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.
No one else.
Sighing, I snuggle the tiniest bit closer, clutching my water bottle between us. “You’re crazy.”
“Yeah.”
“Promise me you’ll toss them when they start to grow mold.”
“All right.”
I crane my neck and kiss his jaw. “Now, take me camping before I realize I’m just as crazy as you are.”
He smiles, kissing my temple. Tipping up my chin to steal my mouth.
Or maybe I just give it to him.
“This is where we’re camping? Really?” I unbuckle my seat belt and lean forward, looking out the window at our surroundings.
Dirt covered parking lot. One single lamp post lighting the area.
I turn to Mason, smiling. “You fingered me here.”
With a sly grin, he winks at me before exiting the car.
Mm. Ready to build on that stellar experience, Mr. King?
I take a sip of my water and meet him around the back to help unload.
Mason insists on carrying the bulk of our stuff as he leads the way down a small narrow path toward the campsites. I follow behind, clutching the sleeping bag against my chest. Tall trees surround us. I can barely see the darkening sky through the branches.
I move closer until I’m practically climbing onto his back.
He talks the entire time, as if he can sense my apprehension behind him. He talks about camping with his dad back in Australia. How his sisters never had any interest in going until his friends started tagging along. He tells me he came by here the other day to stake out the grounds for our weekend. There’s a lake, and a few hiking trails he thinks I’ll enjoy checking out. He smiles over his shoulder when I let out a doubtful chuckle, which I play up. I like lakes. I might like hiking.
It’s as if the fresh air is drugging me.
When we reach a large clearing in the woods, I watch Mason set everything down by two logs. Tent. Cooler. My bag and his. He kicks some rocks and branches out of the way and immediately goes about setting up the tent.