Chapter Eight
VICTORIA
I blow a piece of hair out of my face and glare down at the chaos of planks, bolts, washers, and two entirely useless little Allen keys littering my bedroom floor. Falling backward from my hunched position, I run both hands over my face, pushing the lone strand of hair out of my way.
Somewhere in this mess is supposed to be a bed frame. One that the website and delivery person swore was “simple” to build. I’m such a sucker for believing them. An absolute fool.
I can’t believe I thought putting this stupid thing together would be a breeze. How hard could building a bed frame really be? It’s a square, for crying out loud.
Fucking hard is the answer.
There’s a very specific kind of rage reserved for people who think “some assembly required” is a fun challenge.
My watch vibrates on my wrist, and I look down to see my heart rate has spiked. Fantastic. My wellness watch thinks I’m exercising. My anger is so high I’m in my target zone.
The only thing I’m exercising is my patience. It’s taking everything in me not to throw a massive fit and decide that sleeping on a mattress on the floor for the rest of my life is a choice I made on purpose.
I’ve spent the last forty-five minutes trying to connect side A to panel B, but every time I move to the opposite end to screw in the other side, the whole thing collapses like a toddler’s block tower.
The first time the joints popped apart, I shrugged.
The third time it happened, I took a deep, calming breath.
Now, I’m on attempt who-knows-what, and I’m livid. Like livid.
The downside is that I’m so toxically independent I refuse to stop until I solve this problem. I will not give up until I’m a sobbing mess on the floor.
“Super healthy, Tori,” I mutter to myself as I wedge one piece of the frame against the wall and hold it with my foot. Then, reaching as far as I can to the other side, I try and twist the Allen key—with absolutely no luck.
My grandmother’s voice floats through my head like a ghost.
You’re capable of anything, Victoria.
Which is true…in theory.
In practice? I should really learn how to ask for assistance.
I may be a capable woman, but I’m also a very tired, very undercaffeinated one with limited upper-body strength and no mechanical skills. I could really go for a large coffee from that place Mason and I went to last week. And a cookie, oh!
“Okay, maybe it’s time for a break,” I tell the empty room. Pushing the instruction manual to the side, I glare at the bolded words on the page.
The manual literally says: best completed with two people.
I slam my hand down on the paper and crumple it before throwing the instructions across the room. “What do you know,” I mutter.
I get up slowly from my position on the floor, feeling multiple muscles strain and pinch as I come to standing. God, I really need to start up my Pilates classes again. My body is starting to feel ancient.
When Grandma died, everything fell to the wayside. Grief was my constant, and self-care wasn’t even a thought in my mind.
Maybe this is a sign to get back to living. I had taken steps recently, hadn’t I? To start getting back on track—mostly career-wise. The deal I made with Mason was totally out of character for me but would have so many benefits in the long run.
“Oh my God! Benefits!” I cry out as I hobble down the short hallway. The idea dawns on me in an instant. “I have a boyfriend.”
A very tall, very broad, very capable fake boyfriend just a few floors up.
And really—what are fake boyfriends for if not furniture emergencies? And opening tight jars?
Yes, this is brilliant. There’s no shame in asking a boyfriend for help. Mason had said he’d support me in whatever I needed. And damn, my back needs this bed frame for support, so that’s basically the same thing.
There’s a spring in my step as I make my way into the kitchen and grab my water bottle.
While I guzzle the cold liquid, I head to the front door.
I’m not allowing myself time to dwell on this new direction of asking for help.
This blip in my toxic independence won’t last long, and every moment counts.
I’m in the elevator and on Mason’s floor a minute later. My hand squeezes around my water bottle as nerves settle in the closer I get to his door. Doubt begins to tickle around the edges of my mind, but I push through.
With a deep breath for courage—and to calm my thumping heart—I knock on Mason’s door, trying not to feel weird about it.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Neighbours help each other. Friends help each other. Ridiculously attractive athletes who sometimes help struggling country stars assemble bed frames help each other. It’s a normal request.
While my head continues to spin with excuses, I knock again.
No answer.
Confused, I wait a second, then knock for a third time. Nothing.
But I can hear music—something bass-heavy and rhythmic thudding through the door. And voices.
No, that’s not right. Not voices—singing.
I squint, trying to place the familiar beat. Is that…my voice?
Oh my God, I can’t believe this. Mason has my last album’s music up so loud he can’t hear me knocking. The giggle that bubbles up my throat has me forgetting all about my nerves. The more I learn about Mason, the more I like him.
And fuck me if that like isn’t turning into a like-like. That’s dangerous.
I stand there smiling like a fool but not sure what to do next. The thought never occurred to me that he wouldn’t answer the door, so I left my phone downstairs. Hadn’t even bothered to text him—rookie move.
I could go down and get it and text him that I’m coming up. Or…
My mouth twists up as I glance down at the door handle and contemplate my next move. He had said before I should make myself at home. I’m going to stretch that invitation and make that also include letting myself in when I need to.
Right now, I do need to get in there.
I can’t be a hundred percent sure he wasn’t hurt and crying out for help with Tay Swift lyrics. Mason is a constant surprise.
Deciding I have nothing to lose, I reach out and try the handle.
It turns.
No freaking way. Unlocked.
While a zip of relief tingles up my body at finding the door open, there’s also a second of anger. What kind of dummy leaves his door unlocked? The man is a hockey celebrity—guarded building or not, Mason really needs to step up his personal security.
With that feeling driving me, I twist the handle again, this time pushing the door open and stepping inside.
I’m once again awed by the view of the city as I step further into the condo.
The amount of sunlight the space gets is incredible.
If this were my place, I’d just sit in the middle of the floor, soaking up every ray and good vibe.
Suddenly, a deep bass thumping begins from down the hall, startling me out of my musings. I turn my head, trying to find where the music is coming from. With slow, steady steps, I follow the sound past the kitchen, through the hallway, and—
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no.
My steps instantly halt. My brain backfires and stutters to a stop.
Because what I’m seeing is…is…wow.
Mason is standing in the middle of the mirrored room, mid-workout. He’s in a pair of black basketball shorts, absolutely drenched in sweat…and shirtless.
Gloriously shirtless.
I bring a hand up to the door frame, needing the extra support as I continue to stare into the room, in some kind of trance.
Being part of a rock-and-roll band when I was in my twenties means I’ve seen a lot of things—like, a lot of things. So a shirtless, well-built man isn’t anything new to my eyeballs.
But Mason. Dear baby Jesus, Mason is something else.
Muscles rippling, hair damp, biceps flexing as he curls a pair of dumbbells that look like they weigh as much as a small child. His back is to me, his arms pumping to the beat of the music as he quietly sings along—off-key, but with confidence.
I can’t breathe.
I mean, I can, but I forget how to for a solid five seconds.
My entire brain is short-circuiting from the sight of him, and then—
He turns.
His eyes land on me.
“Jesus!” he yelps, nearly dropping a dumbbell.
I jump back, hands up. “Oh my God, I’m sorry!”
“What the hell, Victoria,” he pants, quickly putting down the weights he’s holding before clutching his chest.
“I knocked! I swear!”
“Jesus,” he breathes out again, quieter this time as his eyes come back to me.
We both freeze, staring at each other in surprise and shock. Then he laughs—deep and breathless, eyes crinkling as he hunches over and places his hands on his knees.
“Well, I guess I don’t need to end my workout with a cardio session. That scare got my heart rate right up.”
“Sorry,” I say again, stepping into the room. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I really did knock.”
“No, it’s fine. Didn’t hear you,” he says, swiping a towel across his chest. “Obviously. I was in the zone.”
“And by ‘zone,’ you mean…embracing your inner Wyld One. I had no idea you were a fan.”
He gives me another stunning smile, only amusement shining in his eyes.
“What can I say? I’m a recent convert.”
I swallow hard, trying not to stare as he wipes sweat from his abs. He’s still grinning, totally unaffected. I feel like I’m on fire.
“So…” he smirks, tilting his head. “Did you come to take concert notes or…?”
I blink. What did I come for? His glistening skin has me totally losing my train of thought. “Furniture,” I suddenly blurt out.
His brows lift. A long pause grows between us. “Furniture?” he finally prompts me.
Son of a bitch. Get it together, Victoria. “A bed frame,” I say, like he hasn’t been waiting for an explanation for a stupid amount of time. “I got a new one. The old one fell apart. I mean, I’m falling apart. No—it fell apart when I moved. I’m just… I thought… You have arms.”
I stop talking.
I close my eyes and hang my head while taking a deep, defeated breath.
I’ve forgotten how to form sentences.
“You feeling okay, Vic?”
I nod, not ready to look at or speak to him yet. A hand rests on my shoulder, causing me to peek between my fingers and spy on Mason’s expression. He’s trying very, very hard not to laugh.
“Clearly, trying to put my new bed frame together alone has made me lose my mind. What I was trying to ask was if you’d be open to helping me. I’m ashamed to admit that I can’t do a two-man project by myself.”
I can’t read the look he’s giving me, but I know it’s not a bad one. More like he’s confused and amazed at my confession. When he doesn’t say anything after an excruciatingly long minute, I pop my lips and point to the hallway.
“I should go. Let you finish. Whatever…rep that was.”
He holds up a hand, still smiling. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll shower, then come down and help…with my arms.”
I nod way too fast, needing to get out of there ASAP. “Perfect. Thank you. Great. Shower. Yep.”
And we’re back to talking nonsense. I spin on my heel to make a smooth exit—and slam my shoulder directly into the door frame.
Cool. Just kill me now.
I don’t even turn back as I mumble, “See you in a bit.”
The door clicks behind me, and I press both palms to my cheeks, trying to will the heat away. No luck.
As I step into the elevator, one thought cuts through my embarrassment like a spotlight through fog.
I definitely don’t regret seeing him like that.
Not one bit.