5. Lilah #3
Mason settled on his haunches and yanked it off the floor. His muscles clenched. All the intensity in his gaze shifted when he looked at the screen. “It’s my father. I have to go.”
“Weekend in Vegas. Woo,” I said, voice strained. We’d spent almost every night together for the past six weeks.
He brought his hand to the side of my face and brushed his thumb over my lips. “I wish I could stay.” The longing in his voice sent an ache through my chest.
Little sparks trailed over my skin. “You fly back Monday morning? So we’ll see each other on the first day of school.” I kissed his thumb like he’d kissed my fingers earlier.
“Too far away.” He stood staring at me as if he could devour me with his eyes.
Breathless, I squirmed and tried to keep calm. “It’s only three days from now.”
His lips tightened, eyes fierce again. “I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.” His phone pinged again. “Monday.” He said it like a determined promise.
Still buzzing after Mason’s departure, I’d walked back to the house knowing this year would be different.
Only I couldn’t possibly have known how terribly different it would be.
“You get paid for this gig, right?” Mason twirled a pair of sewing scissors.
“You know I do.”
“Seems like you should be better at it then.”
A gasp came from the freshman I’d been helping earlier.
The slap of his words shot up my defensiveness.
He wanted me to lose it. “What are you having trouble figuring out? I’m sure most things that don’t involve a stick and puck can be tricky for you.
” I pasted on a sugary sweet smile, kicking myself for taking his bait, but being on edge all week had wrecked my concentration.
“You haven’t shown me how any of this crap works.” He flicked a hand at the desks of sewing machines, each with laminated step-by-step instructions on setting up and first stitches.
I bit back the urge to scream at him. “You haven’t been here for me to show you. It’s very simple, even for you.”
“Maybe I haven’t felt very welcome. In fact, it’s feeling a little hostile in here. Does Prof. Palmer know this is how you tutor?”
I bit back my sharp reply. He’d 100 percent try to get me fired. “If you have a question, ask and I can help you.”
“And if I don’t know what question to ask? How about you walk me through it step-by-step?”
He pulled out my seat, shoved all my carefully pinned beadwork aside, and sat with a self-satisfied, smug smile.
“There are other machines.” All twenty completely vacant since the freshman was at the cutting table.
He clapped both hands and rubbed them together. “But this one’s already warmed up.”
I hoped he fell onto a full magnetic pin holder.
Just get him started, then I could focus on my work.
I bent over the machine to switch out the thread.
Mason’s gaze dropped to the gaping of my shirt.
Snapping straight, I crouched instead, which he made all the more awkward, by turning his chair to face me, which put both my knees between his legs.
Working quickly and efficiently, I removed the bobbin and tugged the thread from the top of the machine, hyperaware of Mason’s eyes on me. Of the brushes of his pants against my bare leg.
“I can see why you’re top of the class, Little Byrd.”
I paused, trying to uncover the barb in what he said.
He leaned closer and reached out to touch my face. “You look good on your knees.”
I jerked away, almost falling on my ass.
“Do you think that’s how she gets those straight As?” He announced to the almost empty room.
Humiliation burned its corrosive way across my skin and seared the back of my nose.
Teeth gritted, I stood sharply and put the machine between us.
I got it all set up for his project, keeping my responses short and clipped, only to stab myself in the palm once with an errant pin.
A couple more people came into the room, and after walking him through the steps, I escaped to help them.
But I felt his eyes on me the whole time I moved around the room, careful to avoid meeting his gaze. There were moments I wanted to give in and tell him exactly how much I hated him, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Hands shaking, I gave up on cutting anything.
Sitting in front of the sewing machine, the pieces made sense. The patterns, the stitches, even draping, which had taken me years to get close to correct, followed a flow I could dip into like stepping into a stream of calm. Doing this work was the only way to turn off my school-focused brain.
Even the biggest problems could be fixed or, if it was completely ruined, you could start again. I’d spent more than a few nights sitting on the floor, ripping out hours of stitching and threatening to burn it all before my vision came together. Those easy fixes didn’t work with Mason.
Then his presence wasn’t across the room, but at my back. So close that the heat of his body warmed my skin.
“Thanks for the help. See you later.” His breath skimmed across the shell of my ear. And then he was gone without a backward look. It was all a game to him. I was a game to him. My anger gave way to defeat and a weariness after the adrenaline spike wore off. I slumped back into my chair.
How was I supposed to survive this for eight more months?