Chapter 4
Lucas
I've got exactly twelve candles scattered around my apartment. I'm starting to think that's not nearly enough. Not for this. Not for Maya Bennett sitting on my couch in a damp sweater that clings to every curve I spent four years of high school trying not to stare at.
Christ. Focus, Mason. Candles. Practical things. Not the way the flickering light catches in her hair. Not how she's looking around my space like she's seeing it—seeing me—for the first time.
I strike another match. The small flame flares to life between my fingers.
The scent of sulfur mingles with the vanilla candle I'm lighting.
I place it carefully on the kitchen counter.
The warm glow spreads across the exposed brick.
Turning my ordinary apartment into what looks like a romantic evening I never planned.
This is exactly the kind of situation my mother warned me about. "Lucas," she'd said when I was sixteen and obviously gone for Maya, "that girl's going to break your heart someday. She's got dreams bigger than this town."
Turns out Mom was right about the dreams part. Right about the heartbreak too. But she never said anything about what would happen if Maya came back.
"You sure you have enough candles?" Maya's voice carries a hint of amusement. I realize I've been methodically lighting every single one I own. The apartment is starting to look like a shrine.
"Better safe than sorry," I mutter. Striking another match.
The truth is, I need something to do with my hands.
Something that isn't reaching across the couch to touch her face.
To see if her skin is as soft as I remember from that one time in senior year when she fell asleep against my shoulder during study hall.
"Lucas." Her voice is closer now. I turn to find she's moved off the couch. Standing near the kitchen island. The candlelight playing across her features. Highlighting the curve of her cheek and the way her lips part slightly when she's thinking. "You're going to set the place on fire."
"Wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened today," I say. Immediately regretting it when her face falls. Smooth, asshole. Real smooth.
But she surprises me by laughing. A real laugh, not the polite sound she's been making all evening. "Fair point. Though I'd prefer not to add 'homeless arsonist' to my growing list of personal failures."
I set down the matches and look at her. She's still shivering slightly. Arms wrapped around herself. She looks vulnerable and beautiful and completely out of place in my bachelor loft with its functional furniture and complete lack of decorative pillows.
"You're not a failure, Maya."
"Evidence suggests otherwise." She gestures vaguely toward the window, where the storm is still raging. "I'm twenty-eight, unemployed, homeless, and apparently being stalked by someone who may or may not be a figment of my paranoid imagination."
"You're not homeless. You're here."
The words come out intense. Maya's eyes widen slightly. I see her throat work as she swallows.
"Lucas—"
"And you're not paranoid. I saw him too." I move closer. Drawn by the need to reassure her. To be the solid ground she can stand on. "Someone was definitely out there."
She nods, but I can see the fear still lingering in her eyes. The same fear I heard in her voice during that phone call earlier. Whatever's going on with this Evan guy, it's bigger than she's letting on. The protective instinct that's been riding me all evening kicks into overdrive.
"You're safe here," I tell her. Meaning every word. "I won't let anything happen to you."
"Why?" The question is barely a whisper, but it hits me like a shouted accusation. "Why do you care so much? After everything, after ten years of nothing, why are you—"
She doesn't finish the question, but I know what she's asking. Why am I going out of my way for someone who left without looking back?
The honest answer is too complicated for a power outage and too dangerous for my peace of mind. So I give her the simple version.
"Because that's what friends do."
Years of unspoken truth hang between us when Maya shivers again. A full-body tremor that reminds me she's still in those damp clothes.
"You need to get out of those. I mean, you need dry clothes."
A flush creeps up her neck. "I don't really have anything else. Everything in the bag I brought up is damp-ish at best."
"I've got stuff." I'm already moving toward my bedroom. Grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us before I do something stupid. "T-shirts, sweatpants. They'll be huge on you, but they're dry."
I dig through my dresser. Looking for the smallest things I own. Everything's going to swallow her whole, but it's better than her sitting there shivering in wet wool. I grab a soft gray t-shirt and a pair of drawstring sweats. Both probably three sizes too big for her.
"Here." I turn back toward the living room, clothes in hand. "These should—"
The words die in my throat.
Maya is standing near the couch, her back to me. She's pulled her sweater off over her head. For one heart-stopping moment, she's wearing nothing but a black bra and jeans. The candlelight is painting golden shadows across the smooth curve of her spine.
I freeze. Completely, utterly freeze. My brain shorts out like a computer hit with a power surge. Leaving me standing there like an idiot while my body reacts with the subtlety of a teenage boy.
She's beautiful. More than beautiful. She's curves and soft skin and everything I've been trying not to think about for the past three hours.
Her hair tumbles over one shoulder. Exposing the graceful line of her neck.
There's a small tattoo I didn't know existed—a tiny constellation of stars just below her left shoulder blade.
When the hell did she get a tattoo?
"Lucas?" Her voice makes me realize I've been standing here staring for way too long. She glances over her shoulder. Our eyes meet. "The clothes?"
"Right. Sorry." I move forward on autopilot. Hold out the bundle of fabric. But I can't quite make myself look away from her face. Her cheeks are flushed. Her expression looks almost pleased. Like she doesn't mind that I'm looking.
Which is a dangerous thought to have when she's half-naked.
Our fingers brush when she takes the clothes. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm. She doesn't pull away immediately. Neither do I. We stand there for a moment, a knowing smirk on her beautiful face.
"Thank you," she says quietly. Her voice has gone soft and breathy, making heat sizzle through my veins.
"Maya..." I start. Not sure what I'm going to say but knowing I need to say something before this moment spirals completely out of control.
"I should—" She steps back. Clutching the clothes to her chest. "I should get changed."
"Yeah. Yeah, you should." I scrub a hand through my hair. Trying desperately to get my brain back online. "I'll just... be in the kitchen. Not looking. Definitely not looking."
She laughs. The sound is a little shaky. "Good to know."
I turn away. Focusing intently on the candles flickering on my counter. But I can hear the whisper of fabric behind me. The soft sound of a zipper. The rustle of clothes being changed.
Jesus Christ, how old am I? I should have better control than this.
But when I hear her clear her throat and turn back around, the sight of her in my clothes nearly brings me to my knees.
The t-shirt hangs off her shoulders. The neckline dips dangerously low.
The sweats are rolled up at her ankles. She looks ridiculously small and impossibly sexy.
I want nothing more than to close the distance between us and—
"Better?" she asks. There's a hint of uncertainty in her voice that snaps me back to reality.
"Much better," I manage. My voice gruff. "You look... comfortable."
What I don't say: You look like you belong here. In my clothes, in my space, in my life.
What I definitely don't say: You look like everything I've ever wanted and been too scared to reach for.
"Wine?" I ask. Alcohol seems like either the best idea or the worst idea I've had all night. "I've got a bottle of red that's probably better than anything we serve downstairs."
She’s curled up in the corner of the couch. Feet tucked under her. My t-shirt’s slipped off one shoulder. I force myself to look at her face.
"So," I say, settling back onto the couch with my wine. "Tonight’s been something else, huh?"
She takes a sip of wine. I watch her consider her answer. "Tonight's been full of surprises. Starting with you turning into... this." She gestures vaguely in my direction.
"This?"
"You know. All..." She waves her hand again. I can see the flush creeping up her neck. "Competent. And broad-shouldered. It's very distracting."
Distracting. I feel my body heat up. "Distracting?"
"Don't let it go to your head." She takes another sip of wine. "I'm just saying, high school Lucas was much safer for my peace of mind."
"Safer how?"
"He didn't fill out t-shirts like that." She nods toward my chest. Immediately looking like she wants to disappear into the couch cushions. "Oh God, did I just say that out loud?"
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. Maya Bennett just checked me out. Openly. And she's flustered about it. "You did."
"The wine is clearly going to my head." She sets her glass down with exaggerated care. "We should probably talk about something safe. Like... the weather. Very stormy tonight."
"Maya." I can't keep the laughter out of my voice. "Are you nervous?"
"Nervous? Me? Why would I be nervous?" She's definitely talking too fast now. "Just because I'm sitting in your apartment wearing your clothes while a storm rages outside like some kind of romance novel setup? That's not nervous-making at all."
"Romance novel setup?" I lean forward. Watch her eyes widen as the space between us shrinks. "Is that what this is?"