Sweet Obsession
Page 82
Sweetheart? HIS STUDIO?
He sounds so cavalier, like nothing monumentally destructive happened between us three nights ago.
Did I imagine it all? Jesus Christ, am I going crazy?
I tilt my head to look at him.
Clean shaven, freshly showered, no signs of distress or obvious heartache in his eyes. He appears well rested and as stunningly attractive as ever.
I barely brushed my hair this morning and I’m not even sure my clothes match.
All of the pain I’m feeling shifts and centralizes in my chest. I squirm in his arms.
“Put me down right now! God, look at you! You should be destroyed! You should be the one crying and miserable, and instead you look like this? Get off of me! I said I can walk. I can walk.”
His eyes widen. Agony slips over him like a cloak.
I mentally question if I just slapped him in the face somehow, flailing about like I did.
That’s exactly how he looks.
“I am,” he whispers harshly, his body tensing against mine.
I still in his arms.
“I am miserable. I have been, but I’m holding you. I’m touching you and I can’t help the way my heart reacts to that. I’m sorry. Know that I’ve been in Hell, Brooke. Know that the past few days have been the darkest of my life. Every second we’ve been apart, I’ve been drowning.”
“But you look fine,” I tell him. “You don’t look miserable.”
You don’t look like me.
“That’s only because I know something you don’t.”
“What?”
His lip twitches. “Let’s get you cleaned up first. That cut needs some cleaning out. I have that first aid kit in my loft. It has what we need.” He cradles me closer, dropping his head to breathe in my hair. “I have so much I want to say to you. So much I need to say. Let me do this first, yeah? Let me heal you, Brooke.”
Let him heal me. Is it even possible? I feel damaged beyond repair.
Closing my eyes and surrendering once again, I let my head fall against his chest.
The ground moves beneath me. I feel like I’m floating. Mason’s hold is gentle yet secure, preventing any bumping or jarring as he maneuvers us. I hear the light traffic on the street, the soft scrape of a key fitting into a lock. I smell the earthy scent of the studio and Mason’s clean soap.
I tilt my head up and rub my face into his neck. Fuck it. If it turns out I’m dreaming, I want this to be a really good fucking dream.
He ascends the stairs, shifting his arm underneath my knees. The door opens. I lift my head and look around his loft as he carries me to the bed.
It looks how it always looks. Tidy. I’m not sure you can see the floor of my bedroom anymore. I’ve stopped caring about neatness and organization. I’m barely sleeping in there anyway.
One thing seems out of place and catches my attention as he sits me on the edge of the mattress.
I stare at the tent in the corner of the room. It takes up the majority of the floor space near the window and bends awkwardly against the ceiling.
“Have you been sleeping in that?” I ask, wincing when I push my palms against the mattress, forgetting about my injuries. “Ow.”
“Yeah. I might get rid of my bed. I rather like it in there.” Mason grabs my wrists, turning my hands over to examine me. “Let me grab my kit. Don’t move.”
I watch him pad into the bathroom, his running shorts hanging low on his hips. He returns seconds later with his kit and a bottle of disinfectant.
“Would you really get rid of your bed?”
He kneels in front of me, pouring some of the liquid onto a square piece of gauze. “Depends.”
“On?” I hiss through my teeth when he presses the cold gauze against my knee. My leg jerks. “Shit. That stings.”
“Sorry. I need to clean it out. You might have dirt in it.” He lifts the gauze and blows over my knee again. Our eyes lock. “Better?”
Christ, it just got a thousand degrees hotter in here.
Swallowing thickly, I nod. “Mm. A little.”
“I’ll be quick.”
He presses the pad against my skin again, lifting and moving it over my knee. I pinch my eyes shut and grit my teeth.
“You said it depends. What does it depend on?” I ask again, blowing out quick breaths and distracting my mind from the pain.
I am curious. Maybe it depends on him needing a new mattress and he doesn’t feel like purchasing another one. Maybe he’s debating on going rogue and drifting away from all uses of modern civilization.
Why would someone give up a bed for a tent?
“Depends on you,” he answers casually.
The sound of something tearing opens my eyes, or maybe it’s his response. He applies a bandage over my knee and looks up.
“Why would it depend on me?” I ask.
I watch his neck roll with a heavy swallow. He grabs another piece of gauze and pours some disinfectant on it, then holds onto the back of my hand as he presses the gauze against my palm.
It doesn’t sting nearly as bad as my knee did. I barely react to it, or maybe I’m just too engrossed in the vague man in front of me.
“Mason,” I press him.
He clears his throat. “If you want us to have a bed, or if you’re happier in the tent,” he explains as he cleans out my cut and moves to my other hand. His eyes focused on his task. “I’m not sure we can have both in here and be able to move around easily. It’s a bit tight in that corner. And I was thinking, if we got rid of the bed and set the tent up over here, we can fit your dresser and anything else you want to have. Whatever you want.”
I blink several times, trying to absorb and understand what he’s just said, but there’s no way . . . is he really suggesting what I think he’s suggesting?
He looks up at me after he’s finished and discarded the gauze. “Do you want bandages on your hands too? I wasn’t sure.”
“Did you just ask me to move in with you?”
Mason stares at me, his expression indecipherable. He doesn’t respond.
I swallow and blush instantly. My gaze lowers to my lap.
Oh, my God. It’s official. I’m crazy. I’m imagining conversations now.
“I did,” Mason finally says after what feels like an eternity of silence.
I slowly look up.
“That’s what I’m asking. I mean, it makes sense, yeah? I’m going to spend my life with you. You’re my forever, and I thought this would be a good way to ease you into agreeing to marry me, just in case that idea terrifies you. I’ll do it proper, I swear, Brooke. You deserve that. I’m just warming you up to it.”
My mouth falls open. Heat floods my face and my neck as my eyes struggle to focus on anything in front of me. “I think I need to sit down.”
“You are sitting down.”
“Well, then maybe I should stand up.”
He pushes lightly against my shoulder. “Your knee. Rest it for a minute.”
Frustrated, I swat at his hand. “Stop! Just stop, okay?” I yell, startling him a bit.
He drops his hand and nods, looking cautious.
Tears fill my eyes as I slowly fall apart. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Friday you let go of me. You promised you would never let go of me, Mason, and then I don’t hear anything from you for days. I thought this was over.” I shove against his chest. “I thought this was over! I’ve been dying and what the fuck have you been doing? Planning our life together? Are you serious?” I blink, sending fat tears down my face.
He sounds so cavalier, like nothing monumentally destructive happened between us three nights ago.
Did I imagine it all? Jesus Christ, am I going crazy?
I tilt my head to look at him.
Clean shaven, freshly showered, no signs of distress or obvious heartache in his eyes. He appears well rested and as stunningly attractive as ever.
I barely brushed my hair this morning and I’m not even sure my clothes match.
All of the pain I’m feeling shifts and centralizes in my chest. I squirm in his arms.
“Put me down right now! God, look at you! You should be destroyed! You should be the one crying and miserable, and instead you look like this? Get off of me! I said I can walk. I can walk.”
His eyes widen. Agony slips over him like a cloak.
I mentally question if I just slapped him in the face somehow, flailing about like I did.
That’s exactly how he looks.
“I am,” he whispers harshly, his body tensing against mine.
I still in his arms.
“I am miserable. I have been, but I’m holding you. I’m touching you and I can’t help the way my heart reacts to that. I’m sorry. Know that I’ve been in Hell, Brooke. Know that the past few days have been the darkest of my life. Every second we’ve been apart, I’ve been drowning.”
“But you look fine,” I tell him. “You don’t look miserable.”
You don’t look like me.
“That’s only because I know something you don’t.”
“What?”
His lip twitches. “Let’s get you cleaned up first. That cut needs some cleaning out. I have that first aid kit in my loft. It has what we need.” He cradles me closer, dropping his head to breathe in my hair. “I have so much I want to say to you. So much I need to say. Let me do this first, yeah? Let me heal you, Brooke.”
Let him heal me. Is it even possible? I feel damaged beyond repair.
Closing my eyes and surrendering once again, I let my head fall against his chest.
The ground moves beneath me. I feel like I’m floating. Mason’s hold is gentle yet secure, preventing any bumping or jarring as he maneuvers us. I hear the light traffic on the street, the soft scrape of a key fitting into a lock. I smell the earthy scent of the studio and Mason’s clean soap.
I tilt my head up and rub my face into his neck. Fuck it. If it turns out I’m dreaming, I want this to be a really good fucking dream.
He ascends the stairs, shifting his arm underneath my knees. The door opens. I lift my head and look around his loft as he carries me to the bed.
It looks how it always looks. Tidy. I’m not sure you can see the floor of my bedroom anymore. I’ve stopped caring about neatness and organization. I’m barely sleeping in there anyway.
One thing seems out of place and catches my attention as he sits me on the edge of the mattress.
I stare at the tent in the corner of the room. It takes up the majority of the floor space near the window and bends awkwardly against the ceiling.
“Have you been sleeping in that?” I ask, wincing when I push my palms against the mattress, forgetting about my injuries. “Ow.”
“Yeah. I might get rid of my bed. I rather like it in there.” Mason grabs my wrists, turning my hands over to examine me. “Let me grab my kit. Don’t move.”
I watch him pad into the bathroom, his running shorts hanging low on his hips. He returns seconds later with his kit and a bottle of disinfectant.
“Would you really get rid of your bed?”
He kneels in front of me, pouring some of the liquid onto a square piece of gauze. “Depends.”
“On?” I hiss through my teeth when he presses the cold gauze against my knee. My leg jerks. “Shit. That stings.”
“Sorry. I need to clean it out. You might have dirt in it.” He lifts the gauze and blows over my knee again. Our eyes lock. “Better?”
Christ, it just got a thousand degrees hotter in here.
Swallowing thickly, I nod. “Mm. A little.”
“I’ll be quick.”
He presses the pad against my skin again, lifting and moving it over my knee. I pinch my eyes shut and grit my teeth.
“You said it depends. What does it depend on?” I ask again, blowing out quick breaths and distracting my mind from the pain.
I am curious. Maybe it depends on him needing a new mattress and he doesn’t feel like purchasing another one. Maybe he’s debating on going rogue and drifting away from all uses of modern civilization.
Why would someone give up a bed for a tent?
“Depends on you,” he answers casually.
The sound of something tearing opens my eyes, or maybe it’s his response. He applies a bandage over my knee and looks up.
“Why would it depend on me?” I ask.
I watch his neck roll with a heavy swallow. He grabs another piece of gauze and pours some disinfectant on it, then holds onto the back of my hand as he presses the gauze against my palm.
It doesn’t sting nearly as bad as my knee did. I barely react to it, or maybe I’m just too engrossed in the vague man in front of me.
“Mason,” I press him.
He clears his throat. “If you want us to have a bed, or if you’re happier in the tent,” he explains as he cleans out my cut and moves to my other hand. His eyes focused on his task. “I’m not sure we can have both in here and be able to move around easily. It’s a bit tight in that corner. And I was thinking, if we got rid of the bed and set the tent up over here, we can fit your dresser and anything else you want to have. Whatever you want.”
I blink several times, trying to absorb and understand what he’s just said, but there’s no way . . . is he really suggesting what I think he’s suggesting?
He looks up at me after he’s finished and discarded the gauze. “Do you want bandages on your hands too? I wasn’t sure.”
“Did you just ask me to move in with you?”
Mason stares at me, his expression indecipherable. He doesn’t respond.
I swallow and blush instantly. My gaze lowers to my lap.
Oh, my God. It’s official. I’m crazy. I’m imagining conversations now.
“I did,” Mason finally says after what feels like an eternity of silence.
I slowly look up.
“That’s what I’m asking. I mean, it makes sense, yeah? I’m going to spend my life with you. You’re my forever, and I thought this would be a good way to ease you into agreeing to marry me, just in case that idea terrifies you. I’ll do it proper, I swear, Brooke. You deserve that. I’m just warming you up to it.”
My mouth falls open. Heat floods my face and my neck as my eyes struggle to focus on anything in front of me. “I think I need to sit down.”
“You are sitting down.”
“Well, then maybe I should stand up.”
He pushes lightly against my shoulder. “Your knee. Rest it for a minute.”
Frustrated, I swat at his hand. “Stop! Just stop, okay?” I yell, startling him a bit.
He drops his hand and nods, looking cautious.
Tears fill my eyes as I slowly fall apart. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Friday you let go of me. You promised you would never let go of me, Mason, and then I don’t hear anything from you for days. I thought this was over.” I shove against his chest. “I thought this was over! I’ve been dying and what the fuck have you been doing? Planning our life together? Are you serious?” I blink, sending fat tears down my face.
