Sweet Obsession(62)

Jesus. Pull yourself together, Brooke.

I rush inside the studio before I see or hear his reaction to my obvious discomposure.

Lord, the man’s hands are wicked. Paired with that voice? I’m completely defenseless.

“You started it,” I mumble to myself as I tie my hair up off my heated neck. I guess it serves me right for trying to get a rise out of Mason.

He got one. I definitely felt it. And now I can very easily confirm his statement about not needing lube.

I push the door open at the top of the stairs and step out into the loft.

The room is exactly how I remember it from my first embarrassing experience up here. Lots of grays and blues. Massive wood-panel bed. A small kitchen table that looks to also be serving as a desk. It’s covered in membership forms and signed contracts. A laptop. A book about franchising.

I walk over to the accent chair in the corner and pick up the stuffed koala. I crush it to my chest.

“Hey, mate,” I whisper.

He kept it.

After using the bathroom and washing my hands, I stop at the refrigerator to hopefully grab a bottle of water. Something to hold in the car when my hands become restless. I swing the door open and startle at the contents littering the shelves.

Boxes. Bakery boxes. A lot of them.

Why are there so many?

“What the hell?” I grab the closest one in reach and open the lid. Four cupcakes fill the container. Four cupcakes I made. Completely untouched. I set the box down and reach for another. And another. Each one still exactly how I delivered it. No bites taken. None of the icing sampled. I find the first box I gave to Mason on the sidewalk the morning we met. The only cupcake that has been disturbed is the dolce and banana I tasted for him.

He isn’t eating anything I give him. He’s not even tasting them.

Why? Does he not like cupcakes? Fuck, if that’s the case, why is he allowing me to make it rain desserts every time we see each other?

I put the boxes back on the shelf and grab some water. I can’t get back outside fast enough. When I push the studio door open, I charge at Mason with my bottle pointed at his chest.

“Why is your fridge filled with cupcakes? What is going on?”

The smile on his face diminishes the second I get those words out.

I lower the bottle. I almost tell him to forget what I just said.

He looks uncomfortable, maybe a bit anxious. His eyes are shifting about the sidewalk while he rubs the back of his neck.

But damn it, I want to know. I’m too curious to drop this. And I’m not going anywhere until he explains what I’ve just discovered.

With a sigh, he pushes away from the car and steps forward, lifting his shoulders. “Because you made them,” he quietly states, stopping a foot away. “I don’t eat stuff like that, Brooke. I haven’t in a long time.”

“So tell me and I won’t push them on you. Jesus. I can’t believe you never said anything.”

“I don’t eat them. I didn’t say I don’t like getting them. You’re so proud of what you make. I am too.”

What . . . did he just say?

I stare at him as something warm bursts open in my chest, spreading from my neck to my navel. My shoulders sag. I chew nervously on the inside of my cheek.

He keeps them because he’s proud of me?

How can someone be so straight-up filthy one minute and this sweet the next? He’s like this beautiful balance of dark and light, dirty and decent, and he seems to know exactly when to be one and when to give me the other.

Keeping one cupcake because I make it is surprising enough. He keeps them all.

Every single one.

Mason watches my reaction, and what does he do? He waits. He waits while I absorb what he’s just disclosed. This completely insane, yet incredibly affectionate gesture. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t move closer and kiss my cheek, or tell me I look pretty while I struggle to comprehend this.

He just simply waits, and it’s so him, and so what I need him to do right now.

I lower my gaze to his arms, the same arms that just had me pinned roughly to that hard body without giving me much of a choice about it.

Funny. Now I’m tempted to willingly throw myself into them.

I don’t fight it.

“God, Mason.” I reach for his shirt and pull us together. My head hits his chest. I barely move but my heart is pounding. “What are you doing?” I whisper, allowing my eyes to close.

He wraps his strong arms around my body, squeezing me. “I don’t know. I couldn’t throw them out.”

I smile against the soft cotton.

We stand there for several minutes. My head never moves. His arms never leave me. It’s soothing, the constant pressure of his hold, and somehow it feels strangely familiar. Like he’s held me like this for years. Like I’ve known him my entire life, and in the moments when I’ve needed someone to be with me like this, it’s always been him.