Chapter 8 Mason
Chapter eight
Mason
Leah’s carefully folded tree-shaped serviettes are now just vaguely damp triangles.
Rory’s crawling out from under the table, Logan is still laughing into his fist, and Eli looks like he aged ten years in under a minute.
I barely had time to process the voice I was hearing before she excused herself in a whirl of garbled apologies, and I haven’t moved since. Because I’m still trying to breathe.
I knew the second she spoke.
Not earlier, when she looked at me weird, or when she refused to make eye contact. That was just confusing. But when she finally opened her mouth, it hit me all at once.
Someone passes me a fresh napkin. I nod in thanks, blotting at the edge of my pants like I haven’t just had a full-blown revelation detonate in the center of my chest.
Redhead. Graphic designer from Toronto. Looked at me like I’d shattered her entire reality just by breathing. Weirdly mute until she spilled wine on my crotch and monologued like a woman possessed. I’d know that voice anywhere.
RedRiot.
The one I’ve been listening to in bed, in the truck, on long shifts and quiet nights. The one I ghosted like an absolute piece of shit. That voice is attached to her.
Frankie. Tamara’s sister. Herb’s semi daughter-in-law.
Jesus Christ.
And what makes this even worse is I already thought she was hot as hell.
I’d clocked her across the room as soon as I walked in, and nearly forgot my own name. She’s the kind of gorgeous that sneaks up on you and kicks you in the gut. Low-key and lethal. Copper hair, flushed cheeks, a beautiful mouth.
Fuck.
Lulu leans toward Tamara, keeping her voice low. “Okay, what the hell was that?”
“She’s spiraling,” Tamara whispers back. “She was obviously really into that guy she met online, and he ghosted her. She’ll be in the laundry bathroom regretting her life choices.”
The words hit like a bullet, and everything inside me burns. Because I’m the ghost. I’m the Pinot Noir–baptized fucking ghost.
“Hey,” Logan says beside me, squinting. “You good?”
No.
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you just solved a crime in your head.”
“I said I’m fine,” I repeat, grabbing my glass of water and draining it in one go.
Leah reappears with towels. “Mason, honey, the guest bathroom is down the hall if you want to clean up a bit.”
“Thanks. I’ll—yeah.”
I step out of the room, pretending to head down to the guest bathroom, but I don’t go there. I go to the other one. The one off the laundry.
As I walk quietly, I try to figure out what the fuck I’m going to say, but just as I reach the door, I hear her voice.
Slightly shrill. Definitely panicked.
“…I poured red wine on his dick, Ana. His dick.”
I freeze outside the door. The voices are muffled, but still very audible.
“You should’ve seen the look on his face. He was staring at me like a science experiment.”
“Oh my god,” says a second voice, tinny through the speaker—Ana, I guess. “Okay, but like, is he hot?”
“Ana!”
“No, but genuinely! Hot enough to push through the humiliation and still climb him like a tree?”
Frankie groans. “He’s so hot it’s offensive. I saw his hands and my brain stopped working. He has a slutty firefighter mustache and good manners. I cannot be around this man.”
A third voice chimes in—definitely a guy. “Sounds like you’re halfway in love already. Marry him, or at the very least make sure you have a festive orgasm.”
I like this guy.
My lips twitch, but it doesn’t last. I can’t stand out here all afternoon stroking my own ego, I need to make this right.
So I knock, and silence instantly follows.
Then a murmur through the door. “Bathroom’s occupied.”
I knock again. “It’s me.”
Another pause. “Which me?”
“…Mason.”
I hear muffled scrambling. A whispered shit. Possibly someone falling off a toilet lid.
Finally, her voice again. “Go away.”
“I just wanna talk.”
“Why, so you can ghost me again?”
Oof. Deserved that.
I rest my hand against the doorframe. “Please?”
“Nope. You’ve done enough.”
I can hear more shuffling, a phone being thunked onto the vanity.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know it was you, I didn’t know until just now.”
“Congratulations on catching up,” she snaps.
Okay. So we’re in rage-mode now. Noted.
A second later, the lock rattles, then the door swings open. She’s standing there, flushed and furious and glorious in a way that makes my breath catch.
Red hair dusts her shoulders. Bangs frame pale green eyes that are far too pretty to be glaring at me.
The scattering of freckles across her nose are the icing on the cake. Like the universe tried to soften her and she told it to fuck off.
“I’m really sorry, Red—”
“Don’t call me that,” she spits. “You lost the right to call me that when you ghosted me like a little coward.”
I flinch. Fair.
“You heard the whole thing?” she asks, nodding toward her phone.
“…Most of it.”
She crosses her arms. “Including the part where I said you were hot?”
“I did.”
“Perfect. That’s just great.”
She pushes past me, her chin high and her pride fully reassembled.
“Oh, and for the record,” she tosses over her shoulder, “you may be hot, but you’re still an asshole.”
And then she disappears back down the hallway, leaving me standing in a puddle of guilt and Pinot Noir.
By the time I get back to the dining room, everything’s changed. The table’s reset, the food’s still warm, the wine’s flowing again.
And Frankie’s weird silent mode is well and truly gone. Now, she’s sparkling.
She’s leaning halfway across the table to show Leah something on her phone, talking fast and laughing louder, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
Her bangs are messy, but somehow it makes her look even better—like she’s been lit from the inside out with pure vengefulness. It’s magnetic.
It’s terrifying.
I want to kiss her and apologize for everything I’ve ever done wrong in my entire life.
“There he is,” Tamara says as I step back into the room. “The man of the hour. Or should I say the man of the Pinot?”
“Be careful, Tam,” Frankie says sweetly, not even glancing my way. “He does have a very splashable crotch.”
The table erupts in laughter. Rory lets out a wheeze and nearly drops her fork and Logan actually claps.
My ears burn, but I grin anyway, making my way back to my seat. “Honestly, I think that’s the first time my dick’s made this much of an impression at dinner.”
Frankie raises her glass, still not looking at me. “You’re welcome.”
I raise mine back, because two can play this game.
“Cheers, Red.”
Her eyes dart to mine as she takes a sip. “Don’t call me that.”
Everyone laughs, because they think it’s a quip. Just a little nickname and banter between a girl and guy who just met.
They’ve got no idea that’s the name I moaned once at 1:16am while she told me she wanted to bounce on my cock.
And I know I should drop it, but if calling her Red is the only way to make her look at me right now—even if it's with spiteful fucking disdain—I’ll keep doing it.
“So, Fireboy,” she says casually, stabbing a potato. “Always that chill when someone chucks wine at you? You barely even flinched... Almost like a ghost.”
Tamara chokes. “Wait. Fireboy?”
Frankie nods innocently, gesturing to me with her fork. “I mean, he’s a firefighter. And a boy. What else am I supposed to call him?”
I lean in, smiling too big. “I’m all man, Red. And you could call me yours.”
Logan howls while Eli groans. Rory kicks me under the table, probably for trying it on. I don't care, I’d let Frankie insult me for hours if it meant I got to be her focus.
“She did throw wine at your crotch,” Lulu says, smirking.
“I’ve had worse,” I say.
She lifts a brow. “Noted.”
For the rest of the meal, every comment she makes is edged with something sharp and clever.
Every time I speak, she flips it on me. Every time she flips it, I love her more. It’s equal parts humiliating and incredible.
She’s exactly like the girl I got to know online. The weird references. The fast wit. The soft voice that turns wicked without warning. She’s not a catfish, she’s Frankie.
The kind of woman I’d beg to take out for a drink. The kind you lose track of time with, just talking. The type you’re still hard for at 3 a.m., replaying her voice in your head. Definitely the kind you don’t ghost.
And fuck me, I did it anyway.
The doorbell rings, and Evan walks in with snow in his hair. His little girl, Elle, tugs on his hand excitedly.
“Sorry we’re late,” he says. “Elle needed to finish decorating her snowcake. Don’t ask.”
Elle’s eyes twinkle and she leans in to whisper. “It’s a cake made of snow and magic.”
Leah gasps. “Oh my sweet girl, I love magic!” She stands up and offers her hand. “Come with Aunty Leah.”
“She’s so cute,” says Lulu, watching as Leah guides Elle out toward the back door.
“She’s carnage,” Evan replies. “Which is why I brought her here.”
Frankie slides her chair back, and the others follow suit.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
Rory grins at me like I’m about to be initiated into a cult. “Annual Parnell snowball fight.”
“Wait, what?”
Eli nods. “Every year at Christmas. Kids versus adults. Adults are usually outnumbered, but emotionally more stable when they lose.”
“Debatable,” Tamara mutters.
Frankie brushes past me, throwing a look over her shoulder. “You coming, Fireboy? Or are you still too humiliated from my wine assault?”
I stare after her, still seated. “She’s gonna kill me.”
“She absolutely will,” Eli says, smacking my back. “Now come die with dignity.”