Mason
I join Rafe and Ainsley, who are standing by the breakfast bar. My fingertips are still tingling from where I touched the delicate shell of Claire’s ear, my blood still thundering in my veins from the urge to do a lot more than that.
I don't know what's gotten into me.
When I got home, I really did intend to just veg and watch some TV. Try to shake off the bullshit of my day. At least a half dozen people have been through the apartment upstairs, and I don’t—or didn't until tonight—care who rents it.
But Ainsley's a friend, and I don't see her often enough, so when I noticed the lights were on I figured better to say hi to her in 2A than to have her ask why I didn’t come up and do the whole rooftop party thing.
I didn’t think the prospective buyer would inexplicably rock my fucking world.
Claire emerges from the bathroom and comes to stand with us, looking a little shaken. Shaken, but gorgeous. She looks like a 40s movie star: luminous skin, giant brown eyes, glossy dark hair that waves appealingly around an oval face with a pert chin that I somehow—inexplicably—want to nibble. She’s wearing some kind of sleeveless wrap dress that shows off subtle curves in all the right places, and clings to all the places you want a woman’s dress to cling to. Or at least, all the places I want a woman’s dress to cling to.
From the second I saw her, I’ve been thinking of nothing but stripping her out of that dress.
Ainsley turns to her, all smiles. “I just had the most brilliant idea,” she says.
Claire smiles back. You can’t really not smile back at Ainsley. “Let’s hear it,” she says, though she sounds a little dazed.
She sounds, frankly, the way I feel—as if someone just hit me with a frying pan. What is it about this woman that’s making my nerve endings sizzle? And is she feeling it too, like I think she is?
Ainsley turns back to me, still all smiles. “You weren’t here when we arrived, but the first thing Claire said when we came in—well, after she was delighted about the entry closet, because in case you haven’t noticed, she’s a girl—”
Oh, I’ve noticed.
“—was that she doesn’t know how to cook. Like, at all.”
Claire makes a strange noise in her throat, and I’m half worried she’s going to choke, and half wondering if she makes noises like that in bed. What is happening to me?
“So it seems to me, with a literal celebrity chef living downstairs—”
“Ainsley, no.” Claire’s voice is a little weak, but firm. “I couldn’t possibly impose like that.”
‘Well, I think that’s up to Mason,” Ainsley says tartly.
Rafe comes up behind her and wraps her in his arms, resting his chin on her head. “Yes, it is up to Mason,” he says, “but you’ve rather put him on the spot, love.”
My brain is scrambled, so it takes me just a moment to follow the train of thought. When it hits me, it feels like an actual train. “You mean … like, cooking lessons?”
“Yes!” Ainsley’s eyes sparkle. “I mean exactly like cooking lessons. Precisely cooking lessons.” She gestures back toward the door to the patio, the one I came in just a few minutes ago. “You can just come up whenever it’s convenient and show her how to do things.”
I’ll show her how to do things, all right, I think.
But seriously, a reason to come up here at least somewhat regularly? Spend time with this woman, with her bright eyes and her intoxicating scent? Yeah, I could go for that—in a big way.
When I look at Claire, I could swear she’s thinking something similar. Her eyes are intense on mine. But then she shakes her head.
“It’s really too much to ask,” Claire says. “That’s the sort of thing you shouldn’t do for free, or for a stranger.”
I haven’t taught anyone to cook in … God, in years. ten years at least. When you’re at the level I am, people don’t show up in your kitchen without already being able to cook—being at the top of their game, in fact.
But I certainly could … if I want to.
Oh, man, I kind of want to. I would not mind one bit having to move around in the limited space of the kitchen with her, teaching her things. Showing her things.
I open my mouth to say … I don’t even know what, probably something stupid, but Ainsley speaks up again.
“It can be a gift,” she says.
“What?” Claire looks confused again. Probably so do I.
“A housewarming gift. From Rafe and me.” Ainsley tilts her head back and kisses the underside of Rafe’s chin. “We can do that, right, baby?”
“I don’t see why not,” he says. “Assuming she definitely wants to buy—”
“I do,” Claire says. “I really, really do.”
“Let me know what it will cost, Mason.” Rafe looks at me over Ainsley’s head.
“Rafe, you can’t—”
“Of course I can.” It’s clear from his tone that the matter is settled. I’m certainly not going to argue with him, not when I’m warming to this idea with every passing second.
“Should we all go up to the roof?” Ainsley asks. “Toast your new place … and new friendships?”
I narrow my eyes at her. Wait one minute …
Is this another of her fix-up attempts?
I look at Claire, and realize I don’t care. If it is, all that means is Ainsley finally got it right. She’s perfect.
“You guys go ahead. I think—” Claire hesitates, then makes a gesture that sort of encompasses the whole apartment. “I’m going to stay here for a little bit, look around. Maybe get some ideas. This is happening very fast.”
“I’ll pass too, thanks,” I say. “I’ll head back down to my place and start brainstorming cooking lessons.”
Claire smiles weakly. “That’s so nice, but I’m not sure—”
“Not another word about it,” Ainsley says, then to Rafe: “It’s almost time for our midnight kiss. Let’s go get some champagne.”
Midnight kiss.
I look at my watch. It is indeed about five minutes to midnight. And I can’t help but wonder…
“Wednesday morning,” Rafe says. “If I don’t see you before then.”
Claire nods, and Ainsley leads Rafe out of the apartment. The door closes behind them, and Claire turns to me, her expression serious. “Listen, you do not have to do anything—”
“Of course I don’t,” I say. “But maybe I’ll just charge Rafe an arm and a leg and do it anyway.” I smile, hoping it will set her at ease, but she certainly doesn’t look like it’s working.
I move away from her, around the breakfast bar and into the kitchen proper. I open the fridge, poke into a few cupboards, a couple of drawers. She says nothing for a minute, then repeats herself. “You really don’t have to.”
I turn to face her. “Come here,” I say.
She hesitates, then steps across the floor to stand in front of me. I take her by the upper arms, resist the urge to bend down and kiss her—and it’s a hell of an urge, stronger than any I’ve felt in a long time—and turn her away from me, toward the stove.
“Do you see that?” I ask.
“The stove?” She looks over her shoulder at me. She smells like … I don’t even know what. Something light and floral, delicate like the line of her collarbone. “Yeah, I’m not blind.”
“What do you see?”
“A stove.” She shrugs. “I feel like that’s the wrong answer, but I calls ’em like I sees ’em.”
“Okay, yeah,” I say. “A stove.” I reach around her and point to the word printed low on the oven door. “That’s a Bosch 700 series. A couple of years ago—which I’m betting is when this was installed—it was pretty much the top of the line for a home kitchen, unless someone really wanted to show off. Retailed for … I’m thinking about fifteen hundred dollars.”
“So it’s a really expensive stove.”
“Well, yeah, but my point is, it’s a nice stove.” I turn her back to face me, still definitely not kissing her. “It deserves better than to be ignored, or mistreated.”
“Mistreated? Do you think I’m going to … what, kick it or something?”
“No, but I think that it’s a gorgeous piece of equipment that should be used to its fullest capabilities. I think that it should be treated with respect.”
“What if I treat it with respect—the utmost respect—when I’m heating up my can of tomato soup?” she asks.
There’s a mischievous gleam in her eye, and I discover that I like that look very much.
“No cans of soup,” I decree. “Tomato or otherwise. How about if that’s the first thing I teach you?”
“How about you really don’t have to teach me anything,” she says. “I swear, it’s so sweet and generous, but I really can’t accept—not even if Rafe wants to pay you. I’m sure you have better things to do.”
“To quote Ainsley,” I say, “I think that’s up to Mason.”
“Rafe was right,” she says. “She put you on the spot. I’m telling you, you don’t have to feel obligated.”
“What if I don’t feel obligated. What if I want to?”
My hands are still on her upper arms. Her skin is warm under my palms.
She swallows. “Do you want to?” she asks.
I don’t answer for a moment. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
From somewhere—everywhere, really: the roof, other apartments, the streets outside—a swell of voices cries Ten!
“Yeah,” I say. Nine! “I want to.”
Eight!
Seven!
She swallows.
“Do you?” I ask. Six! Five! “Want to, I mean?”
Four!
She nods. Three! Her lips part.
Two!
I lean down; her face tilts up.
One!
Our lips meet.