Chapter 14
Lila
“Ican’t believe we’ve been walking for hours already.” I paused to adjust my sneaker.
“Guess that means I’m doing something right.” Mason slowed, turning toward me. His gaze held mine, and for a moment, neither of us moved. Then we both laughed under our breath, like we’d been caught staring.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this much fun. Everything with Mason felt right, like we’d slipped into a rhythm without trying. Our banter was effortless, laced with just the right amount of flirtation.
And beyond being easy to be around, he was ridiculously good-looking.
I stole a glance at him as we fell back into step.
His broad shoulders and muscular physique were impossible to ignore, even beneath his casual T-shirt and shorts.
The muscles in his arms flexed and rippled with every step, and it was practically obscene.
The awestruck glances from the women we passed only reinforced what I already knew.
Mason Callahan was the walking embodiment of every dirty fantasy.
After the first Apex billboard, we passed several more.
Mason ignored them. I pretended to take them in stride, but it was hard to stay composed when my date was plastered all across Miami in his underwear.
He looked unreal. Ripped abs. Thick thighs.
And yes, that ridiculous bulge. The ads were all criminally hot, including the one with the woman draped over him like a decorative accessory.
A completely irrational, unhelpful twist tightened in my chest. Apparently my brain didn’t care that it was just a photoshoot.
I still had those photos saved on my phone. If he only knew how many times I’d zoomed in like a creep…
My ponytail clung to the back of my neck as we passed a food truck sizzling with churros, the sugar-and-oil smell making my mouth water.
“Hungry?” Mason asked. “I haven’t eaten since that protein shake at noon.”
“Let’s find something.” I quickened my step as we turned down another street, where strings of lights flickered above patios overflowing with diners.
The scent of garlicky camarones and smoked pork filled the air. Up ahead, a turquoise-painted café with wrought-iron tables caught my eye. A laminated menu flapped in the breeze—Cuban sandwiches loaded with pork and plantain chips stacked high.
“This place looks perfect,” I said, tugging Mason’s arm.
“After you.” He pushed the door open and held it as I stepped inside.
The hostess led us to a worn wooden table beside a mural of pink flamingos in party hats, mid-conga line.
I scanned the menu. “This all looks incredible. I don’t know how I’ll choose.”
After we ordered and the waiter filled our water glasses, Mason sat back and studied me for a moment. “So, Lila, what’s your story? I know you’re an interior designer and a Southern girl, but what else? Tell me you at least have a tragic line-dancing phase in your life.”
“Oh, it’s worse than that.” I took a sip of water, stalling for a second. “I grew up in Alabama. Small town, big hair, even bigger dreams. My mom was a pageant queen back in the day, so she… steered me in that direction.”
Mason paused, looking at me like he was recalibrating. “Pageants? Like… beauty pageants? With tiaras, sparkly gowns, and bathing suit competitions?”
I twirled a paper straw wrapper between my fingers as heat crept up my neck. “Yeah, those kinds of pageants. It was a big deal in our town, and my mom was... well, let’s just say she was deeply invested. I knew how to walk in heels before I could ride a bike.”
Mason leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes locked on mine. “Please tell me I’m talking to Miss Alabama right now. I can’t imagine anyone in the state being more gorgeous than you.”
An underwear model just called me gorgeous.
I couldn’t deny the curl of desire that ran through me, but I regretted bringing up the pageants. Mason was easy to talk to. Almost too easy. Something about him made me want to share, even things I usually kept locked up.
“Not quite Miss Alabama.” I faked a bright smile. The memory of that pageant still stung, even after all these years. “But I did compete. It was... an experience.”
Before Mason could respond, a trumpet blared next to our table, making us both jump. Perfect timing.
A trio of strolling musicians had materialized—guitarist, trumpeter, and a maraca-shaking vocalist—all dressed in sequined sombreros and elaborate costumes. They launched into an upbeat salsa tune, full volume, with no warning.
We sat there, cornered, feigning interest as the guitarist strummed with theatrical flair. The maraca guy got ambitious, shaking it an inch from my ear like he was trying to rattle my last brain cell loose.
When the performance finally ended, Mason reached for his wallet, pulled out a couple of bills, and handed them over with a polite nod. “Thanks, guys,” he said, hopeful.
They didn’t move.
It wasn’t until the waiter arrived with our food that the music finally stopped. I clapped politely as the band bowed and moved on to their next victims.
“Saved by the food.” The lechón asado in front of me looked impossibly good.
Mason exhaled hard, still looking faintly offended. “I thought they’d never leave.”
As we dug into our meals and shared a plate of plantain chips, Mason told me a story about his former Toronto teammates’ failed attempt at deep-sea fishing off the Miami coast…
“The water started getting even choppier—”
The trumpeter hit a high note so sharp it sliced through the air. We froze as the band swiveled on their heels and marched back to our table in perfect sync.
“Are you kidding me?” Mason muttered through gritted teeth, his fork paused midair.
They were back, now with choreographed hip swivels. The guitarist raked the strings like he was trying to summon a demon while the vocalist, caught up in the moment, attempted a daring twirl that nearly took out a nearby chair.
As the music died down, Mason shoved a twenty at the guitarist. “Thanks for the song. We’re good here.”
The band paused for a moment, then launched into an even more enthusiastic performance.
“For the love of—” Mason’s eye twitched.
I couldn’t hold it in any longer. Laughter burst out of me, bubbling up in uncontrollable giggles.
“Something funny?” Mason asked, though the corner of his mouth lifted like he was holding back a grin.
“You,” I said, beaming at him. “You’re like a human ATM for mariachi bands.”
“Glad you’re enjoying this,” he said dryly. “I just want to have a conversation without a trumpet blowing out my eardrum.”
I nodded, wiping tears from my eyes. Watching him pushed to the brink of polite frustration was hysterical. “I’m sorry,” I gasped, trying to regain my composure. “It’s just... your face! You’re so grumpy, and they’re so cheerful.”
Mason rolled his eyes, but I could see the laughter lurking in his own. “Fine,” he said, sliding his wallet back into his pocket. “You win. I’ll stop trying to shoo them away.”
He settled in his chair, a real smile spreading across his face. He even tapped his foot along with the beat, which made the band light up like they’d won a prize.
When the musicians finally wandered off to torment another table, Mason turned to me. “I thought tipping was supposed to make them leave,” he said, voice still gruff but laced with amusement. “Apparently they only stop when I put my wallet away.”
“That’s because you were single-handedly funding their retirement plan!” I teased, raising an eyebrow at his unwitting generosity.
He crossed his arms and leaned back, his expression deadpan. “Yeah, I’m a regular patron of the arts. Thinking about starting a mariachi fan club.”
“Sign me up. I’ve been looking for a new hobby that involves cool sombreros and maracas.” I grinned, soaking in this more playful side of him.
Mason’s mouth twitched. “Maracas do it for you, eh? Good to know.”
I burst out laughing, and to my surprise, he laughed too. A deep rumble that warmed me straight through.
“So…” He shifted closer. “How about I take you somewhere fancy next time? Somewhere without a roaming band.”
Next time.
Something in my chest gave a stupid little flip. A real date with Mason Callahan. Gorgeous, funny, easy to talk to… and apparently incapable of saying no to a mariachi band. I could work with that.
“I’d like that,” I said, trying to keep my smile contained.
Just then, the band reappeared, this time bearing a birthday cake for a nearby table. Mason settled the bill while they launched into an over-the-top rendition of “Happy Birthday.” He glanced at me and nodded toward the door. “Ready to head out?”
We stepped into the warm Miami evening, and without hesitation, our hands found each other’s. We strolled toward his car, and the moment felt so unreal I half expected to wake up and find I’d been dreaming.