. He had a beauty mark on his temple and the lightest dusting of freckles on his cheeks.

He cocked his head to one side as if he didn’t quite understand the question. “Why do I need one?” he asked. “Well, why in the world wouldn’t I want one? I’ve been searching for a boyfriend for years, and I do try my best—I promise, I take notes after every rejection. I try so hard. I really work at it—”

I reached over for my drink and finished half of it in one gulp. “Let’s pause for just a moment, there,” I said, pulling in a slow breath. “How do you think a boyfriend would improve your life?”

He looked down at the glass in his hand, gently thumbing the stitching at the seam of his khakis as he processed my question. “I’d be less lonely,” he finally said, nodding. “Less lonely, and… I’d finally be able to care for someone else. To give him my all, to provide for him what he needs, to be his home at the end of the day.”

“Wow,” I said softly, nodding slowly. “For someone with trouble talking, you sure are good at it when you talk about that.”

Instantly, a blush crept over his cheeks again. “Oh—I, uh—”

I smiled, waving my hand.

“I’ve got a question for you,” I said, looking him over. “When’s the last time you took a vacation from work?”

He shook his head vigorously. “I don’t take vacations,” he said simply.

I cocked one eyebrow at him. “Ever?”

“Not possible, with my job. I’m an assistant to Adrian Terrance—that’s the Terrance, of Terrance Hotel fame. My job doesn’t take breaks, and neither do I.”

“Does your boss—Adrian—require you to do this? That’s a little illegal, Mason.”

“Oh, heavens, no,” he said. “Adrian’s always trying to get me to use up my days off… but I can’t imagine it. There’s just never a good time.”

“I see,” I said.

“I’m sure you understand,” he said, his eyes growing wide. “You’d never want to take time away from a client, would you?”

“That’s a little different,” I said. “In between clients, I can take as much time off as I choose.” I neglected to mention the fact that I couldn’t afford to take any time off between clients—Mason didn’t need to hear about the sorry state of my finances right now, and I hoped he never would.

He hitched up one shoulder in a shrug. “I could take time off if I wanted. But I don’t,” he said almost defiantly.

I paused, wondering silently how the hell a person like him could even exist. But I couldn’t help but notice that Mason did have a hint of confidence when he talked about his work—he clearly took pride in being a good worker.

“Mason,” I said, “step one in building a pathway to confidence is caring for yourself. I know that it might sound impossible to you, but you’ve got to put your own needs above other people’s sometimes.”

He recoiled as if I were telling him to eat a bowl of live roaches.

“When you meet a new guy, what do you wish could happen?” I asked. “In an ideal world. If you weren’t shy at all.”

He thought for a moment. “Well, I’d like to know more about him,” he said. “And instead of talking about the weather, I’d want to talk about real things: his hopes, his dreams, his favorite desserts. I’d want him to see me as… sexy rather than timid. And I’d like to be able to kiss him. Confident and unafraid, sweeping him into my arms like a hero in an old-timey movie.”

“Wow,” I said. “Good. that’s definitely important: knowing what your ideal scenario would look like and being able to slowly build to it in real life, piece by piece.”

“I could never actually interact with a date that way,” he said, shaking his head and waving a hand through the air.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Like I said, it’s something you work on little by little… not all in one night.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, just slightly. “Kade… I think I know what’s happening here. Are you trying to give me confidence tactics? I’m really sorry, but I’m not going to be a client of yours.”

“We’re just two guys, talking,” I said. “This first session is nonrefundable though. Are you sure you don’t want any help from me?”

“I can’t,” he said softly. “It just isn’t something I can do, Kade.”

“Why not?”

He paused for a moment, anxiously biting the inside of his cheek. “Well, I’m not sure yet if I can trust you,” he said.

I blinked. “How come?”

“Can I ask you a personal question?” he said. “And potentially… very awkward?”

“You can ask me anything at all,” I said. “I mean it.”

Already I saw a flush on his cheeks. “Do you get in a lot of bar fights?”

“Fuck,” I muttered. “You Googled me, didn’t you?” I asked.

He nodded quickly. “Of course. You seemed… violent, in that video. It kind of scared me, to be honest. What happened?”

“I’m a dumbass, that’s what happened,” I said. “I was at a bar with a guy, and he had a rainbow flag tucked behind his ear like a pencil. It was the day of the pride parade, so it wasn’t exactly a strange thing. But another big beefy dude at the bar saw it and decided to toss some slurs at my friend.”

“Oh, no,” Mason said.

“I asked him calmly to stop. He didn’t. I asked him to leave my friend alone, and instead, he insinuated that I only cared because I was ‘getting my dick sucked’ by my friend that night.”

“Wow,” Mason responded.

“I still remained calm. But when the man threatened to wait for my friend in the parking lot of the bar? I lost it. I called him a fucking creep, and then he took a swing at me, and I fought back, hard. And I admit it—I was wrong. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. Of course, someone had a cell phone and only caught the end, where I look like a maniac.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mason whispered. “So… you’re a hero.”

I snorted. “More like an idiot with a temper I should be better at controlling.”

“Okay,” Mason said, visibly relaxing. “I think I trust you more now, actually. But I still am not going to be a client. I’m sorry, Kade.”

I eyed him. “I understand,” I said finally. “I can’t force you. And it’s probably good, now that you’ve seen that video of me.” I pulled in a breath, checking the time on my watch. “Well, I’ve got another couple hours on my parking meter anyway. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

The scared look returned to his eyes. “Proposition?”

“You’re never going to see me again after tonight,” I said. “So, how about we pretend I’m your date? You know there are no consequences to fucking anything up tonight. There’s no reason to be nervous. And I’m not the kind of guy you’re into, anyway. So practice on me.”

For the first time, I saw a slight smile appear on his lips. It seemed like the bourbon was having an effect on him, however slight.

“Umm....” he started, trailing off.

“Remember: no consequences. You could tell me to go fuck myself, and I wouldn’t even care.”

He blushed slightly, just from me saying that. But finally, he nodded, taking a deep breath in.

“Okay. Ah… where are you from?”

I gazed at him. “You can do better.”

He bit his bottom lip, nodding quickly. “Right—right. Um, what is your greatest passion in life?”

I nodded. This was better. “My greatest passion is helping other people realize their full potential,” I answered. “Teaching people that what they need the most is often already inside them. Guiding them to that light inside means the world to me.”

Mason was watching me close, nodding. His eyes were so clear and bright as I spoke that it was almost distracting—for the first time I noticed how big his eyes looked when he wasn’t trying his best to avoid eye contact.

“That’s… beautiful,” he said, sounding almost surprised. “Ah, okay. Next. What’s something you’ve… you’ve never told anyone else?”

My eyebrows lifted involuntarily as I thought about his question.

“Shoot—I’m sorry. That’s too personal—God, I’m really sorry—”

I held up a hand. “No, no,” I said, “that’s a really good question. And I’m going to answer it. You’re doing great, Mason.”

He settled a little, but I could tell he was still a little embarrassed.

“I’ve never told anyone this,” I said, smiling a little at the memory floating through my head. “There was a girl named Amy who went to my middle school when I was thirteen years old. It was the opening night of the Memphis county fair, and just about my entire school class ended up there. I was behind Amy and her group of friends when they were waiting for the Ferris wheel ride, and I overheard her saying how sad she was that she didn’t get the plush Dalmatian toy from the ring toss. I ran over to the ring toss stand as fast as I could, and I spent the next half hour there, tossing ring after ring, trying to win it for her.”

Mason was smiling slightly, and he had that calm, lost look in his eye that he’d gotten last time I was talking. “Did—did you win it for her?” he asked.

“Well, I didn’t win it,” I said, “but after I’d spent all my quarters at the stall, the man running it took mercy on me and just gave me the Dalmatian. I think he probably could tell that I was about to cry.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Mason said. From anyone else, I would have thought he was humoring me—but I knew Mason meant it, emphatically.

“I guess it was kind of sweet,” I said. “I ran back over to Amy, presented her with the Dalmatian, and she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I swear I could have died right then, and I’d have been fine with it.”

“That’s just adorable,” Mason said, smiling wide now.

I shook my head. “But Monday morning, at school, I was all ready to be her boyfriend. I walked over to her, proud and sure, and she proceeded to act like nothing had ever happened. That week was devastating—Amy ignored me and never talked to me again. Eventually I got one of my friends to ask her what the hell was going on, and she said she ‘just didn’t like me in that way.’ That was my first experience of rejection.”

Mason’s eyes were so full of sympathy that I half expected him to start crying. Fuck, his eyes were distracting. Those same eyes, looking up at me in bed….

But no. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—think about a client in that way. Even if he did seem a little reluctant to being a client.

“I’m so sorry, Kade,” Mason finally said.

I waved him off. “What, do you think I dwell on a girl rejecting me in the eighth grade? It was years ago, Mason. There’s a reason I’ve never told anyone that story—I never even think about it anymore.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, but I could still see the disappointment on his face. “I’ll ask you something a little easier?”

“Please do,” I said. I was enjoying this more than I had any right to, and I’d talk to Mason for hours if it meant I could keep his pretty face in front of me.

“What’s your favorite dessert?”

I laughed softly.

“I’m equally interested in that,” Mason said, a small smile on his face.

“My favorite dessert is a chocolate-hazelnut cake,” I said. “Even better if there’s a little booze soaked in it.”

“Mmm, Nutella…” Mason said as his eyes got this dreamy look to them.

“It’s God’s gift to mankind,” I said.

“Mason, those questions fucking rocked,” I said

Mason turned his head to one side, eyeing me. “I have… one more question, though.”

“Shoot, buddy,” I said.

“Why did you say you’re not the kind of guy I’m into?”

“Hm?”

He cleared his throat. “Um... before I started asking you questions, you… said that you’re not the kind of guy I’d be into, anyway. Why’d you think that?”

I smiled at him before rolling my eyes. “You know why,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Because you want a boyfriend,” I said. “I don’t do boyfriends. I’m a free agent. Lone wolf. I like being able to fuck any woman or man who wants to fuck me back, you know?”

Mason’s jaw dropped halfway to the floor.

“You—wait—you go out with men?” he blurted out. His hand flew up to his mouth right after, and I saw the telltale pink starting to spread across his cheeks again. “Oh God—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I thought you were just being a good person when you defended your gay friend. I didn’t know it was personal.”

I laughed, watching him grow more and more adorable by the second.

“It’s okay. Seriously, Mason.”

“No, no, no, God, I am so rude… I just… I didn’t realize… and I was asking you all those questions—”

I nodded. “I understand. It’s not a given.”

“Right.”

It was as if right then, all the progress Mason had made over the night had been erased. He was looking at me differently now, like he was even more intimidated than he had been to begin with.

“Let me go buy you another round,” I said, watching him.

He began to shake his head. “I really shouldn’t,” he said. I understood that he may need to go home and recharge, as introverts often do. But he made no moves to leave, and in fact, after a few moments, he looked up at me like he wanted permission for something.

“There are a lot of things we shouldn’t do,” I said, standing up and taking a step closer to him. “But do you want to? Would you rather go home, or is that just what your anxiety is telling you to do?”

He looked back down at his now empty bourbon glass and then scanned the bar. The crowd had thinned slightly, and now just consisted of a few people playing pool and a handful of regulars at the bar. The Rolling Stones guys had finally given up control of the jukebox, and an older woman had turned on soothing Fleetwood Mac.

“If I go home, I’ll just end up looking over the List of Doom and listening to Terry yell at me for cutting short this session,” he said. “So I should—I should stay. For a little while.”

I cocked my head to one side. “Okay, I’ll buy you another round, but you’re going to have to explain to me just what the hell the List of Doom is. Promise?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned the list,” he said, but after a moment he smiled and got out of his seat. “Let’s go.”

As the night wore on, my idea of who Mason Hartley was only unraveled further and further in my head. We sat comfortably at one of the circular red leather booths at the side of the bar, lit from above with a small pendant light. Mason hadn’t liked that there had been a stray french fry on one side of the booth, so we sat next to one another, looking out at the bar in front of us.

I found myself hanging on every word he said, even when they didn’t quite come out right.

The man was shy, sure. He was nervous, he had a hard time speaking, and he blushed at the drop of a hat. But the bashful exterior was like a thin, brittle candy coating—as soon as it cracked, it shattered away, leaving a rich, deep interior that was frankly a little stunning.

It was absolutely ridiculous that he kept an Excel spreadsheet of all his failed dates, and confidence coach or not, you could tell from a mile away that it was not a good habit for his self-esteem. But as he talked about the list, all I could think was that it was another facet of his life where he cared so deeply, enough to try to optimize it as best he could.

Mason seemed to care that deeply about everything in his life.

And after another bourbon, he didn’t even have too much trouble letting himself talk. He’d go on, explaining to me something he was proud of at work and then stop short, realizing he’d been talking painlessly for many minutes. I kept asking him questions: how he got his job, what his relationship was like with his boss, doing anything to keep him talking.

It was a little selfish, too. I loved watching him talk; the way he always bit his bottom lip as he was deep in thought, the way he’d smile just a little when talking about successes he’d had. He was a little hypnotizing, actually, and I didn’t think it was just the low light and the booze.

I was used to low light and booze. But I wasn’t used to Mason Hartley.

“But that’s another reason nobody wants to date me,” he said, idly folding a paper napkin into a neat little square. “I… tend to prioritize work over everything.”

“Why do you do that?” I asked.

He shrugged one shoulder. “It feels like the right thing to do. My duty. But I also am lucky enough to like my boss on a personal level, now, so… it just becomes more and more of a cycle.”

“It’s a cycle that can be broken, I promise you,” I said. “Because finding dates shouldn’t be hard for you. At all.”

He laughed softly.

“I mean it,” I said. “You’re smart, you’ve got a great job that you love, you’re sexy as hell—you’re the total package, Mason. Trust me.”

“I—uh—I—thank you?” Mason said, immediately reaching to take another sip of bourbon. Internally, I wanted to thwack myself. What the hell was I doing? None of these were things that I should say to a client, regardless of whether he was continuing with the coaching or not.

But my filter had always been defective, and tonight was no different.

“I’m sorry,” I said brusquely. “That was out of line, especially for a client.”

“No,” Mason stressed, his eyes going wide. “I’m not a client. I told you.”

I smiled. “Well, okay then,” I said. I didn’t know whether to jump for joy or wither into nothing—because I needed a new client like I needed the blood in my veins, but… the idea of getting to flirt with Mason, free of guilt, seemed too great to pass up.

“You seem like a very good person,” I said softly.

He took a sip of his drink and then shook his head. “No, I’m a mess,” he said softly. “And even more a mess when I drink strong liquor.”

“You don’t seem like a mess to me,” I said. “You seem kinda wonderful, actually.”

He snorted. “It’s so hard to keep myself together all the time,” he said. “I mean, it’s like another full-time job, just managing my own life.”

I looked over at him. “You know… you don’t have to be ‘together’ all the time. You don’t have to be perfect.”

His eyes floated up to meet mine. He looked like he had a question that he couldn’t bring himself to ask, and after a couple drinks I couldn’t help but notice just how beautiful he was. How much his eye contact felt like a gift, rather than just the default. When he looked at me, I felt like I had done something right, like he was finally comfortable enough with me to give me his gaze.

It was even more intoxicating than the bourbon. And with Mason sitting right next to me on the booth, I found it more difficult than ever to ignore my attraction to him.

“You mean… I can just do what I want to do?” he asked, and I didn’t know how it was possible for someone so timid to be so effortlessly sexy.

I gave him one nod. “Sometimes, yes,” I said, my voice just the slightest bit hoarse. “You can start right now. Nothing’s stopping you.”

Mason bit his bottom lip, and I knew he was mulling over a thought in his head. His eyes had become slightly heavy-lidded, and the overall effect was liable to make me lose my mind. This was agonizing, and I was happier than ever that he wasn’t going to be a client, because my mind was wandering to the worst places now.

“I can do what I want to do,” Mason said, leaning back a little in the booth.

“Yes,” I repeated.

And then something impossible happened. I had only known Mason for a couple hours, but already, it felt like the world being turned upside down.

He sat up straight again, and his gaze had changed: he had a new determination on his face, like he’d made a decision. He slid a little closer to me, his eyes trailing up and down from my chest to my lips to my eyes and then back down again.

He reached out and placed his hand on my chest, so softly. I could feel the heat of his palm above my heart, and it only made it race faster. He gripped my shirt in his fist gently and then slid in even closer, closing the distance between us.

And then Mason Hartley, a man who could barely make eye contact with me earlier in the night, leaned in and pressed his lips to mine.

The kiss was dry and chaste, just the meeting of lips for a few split seconds. I’d had thousands of crazier kisses in my life—hell, thousands of crazier kisses this year—but nothing had ever surprised me like this.