Chapter Twenty-One Mason
Chapter Twenty-One
Mason
Is this cheating?
I blink slowly, watching moonlight peek through Cameron’s curtains.
He’s asleep. I feel each lengthy breath tickle the hairs on my neck.
His brawny quarterback arm is snug around my waist, and his other arm is beneath my neck, curled in against my collar, hugging me.
Just like in the corn maze, I can feel the strength and rigid lines of his body pushing against my back—but now, the only fabric separating us belongs to my flannel shirt, since his robe is splayed open.
A crude part of me wants to lift it so I can feel the heat of his skin directly against mine. Cameron’s body is warm. Wanting this—wanting him—causes guilt to plague me.
I’m not wearing the ring. It should be fine that I’m spooning someone, because nobody owns me. Even if it still feels like he does.
My eyes are dry, and I’ve lost so much strength I can’t even turn into Cameron’s arms like I want.
His weight is so comforting. I want to kiss him.
I want to trace the jut of his bones and sling my thighs around his hips and taste his neck beneath my lips.
Is that okay? Even though I’m wearing this necklace?
Even if we were engaged? And still could be, if he’s really changed?
Or even if he hasn’t, because Mom gets what she wants?
I peek over my shoulder to find his handsome, serene face a mere inch away. He’s sleeping soundly even after everything he just revealed to me. Faintly, I can remember the nonchalant words he spoke earlier.
I mean what I say. Maybe I wanted to make you feel better, but that just means I used that moment to tell you what I think. Hoping it would help.
Then…he meant it. The things he said at the gallery. That I’m compassionate and intelligent and I make people feel calm. Am I really like that? When all the footballers claim they look at me to steady themselves, that they feel like I’m a staple on the team…they really mean it?
I feel my lower lip wobbling. My heart feels warm for the first time in years.
“Thank you for liking me, Cameron Morelli,” I whisper.
My voice stirs him, just for a moment, and he curls tighter around me. I snuggle deeper into his comforting arms.
When I next blink, it’s gray daylight seeping through the blinds, and the bed is cold even though blankets are tucked around my chin. Cameron’s absence jars me, and I sit up, the sheets sliding away as I peer around the room. I hear the sound of thick rain pellets smashing his window.
I start toward the bedroom door when two things catch my attention.
The first is that massive poster of Beau Rainey.
A nice guy who played for Alpine University.
I met him once through his younger sister, who went to school with my…
well. The second thing I notice is Cameron’s closet.
It’s cracked open, and staring at me are…
Googly eyes?
I shouldn’t be nosy, but I inch toward the door anyway and nudge it open.
Awaiting me are several rocks of varying sizes, from quarter to egg to palm.
They’re all painted, some with colorful patterns or little scenic images like a tree line and sunset.
Some are painted to look like ladybugs or flowers.
Some have silly faces or twisting vines or erratic splotches.
The one with the googly eyes has a curly, twisting mustache.
I stifle laughter with my palm, scooping it up and carrying it into the hallway, peeking around the quiet house.
Cameron is in the kitchen over a griddle, fumbling his way through spooning chocolate chip pancake mix into neat lumps.
Tragically, he’s now wearing a T-shirt and basketball shorts, rather than the hot-pink boxers I caught him in yesterday.
“Morning,” I say.
Cameron swivels toward me, and his face becomes luminous, like he was wallowing in darkness until my arrival.
Part of me wonders what I’ve done to deserve that reaction, but I shake my head of the negative thought.
He looks like that because he likes me. Right?
Is that such an impossible thing to comprehend?
Cameron is happy to see me because he likes me.
“Hey,” he says. “You like pancakes? I sort of assumed because you like sweet things, and they’re a good vegetarian breakfast option—”
His sentence crumbles away when I roll onto my tiptoes and kiss his cheekbone. “Pancakes are great,” I say softly. “Thank you.”
Redness soaks into Cameron’s tan, handsome face, and I think I’d hang a picture of this next to the painting he gave me, so I could look at it whenever I was feeling down.
Then he sees my palms and notices the mustache rock, and he makes a noise like he’s gagging on his saliva. “Where?” he squawks. “Why?”
I smile wider, presenting it to him in my open hands. “He’s adorable.”
Cameron kneads his forehead with exasperation. “You were snooping?”
“Your closet was wide open.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Cracked open.”
“Hmm.” His suspicious look only makes me break into a bigger smile. I can’t help it. Even looking at him makes me feel giddy. It’s strange, considering a mere few weeks ago the sight of him made me roll my eyes.
“Can I buy him?” I ask hopefully.
Cameron’s flush spreads all the way into his neck. “Just take it, creep,” he chokes out, and it makes me burst into laughter. I try to scoop him into a hug, but he pushes my wrists away with flustered disgruntlement. “Go the hell away.”
“What’s wrong? Are you mad that I found your adorable rock collection?”
“Mom made extra coffee,” he says, thoroughly ignoring me. He flips a not-nearly-ready-enough pancake, causing loose mix to splatter the griddle. “She’s in the living room. Dad left to finish up a thigh tattoo, so he’s not around, thank God, that absolute dick.”
I have the feeling his father scolded him this morning or something, which makes me laugh again. Cameron loves his parents—I saw it in the way they interacted at dinner. Even though he’s a momma’s boy, the tension between him and his father is entirely fabricated. It’s refreshing, being here.
I place his rock on the counter, making a mental note to bring some money for it next time I have my wallet.
I pour a cup of coffee and maybe act a little selfish by adding too much sweetened creamer, then shuffle toward the living room, leaving Cameron to cuss over his pancakes.
His mother is tucked on the love seat in a flowery pajama suit, her brown hair knotted into a bun, an open book propped on her kneecaps.
“Good morning, Mrs. Morelli,” I say. “Thank you for making extra coffee.”
She grins, as radiant as her son, the skin crinkling around her green-blue eyes. “I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning,” she says brightly. “Come sit.”
I only popped in to greet her and was going to return to Cameron so I could torment him about his misshapen pancakes. I stride farther into the living room anyway, swallowing when she pats the couch cushion. I sit on the love seat, gripping my coffee with two hands.
“Cam says you walked here in the middle of the night,” she says.
It comes with far less bounciness than her previous sentence. She’s folding her book shut, angling herself toward me. Her eyes latch with mine, colored with concern.
“I…what?” I croak, startled by her sudden change in atmosphere.
“Why did you show up at our house after midnight, Mason?” she asks softly.
My heart sinks into the bottom of my feet. “I just needed fresh air,” I say, pushing through the rasp in my throat. “I got into a fight with my dad and left.”
She straightens her posture, and I can tell she’s really in Mom mode. “Did you let them know where you are?”
“I forgot my phone at home,” I admit. “Though, Dad usually texts or calls me.”
Mrs. Morelli’s eyes glint when I say the word “usually.” I take a massive gulp of sugary coffee, hoping it’ll speedrun my waking process so I can be more careful. “I see,” she says gently.
I’m not sure what she’s going to ask next. She’ll probably try to wriggle out my reasoning for running off or demand if I feel unsafe at home. I’ll say no, because my parents don’t hurt me. They’re not a threat.
My house itself, though, is another story.
It has several entry points that can be unlocked by a key.
A key my parents gave him some years ago, all the way back when he was my babysitter.
My parents fought angrily one night over whether we should have the locks changed—Dad insisted, but Mom said he’s family, and we can’t cut him out.
Losing him means also potentially losing any benefits that come with being connected to his family.
He can come striding through the door whenever he wants. Even when I’m in bed, sound asleep, my ear is open. My window must stay locked—it’s a more discreet way of getting to me, less likely to alert my parents, so it’s his preferred method.
I’m falling into a dangerous lull, Mrs. Morelli’s protective gaze drawing me in, making me want to be vulnerable. Why did Cameron tell her I walked here? Couldn’t he have said he came to pick me up because I was bored?
But instead of interrogating me further, she softly says, “Next time, call Cam. If he doesn’t answer, call me. I’ll pick you up. I don’t care what time it is. So add me as a contact, okay?”
I’m stunned. I’ve only met this woman a couple of times, and she’s offering this like I mean something to her. Somewhere in my haze, I give her my number. She releases me, so I awkwardly shamble back into the kitchen to rejoin Cameron. That was nice of her.
He’s drizzling the pancakes with syrup, and when he sees me, he falters. “Oh,” he says. “I should’ve asked if you like syrup.”
I laugh through my hand. “If I say no?”
“I’d start over.”
“Aw.” I flutter my eyes, sprawling a palm over my chest. “You’d do that for little old me?”
Cameron scowls deeply at my tone. “Nutrients are important in the morning, so yeah.”