Chapter 3
Mason
“You asked her to go grocery shopping?! For a first date?” Cody’s voice scolds across the kitchen table.
I lean back in my chair, trying not to grin. “Yeah. So?”
“So?” He throws his hands up. “So that’s terrible. Who does that?”
“Oh, don’t listen to him,” Karissa cuts in, nudging him with her elbow. “The grocery store is the only place you take me anymore.”
“What? It is not.” Cody glares at her, offended, but she just smirks at him over her glass of water.
“I think it’s a fun idea,” Addison chimes in, scooping another spoonful of applesauce into her mouth. “No pressure, no expectations. Just something simple.”
“Exactly,” I say, pointing my spoon at her. “Thank you. Finally, somebody gets it.”
Jesse shakes his head like I’ve just embarrassed the entire Jennings name. “Mase, you’re supposed to impress her. Dinner. Flowers. A real date. Not…aisle three next to the canned beans.”
“It’s about spending time together,” I argue, leaning back. “Not all the clichés of what a first date should be. I just want to talk to her, get to know her. You know, normal people stuff.”
Dad, who’s been quiet up until now, leans back in his chair with a grin. “Well, if she sticks around after watching you compare cereal prices, then you’ll know she’s the one.”
The table erupts with laughter, and even I can’t help joining in. They’re right—it’s unconventional. But for some reason, it feels like the right choice. Grocery shopping isn’t flashy, but it’s real. And if Megan’s good with that, then she’ll be good with me.
A few days later, I pull up to a split-level house, brick on the bottom, tan siding on the top, black iron railing along the steps.
I head up to the door, ring the doorbell, and wait. I’m sweating. It’s thirty-nine degrees out and I’m sweating.
The white door opens and there stands the cute blonde, same smile she’s worn every time I’ve seen her, her long hair pulled up in a ponytail. She’s wearing a white crewneck sweatshirt with royal blue lettering that says Cowboys with a star under it.
“Oh, I don’t know about this now,” I say, pointing.
She looks down. “Oh, I don’t watch football. I just like the sweatshirt.”
I laugh. “Oh okay. Phew! My family wouldn’t let you in the house,” I joke.
“They learn how little I know about football and they won’t want me in the house anyway.” She shrugs and I laugh harder.
A female voice calls out from the house. “Hi. Mason, is it?”
I duck my head down and see a women making her way down the steps, ashy-blonde hair, midfifties. She’s wearing light-wash jeans, and a pink shirt.
“Yes, ma’am.” I step inward as she reaches the bottom of the steps. Megan steps to the side to let me shake her mom’s hand, she introduces herself and I notice her mood shift immediately.
“So, grocery shopping. Is that still the plan?”
“Yeah, nothing crazy.” I nod and gesture to Megan. “As long as you’re still fine with it.”
“Yup, I’m here for it.” She smiles.
“Alright, well, have fun. Dad will be asleep when you get home, so just be quiet,” her mom says. I don’t recall if I know what her dad does, but the way she slowly inches toward my truck tells me now’s not the time to ask.
“Course. Not a problem.”
I open my door for her and wait until she’s settled to close it. I say a silent prayer as I round my side and hop up into the driver’s seat.
And just like that, life doesn’t feel real. She’s here, in my truck, and I’m taking her somewhere? This is crazy. I suddenly don’t know what I’m doing.
* * *
It’s quiet out here. Just the pond, the occasional breeze through the trees, and Megan behind me on the blanket, slowly working her way through a bag of pretzels. She isn’t fishing—she’d made that clear when she got here this afternoon—but she was here, and that counted for something.
I cast the line again, then set the pole down and wander back to her. She’s stretched out on the blanket, leaning back on her arms, flip-flops kicked off, tank top straps slipped low, shorts tugged higher on her thighs to avoid tan lines.
My gaze lingers too long, and she catches me. “What?” she asks, squinting at me with a little grin.
“Nothing.” I shrug, smirking. “You just look good like that.”
Her smile softens, and she glances down at herself, tugging her shirt up a little, like she suddenly feels exposed.
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, teasing, not quite hiding her smile.
I lean closer, pressing my lips to hers.
She meets me halfway, her hand sliding up to cup my cheek, gentle but certain.
The kiss starts soft, easy, but the second her fingers curl into my hair, I deepen it.
Our mouths move in sync, slow but hungry, and when her lips part, I take the chance to taste her, pulling her closer.
She exhales against me, a tiny sound that makes my chest tighten, and I shift until we’re lying down on the blanket, my weight braced carefully above her. Her free hand fidgets at the hem of my shirt, not pushing the moment further, just clinging like she needs me closer.
I pull back just enough to see her face, lips still parted, cheeks flushed. “See?” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “You needed this, didn’t you?”
Her eyes flutter open, meeting mine. “Maybe I did.”
“You’ve been wound so tight lately,” I whisper. “End of the school year, wedding plans…it’s a lot.”
“It is,” she admits, voice soft. “Feels like my brain never shuts off.”
“Then let me help you,” I say, kissing her once more, lingering. “Let me be the break you need.”
Her hand slides up my neck, fingers curling into my hair. “You already are,” she whispers, and for a second, the world feels completely still.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the bobber go. I jump up and grab it, quickly reeling it in.
“Well, I see how it is.” She laughs, teasing.
I pull too fast. The snap is sharp, the rod jerking back, and before I can react, a flash of metal bites straight into the back of my hand.
“Ah—damn it!” I hiss and drop the rod, blood already starting to trail down my hand.
Megan’s voice comes fast. “What happened?”
“Hook,” I mutter, assessing it a little closer. It’s past the barb, which means I have to pull it through.
Megan takes a few steps closer. “Oh wow, that’s…in there.”
“Yeah.” I kick open my tackle box and kneel down for my pliers. “It’s fine. I’ve done this before.”
I stand back up, and before I can get started, I glance over at Megan. Something about the way she’s breathing feels…off. Shallow.
“Meg?” I ask. Her face is pale. “You okay?”
She blinks like she’s trying to clear her vision. “I’m—I just—”
And then she tips forward.
I lunge, somehow catching her with one hand before she hits the ground, the other held out awkwardly because of the hook still buried in it. I ease her down, careful not to hurt her, or jam the metal in deeper.
“Hey. Hey, sweetheart.” My voice rushes out, tight. I brush her hair back from her face, tap her cheek lightly. “Baby. Open your eyes.”
No response.
My chest squeezes, instinct shoving emotion aside. With my clean hand, I press two fingers to the side of her neck. Pulse—steady. I watch her chest rise, shallow but even.
Relief hits hard, she just fainted. She’ll wake up in a second.
In the meantime, I grit my teeth and push the hook the rest of the way through. Blood beads instantly. I clamp down with the pliers, cut the barb, and pull it back out the way it came.
“Son of a—” I hiss, cursing under my breath. It stings like fire, sharp and hot, spreading up my hand. My eyes water from the pain, but I shake it off.
Megan stirs with a soft groan, her eyelids fluttering before she blinks up at the sky. I lean closer right away.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “Take it slow, okay?”
Her gaze shifts until it locks onto me. She brings her hands to her head, then rubs at her eyes.
“I think it was…seeing that hook like that,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I murmur, brushing her hair back. “Guess you shouldn’t have looked.”
She exhales, embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess not.”
“No big deal,” I assure her, quickly tucking my bloody hand behind me so she won’t see it. I grab her water bottle with the other and twist the cap loose with two fingers. “Here.”
She sits up slowly and I watch her carefully as she takes a few sips. I’m relieved to see color’s coming back into her cheeks.
“Sorry if I scared you,” she says with a short, nervous laugh.
“It’s fine. I’m good.”
I push to my feet and turn away before she notices, glancing down at my hand.
Blood is everywhere, smeared down my wrist, dripping into the grass.
I curse under my breath and look for something—anything—to wrap it in.
Nothing. So, I yank my shirt over my head, twist the fabric tight, and knot it around my palm.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice still faint but steadier now.
“Yeah,” I answer quickly. “Just need to stop the bleeding. Why don’t you head to the truck? I’ll grab this stuff and we’ll go back, get it cleaned up.”
She nods, moving carefully to her feet. I watch her every step, ready to catch her again if I have to.