Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dara
Wade holds the door open for me.
We enter a mudroom that I’d bet has never seen a speck of mud in its existence.
Then I follow him into the kitchen. A light glows beneath the cabinetry along the back wall.
Moonlight streams in from a large rectangular window that hangs over the sink.
Our movements are slow, deliberate, and aside from the occasional nod or exchange of routine conversation—we don’t speak.
It’s been like this the entire ride from the Gardens. Every minute that passes without any kind of inclination as to what he wanted to do tonight makes me think I’m going to lose my mind.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks.
“No. I’m fine.”
He nods and then disappears through an oversized archway that leads into the living room. Flames begin to dance in a stone fireplace. The shadows filter through the room, lending a romantic ambiance to the space.
I wonder if this was Wade’s intention or a coincidence?
I place my clutch on the white stone counter and glance around.
The kitchen is three times the size of mine. A matte black Viking range sits like the showpiece it’s meant to be, the brass trim shining in the low light. The range sits beneath a husky black hood with the same shiny trim.
Hardwood floors run from the mudroom as far as I can see. The same wood appears as thick beams overhead. The deep color contrasts beautifully with the white cabinets.
Soft footsteps catch my attention, and I look over my shoulder just as Wade walks back in. He shrugs off his jacket and places it on the back of a chair.
He blows out a breath. The tension between us and the stress of the evening are visible in the way he holds himself.
“Wade, I can go,” I say as a host of anxiety rears its head. “This isn’t necessary.”
His eyes snap to mine. “No. Stay. Please.”
Why?
I walk toward the window and pretend to be engrossed in his yard. In reality, I just don’t want to be engrossed in him.
“Dara?”
The sound of his voice so close to me makes me jump. I clutch my heart and spin around, nearly bumping into him.
He’s closer than I realized—only a couple of steps behind me. The look on his face is unreadable.
“Thank you for joining me tonight at the wedding,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. But embedded in his tone is something else that I’ve never heard in it—uncertainty.
“I don’t think I really gave you much choice.”
His weight shifts. “I always have a choice, as do you.”
What’s he saying?
He runs a hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry that I made this weird between us,” I say. “Can I blame the champagne?”
He searches my eyes like his life depends on finding something hidden in their depths. I can almost feel his gaze percolating all the way to the bottom of my soul, sifting through the debris caused by the events of my life.
Finally, he leans back. Resolution is awash on his face.
“I hope that you wouldn’t blame anything.” He forces a swallow. “I hope that you’d say you meant the things you said and that you would stand by them like the woman you are.”
My lips part as I lug oxygen as ladylike as I can into my body. My heart pounds in my chest. I look at Wade as he looks at me and try desperately not to react.
He stands tall in front of me and doesn’t move. He leaves himself open for me to inspect, to peruse—for me to understand.
I want to reach out and touch the side of his face, to get more of the contact that we had tonight. But I’m afraid to, despite the slight opening he might have just given me. Might have. Because I’m still unsure.
“Honestly,” I say, “the champagne probably is the reason that I was so … forward. But did I mean what I said in my moment of glory?” I breathe deeply. “Yes. I did.”
I lift my chin and leave myself open for his inspection. If he wants to try to understand me, I’ll give him the chance.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, biting his bottom lip. He’s deciding how to proceed with this conversation, and that’s fine with me. I have no interest in leading this discussion.
I’ve said enough.
He releases his lip before licking it. “I had a really nice time tonight, and I’m glad that you came. I was pretty pissed at Holt when he invited you, but it worked out.”
“It worked out?” I raise a brow. “I’m glad.”
Sarcasm is written all over my words to hide my embarrassment.
“I’m attempting to share my feelings with you,” he says. “Can we not pick my words apart?”
“Okay,” I say, contemplating his point. “I’ll give you that. But I also know you’re a wizard—I heard someone say that tonight—so my expectations of your linguistics are a bit higher than normal.”
He sighs. “The thought of you next to me for an entire evening was initially disturbing, but it was the highlight of my night.” He raises both brows. “Better?”
“Slightly.”
Wade rolls his eyes.
“So did you bring me here to tell me you were wrong?” I ask, holding his gaze. “I’m not mad about it, if that’s what this is. Just checking. And there are much, much simpler ways of doing that than … whatever you’re doing.”
“You really are insufferable.”
I shrug. “You’ve managed to tolerate me pretty well so far.”
“I’ve only had you in small doses.”
The sentence is small, compact, and it says very little on the surface. But when I couple it with the way he looks at me, it says a hell of a lot more.
“Whose fault is that?” I ask, gently poking to see if I’m reading too much into the moment or … if I’m right.
I steady myself.
He moseys toward me, erasing most of what little space was left between us.
I am right.
In this setting—in his home that’s clearly his space—in the low light at the late hour … Wade Mason is amplified to the nth degree.
He’s larger, sexier, more mysterious. I’m not sure what that means for me, but I think I’m about to find out.
Breathe, Dara.
“You said you wanted me to touch you tonight,” he says.
It’s more of a question than a statement, and it sends a spark to my core. My stomach clenches as I watch a transformation occur in his green eyes. As the color deepens, so do the depths of desire. The hesitation in his face is now gone. In its place is a man who is tired of playing games.
Right on.
“I shouldn’t touch you, Dara. I shouldn’t even take you home. I should call you a car and call off the entire house project.”
His eyes narrow. I narrow mine right back.
He’s right—I always have a choice. And even though I don’t know if it’s the right one, I know the one I want to take. Because despite all of the reasons I gave Rusti and myself that I wasn’t going to get involved with Wade, I forgot one thing: me.
I can handle this, regardless of what happens. And if I have to barter a little to keep feeling this way—I will. At least for now. And if the day comes that it doesn’t suit me, I’ll make a different choice.
“Do it then,” I say, straightening my shoulders. “Call me a car and I’ll wait outside.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
I shrug. “You’re the one throwing out options, Mr. Mason. Not me.”
It takes him a long couple of seconds for his brain to catch up with his body. But, when it does, a deep, undeniable smirk settles across his lips.
“Do you live to drive me crazy?” he asks.
“Don’t give yourself that much credit.” I try not to smile but fail miserably. “I live for pizza.”
He rolls his neck. I think it’s meant to be a distraction so I don’t see him react. God forbid I see him smile.
Unfortunately for Wade, I’m not distractible tonight.
“So …” I say as nonchalantly as possible. “What, exactly, did you need to do tonight that couldn’t wait?”
The longer I wait for a response, the more confused I become. I’d thought that maybe he wanted to talk. There was always the prospect that he just wanted to have sex and, if that turned out to be the case, I already decided that I would likely leave.
I’m not against sleeping with him, but not without being comfortable with it first. He doesn’t have to be transparent, but I do need him to give me something to go on.
But now? I’m not sure.
“Follow me,” he says.
A large black sofa faces the fireplace in the living room with a floor-to-ceiling river rock chimney. It’s grand and glorious, and I can imagine sitting here with a book on a chilly evening.
I ensure there’s enough space between us for air circulation as we sit on the sofa. I need the room to think.
Wade stretches out his legs, running his hands down his thighs. He clears his throat. He runs his hands down his thighs again.
“I …” He exhales. Then he clears his throat. “I made you cry tonight …”
Oh. So that’s what this is.
I slip off my heels and tuck my feet up under me.
“I didn’t cry,” I say. “No wetness fell down my cheeks so that means there were no actual tears.” I smile. “See that? We’re both off the hook—you for being a total dick and me for being a baby. It’s a win-win.”
He’s not amused.
“Let it go, Wade.”
“No.” He furrows his brow. “Trust me when I tell you that I don’t want to talk about this, but logically speaking, this will be worse if we don’t address it now.”
I roll my eyes.
“I …” He takes a quick breath. “I’m sorry for”—he gulps—“hurting your feelings. And I apologize for not reacting properly to your admission.”
“That I wanted to be in your arms on the dance floor?”
His eyes darken as he nods.
“Well, in retrospect, I probably didn’t give you a whole lot of time to process that,” I say. “But that’s not what made me cry—or … non-cry, I guess. I was just embarrassed, and that’s not on you.”
He moves around in his seat until he’s finally facing me. The fireplace snaps and crackles to the right of us. Shadows dance across his face. He’s so unbearably handsome. And in his handsomeness, I also see … a gentleness. Empathy. And empathy is a … nice trait.
Tall, dark, and handsome is my type. Mysterious is my jam. Nice guys are too boring for me to stay interested in for long. So what does it mean that when Wade gets nicer, I want him more?
“Having you in my arms tonight—having you with me tonight … I think I crossed a line,” he says.
I flinch. “Okay then.”
He tries to read my reaction. “I don’t think you understand, Dara.”
“So make me understand.”
He hesitates. Whatever he’s about to say, he almost doesn’t. He fights with himself over the words, and I hold my breath because I don’t know what that means for me.
Finally, he blows out a breath. “I don’t think I can go back to not knowing what you feel like against me.”
My eyes go wide before I can stop them. This is not what I was expecting. I want to press him, ask him what that means—but I don’t dare say a word. If I ruin the moment, I’m sure I’ll never get it back again.
“But I have to warn you,” he says, his voice wobbling in the slightest way.
“I don’t know what that means. I’m aware it might be unfair to you.
You’re a question-asker, and I’m not in a place to answer them all.
And, honestly, I don’t know if I ever will be.
That’s a bullshit thing to do to someone—to ask them to spend time with you yet be unable to be honest and open. I know that.”
There’s the smallest blush of vulnerability on his cheeks and the tiniest blip of hesitation in his eyes.
I sit back, my world thrown off-kilter by his honesty. He knows I might not want to hear that—that he may never be emotionally available to me.
But earlier, he reminded me that I always have a choice. And he’s right. I have a choice right now.
And I was right too. I have to consider myself.
I know what I want—I want him. Not just physically, although if he touches me in the right way, I might combust. But I want the Wade Mason I’m slowly getting to know.
The man who makes me laugh. The one who eats donuts on a random weekday afternoon even though I know he doesn’t want to.
The guy who let me snap his picture on a sidewalk … and then snapped mine.
No one ever wants to snap mine.
I’m cognizant of the fact that he might have intimacy issues, and I respect the hell out of him for admitting that to me now—before we sleep together.
This situation works for me right now. If the day comes when it doesn’t suit me, I’ll make a different choice.
“You know,” I say, narrowing my eyes, “I like you better when you don’t talk a lot anyway.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You know what’s not bullshit?”
He hums.
“You just asked me to spend time with you,” I say.
“Did I?” He twists his lips. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me tonight.”
“Well, I know what’s not gotten into me.”
His eyes darken. All levity from the past few minutes washes away from his features. His shoulders shove back, and his chin lifts.
“Patience, Dara, is a virtue.”
I shiver against the timbre of his voice.
He can’t be serious. He can’t wind me up like this—make weighty insinuations, promises, even—and then pull out a patience card? To hell with patience.
But as I look at him and see the shadows shift over his face, I realize what’s happening. He’s backtracking.
This is his way of trying to stay in control.
My lips twitch.
Nice try, Mr. Mason.