Chapter Six
Olive
Every outfit I own is officially on my bedroom floor, but the results are worth it. Mason can't stop staring when he knocks on the door at seven, dressed in a tight Henley and faded jeans with my tattered copy of The Princess Bride and a bouquet of flowers in his hands.
"Damn, Rebel," he whistles, his eyes eating me alive. "You're a knockout."
I give him a little spin, grinning. "You like?"
"Come here." He holds out a hand toward me, waiting for me to take it before hauling me up against the hard wall of his chest. His lips land against my ear.
"The only way I'd like it any more is if it were on my bedroom floor," he growls against my skin before groaning softly. "You look fucking magical."
My heart does this funny thing where it races and floats at the same time. I like the feeling, a lot actually. I press a soft kiss to his cheek, shivering at the way his growl vibrates through me.
"Here, baby." He presses the book and flowers into my hand. "These are for you. And this—" He pulls a tiny bone out of his pocket with a flourish— "is for Oscar."
I glance down at the bone, smiling like a mad woman. "You brought Oscar a present?"
"Yeah, of course." He smirks at me, his eyes light. "Gotta start earning his affection now since he hates me."
My heart does that thing again.
"Did you read it?"
"What?"
I hold up The Princess Bride.
"Oh." He smiles at me. "I did."
"What did you think?"
"Well, it's no Serial Killer's Guide…" he teases, "but not bad."
I shake my head, laughing at him.
"Are you ready to go?"
"I am," I murmur. "I just need to put these in water and wrangle Oscar first. He's refusing to come inside." I take a step back and then hesitate. "Do you want to come in?"
The heat in his eyes screams that he does. "I think I should wait out here," he mutters, not hiding the way he adjusts himself. "If I don't, I may not behave myself."
I bite my lip to keep from whimpering out loud.
"Go take care of Oscar, Rebel. I'll wait."
I stumble back inside, nearly tripping over my own damn feet. I stop in the kitchen long enough to move the bouquet to a vase, promising myself I'll do it properly later, and then I hurry out onto the back porch to find Oscar.
As expected, he's in the screened-in section of the backyard, living his best life on his little Yorkie-sized lawn chair, soaking up the evening sun.
Honestly, he'd probably live out here if I let him.
He likes it way better out here than he does inside, but it's too cold at night for him to be out here.
He lifts his head to look at me.
"You gotta come inside, Oscar," I say softly.
He snorts and immediately puts his head down again, closing his eyes.
I chuckle, hurrying across the grass toward him. "Screening all of this in for you turned you into a diva," I mutter, scooping him up. "You want to spend all of your time out here in your little kingdom, and none with me."
He huffs at me.
"Here." I hold the bone out to him. He sniffs it once and then snatches it like a little savage. "This is from Mason. You have to be nice to him. He isn't a serial killer, and I really like him."
"I like knowing that," Mason murmurs from behind me.
I spin around to find him leaning against the porch railing, watching Oscar and me with a smile tugging at his lips.
"I thought you were waiting outside."
"Changed my mind." He glances around at Oscar's little area. "This is nice. Did you do this?"
"Yeah. He's so little. I've heard stories about dogs his size being carried off by birds and stuff. Screening it in seemed safer."
Oscar picks that moment to drop the bone and growl at Mason.
"Oscar!" I cry softly. "I told you to be nice."
"He's fine," Mason murmurs, striding toward us. I'm surprised when Oscar doesn't immediately try to launch at him. He usually hates when anyone gets too close to me. "May I?"
"Um…you can, but he'll probably bite."
"It'll be fine. Paulina bites the shit out of me all day, every day." Mason lifts his hand, letting it hover a few inches away for Oscar to sniff him.
I watch, fascinated, as my cranky little dog growls, sniffs, growls, sniffs, and then stretches forward to lick his hand.
"Holy shit." I gape, shocked, when Oscar squirms free of my arms, catapulting his little body into Mason's arms.
Mason catches him with a chuckle, scratching behind his ears. "Good boy," he murmurs. "You aren't scary at all, are you? You're just misunderstood."
"Misunderstood?" I gape at him. "He tried to eat the mailman for looking at him yesterday."
"Nah," Mason says softly, flipping Oscar to his back to scratch his belly.
Oscar just stares up at him, his tongue lolling out.
"He tried to eat the mailman for looking at you, Rebel.
You're his most valuable resource, so he guards you.
But he knows I don't want to take you away, isn't that right, Oscar? I'm here to help you guard her."
Oscar gives him a doggy-smile, his legs spread wide like he's the dang king of the world. I just stare at him in shock, my heart in a vise, not sure what is most dangerous: Mason winning over my hell-beast of a dog, or Mason talking about guarding me like I'm something precious.
They're both doing things to me that they shouldn't. All kinds of strange, amazing, beautiful things.
I'm in so much trouble here. Way more than I was when I thought he was a serial killer.
"I'll never get tired of this view," I murmur an hour and a half later, staring out at the waves crashing against the shore.
We're at a restaurant at the beach half an hour from Santa Maria, with the Pacific stretching out before us.
The sun is just about to set, turning the water that gorgeous orange-dappled-blue color that feels magical.
"Yeah?" Mason grins over at me. "You a beach baby, Rebel?"
"Born and raised. I've been in California my whole life. I don't think I'd know what to do if I didn't have the ocean right there, ready for me to sink my toes into the sand."
His smile softens. "I bet you look beautiful chasing the waves."
"It's more like they chase me," I mutter. "I just try to survive."
He reaches across the table for my hand, lifting it to his lips. "Somehow, I doubt that. The whole world bends around you."
My heart flutters again. It's been doing a lot of that tonight. I'm not sure what to do with the feeling. It's so damn new and foreign, but I like it a whole hell of a lot. Maybe more than is safe for me.
"What about you?" I ask, trying to rein things in and stay rational here.
I need that—rationality. If I let myself get carried away, I'll be naming our future children before the night ends, and I can't afford to do that.
Not when this is so new. Not when my history says this is going to end in disaster.
"I'm not interested in bending the world. I prefer to go with the flow," he teases.
"I meant, where did you grow up?"
"Oregon."
"Really?"
"Yep. Lived there until I moved here for college."
"What did you study?'
"You sure you want to know?"
"Yes." I pause, narrowing my eyes at him. "Unless you're going to say serial killers. That subject is banished."
He chuckles. "I studied classic literature."
"So that's how you know Darcy, Heathcliff, and Rochester!"
His eyes light up with humor as he cuts a bite of his steak. "You're surprised?"
"Yes. No." I scowl at him. "Still annoyed that you'd marry Heathcliff. He's cruel and abusive!"
"He was also ostracized because of his race and treated deplorably."
"Very true, but tormenting others the same way he was tormented eroded any moral high ground he might have had.
If everyone lived with as much hatred in their hearts as he had, the world would be a terrible place.
Regardless of what's done to us, we're still responsible for the harm we do to others. "
He sits back against the booth, grinning at me. "You're an idealist."
"No. I just think the world reflects what we pour into it," I say primly.
"His life was tragic and devastating. No one should ever be treated the way he was.
He could have been this beautiful, brilliant man who shone through the darkness they tried to pour into him.
Instead, he chose to visit the same kind of pain and tyranny on everyone in his life, including his own son.
That doesn't make him a hero. It just makes him another tragedy, Mason. "
"I happen to agree with you."
"And yet, you'd marry him."
"Why not?" He shrugs. "We can't claim the world reflects what we pour into it if we only pour into those we find worthy and ignore the rest. Look at Agamemnon."
"Agamemnon?" I stare at him blankly, my fork hovering in midair.
"A Mycenaean king," he says. "Like Heathcliff's story, his is all about destruction and revenge.
Had there been an ounce of forgiveness in either, perhaps they would have turned out differently.
Instead, they're tragedies because the people who needed love and understanding the most didn't find it.
They turned to hate and revenge because it's all they knew.
You can't change the world by repeating the same cycles. "
"I remember that play. Didn't he kidnap a Trojan princess?"
"Yeah, Cassandra."
"She had visions, right?"
"She was cursed by Apollo to have prophecies that weren't believed because she refused to have his child."
I cock my head to the side, studying him. "Classic literature, huh?"
"I'm working on my thesis now."
"What?" I blink. "Seriously?"
He grimaces at me. "It's on Aeschylus."
"Bless you."
He throws his head back, his laughter booming across the restaurant. "I didn't sneeze, baby. I said Aeschylus."
"I know who he is," I smirk at him. "But his name always reminds me of a sneeze."
Mason takes a long sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. "You're an unusual woman, Olive Medlock."
"And you…well, you aren't a serial killer, so yay for me?" I say, my expression cheeky.
He just chuckles in response.