CHAPTER NINE

The rest of my week was a dream come true. Mason showed up at my lunch table every day. And he was the only one. No Eva, no jealous professor clients. Just him and me.

By Friday, we’d fallen into a rhythm. I know this sounds totally nerdy, but we worked on homework together, usually calculus since we were both in a calculus class—same professor, different times. We could bounce ideas and helpful tips off each other.

The best part was I was smarter and worked faster. Not that I’m bragging. Okay, I’m totally bragging. But it was just so awesome to be better at something than he was.

“Have you finished question three yet?” he asked about five minutes into our lunch…after he’d polished off half the chicken strips I’d gotten from the cafeteria.

I snorted. Of course I’d finished question three.

He held up a hand before I could spit back something sarcastic. “Wait, scratch that question. Of ~course~ you’re past question three already.”

Aww, he was learning me so well.

“Ergo, I revise my query to, ‘~what~ did you get for an answer on question three?’ I keep coming up with sixty-four over zero. But that looks wro—”

“And you would be wrong.” I spoke over him, making a game show’s buzzing sound. “Now you have to admit you’re not smarter than a fifth grader.”

He sent me a scowl. “I’d like to see a fifth grader try college calculus.”

“Hmm. I bet a fifth grader would’ve answered number three as eleven over four.”

Mason threw his pen on top of his notebook full of equations. “How in the hell did you get eleven over four?”

With a grin, I leaned over and pointed out each x and limitation.

He picked his pen back up and scribbled numbers madly, working the equation the way I suggested. “Damn,” he murmured when he came up with eleven over four. “Why didn’t the professor explain it this way? This way is easy.”

I gave a long sigh. “They rarely do explain anything the easy way. Their brains just don’t function the same as a normal person’s, so it’s harder for them to translate equations in layman’s terms. My dad’s a high school math teacher, so I know.”

Mason looked surprised as he glanced at me. “Really? That’s cool. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you know your way so well around numbers. Must run in the genes.”

I shrugged, modest about my geeky side. “Hmm.” Tucking a piece of hair behind my ear when a breeze caught it and sent it fluttering in my face, I asked, “What did you inherit from your dad?”

As soon as I asked, I remembered Dawn was a single mother. Wincing, I held up a hand, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to impose. I totally forgot your mom’s—”

Mason waved a hand. “No. It’s fine. My dad died when I was four, so I don’t remember much about him. I just know he was in the army.”

I set my hand over my chest. “I’m so sorry. Was he killed in the Middle East?”

Sending me a telling look that seemed to snarl, ~you just had to ask that, didn’t you~, Mason sighed. “No. He never went to combat. He got tanked one night and killed a family of four, plus himself, in a drunk driving accident.”

My mouth fell open. ~Whoops~. “Oh, my God, Mason. That…sucks.”

“Yeah, pretty much. And in this small town of a community, everyone knows how he died, so I can’t even fabricate some hero’s death for him.”

I chewed on the end of my pen as I stared at the calculus book in front of me. “So…can I ask about Sarah’s dad?”

His narrowed eyes told me I shouldn’t have asked about that guy either, but he answered me. “Butch Arnosta. That loser ran off after we learned about Sarah’s condition. Mom met him when I was seven. They had a quickie romance, she got knocked up, they got married, and then he was gone again as quickly as the doctor said the words cerebral palsy. After that, I think Mom gave up on men completely. She never really dated again.”

I made a sympathetic sound in the back of my throat. “Well, I don’t blame her any. Sounds like she has as bad a track record with men as I do.”

Mason shot me an incredulous glance. “How can you have a bad track record? You’re only, what, eighteen?”

I sniffed. “Eighteen and a ~half~.”

He grinned at my joke. I loved how he always knew when I was trying to make a funny, even if it was a corny, really bad funny.

“I beg your pardon, old woman.” He held out his hand as if asking me to pass something to him. “Let me see your palm, Miss Eighteen and a Half. I’ll take a look at your love line and tell you just how bad your track record really is.”

I crinkled my brow, untrusting. “You read palms?”

“No, I just want to hold your hand.” His voice was so serious, I couldn’t actually tell if he was teasing or not. Then he rolled his eyes and shook his fingers impatiently. “Gimme.”

I had nothing to lose, so I held out my arm.

He took my wrist and gently turned my fingers over. “Let’s see here,” he murmured, deep in thought. He brought my hand closer to his face for inspection just before he blew on the skin.

His warm, stirring breath made every hair on my body stand on end. Holy freaking cow. The boy sure knew how to arouse.

“What are you doing?” I gasped. ~Besides totally turning me on in the middle of a college campus.~

“Hmm?” He glanced up, looking innocent. “Oh, I was just blowing the dust off my crystal ball here. It’s obviously been a while since you’ve had a good palm reading.”

Felt more like palm foreplay to me. But…whatever. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him to stop blowing on me.

“You are such a dork,” I said with a snort to hide the emotions I was feeling.

“Hey, don’t insult the fortune teller while he’s working. He might predict something…unpleasant.”

I couldn’t imagine anything worse than my past relationship, so…bring it.

But I told him, “Oh, I’m so sorry, wise one.” Leaning in toward him just enough to smell his clean, male scent, I pretended to study my palm too. “So, what’s my love life look like?”

He turned his attention to my hand and studied it a moment before running his index finger along one creased groove. It sent a delicious shiver down my spine.

“It looks good. Says here you’ll have a long and happy love life. You’ll meet your soul mate early on and marry straight out of college. The two of you will move to”—he squinted and leaned closer, making waves of lush, oak hair spill across his forehead—“Rhode Island, where you’ll each make at least eighty grand a year, have two point five children, and buy a dog named…Hundley.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Is that so? Hundley? As in the dachshund off ~Curious George~?”

“Yep. Says so right here.” He tapped my palm as if that should convince me completely.

I shook my head slowly, tickled by this playful side of him. “So what’s the name of my soul mate then?”

Mason frowned. “How the hell am I supposed to read some guy’s name off a couple of lines on your hand?”

I scowled right back. “But you know what my ~dog’s~ name is going to be?”

“No.” A mischievous grin lit his face. “I told you I don’t read palms.”

“Oh, my God.” I shoved at his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t seem to mind that I nearly shoved him off the bench; he was too busy shouting out a laugh. “Ridiculous, huh?” Curling my fingers in to make my hand ball into a fist, he brushed his thumb across my knuckles. “We’ll slot that under charming.”

“Ridiculous most definitely does not go under charming.”

He didn’t answer; he was too busy studying my middle finger that bent at a funny angle. “What happened here?” He wiggled it a little, making it lay straight.

“Hmm? Oh, I jammed it out of place while playing basketball in high school.”

He looked up. “You played ball?”

I nodded, trying to ignore the way his thumb kept moving over my suddenly sensitive flesh. “For three years.”

“Why not all four?”

Shrugging to cover the tremble of distress that passed through me as I remembered a particularly horrible moment, I distractedly murmured, “I, um…I broke my arm just before the season my senior year. Couldn’t play.”

His gaze went up my arm and straight to my elbow as if he knew exactly where the bone had shattered. “How’d you break your arm?”

Glancing away, I watched a group of guys fooling around over by the garden of bronze statues, climbing onto the back of the bucking stallion and pretending to ride it. “I took a tumble down some stairs.” ~Right after Jeremy shoved me into them~.

Mason studied me as if he could read the horrifying memory from of my brain. Then he grinned. “Well, I guess you ~are~ fairly accident prone. My toes are still smarting from those books you dropped on them.”

“Hey.” Only half offended, I tried to pull my hand out of his grasp, but he tightened his grip so he could kiss my mangled middle finger.

Yes, yes, I know. He put his mouth on a part of my body. I’m surprised I’m still conscious enough to talk about it.

Examining my finger, he pulled his lips away. “I wouldn’t have taken you for the athletic type. You don’t move like a jock.”

I lifted one eyebrow. “Just how do I move?”

He shrugged before shooting me a wink. “Well, when you’re not tripping all over the place, you move like a girl.” He bunched up the features in his face as if deep in thought before adding, “Maybe like a cheerleader.”

I grimaced. “I don’t think so, scooter. All the cheerleaders at my school were dirty, vengeful sluts. I only dated one person all through high school, thank you very much.”

Jeremy had threatened away every other guy who came within twenty feet of me after I’d broken up with him.

“Oh, ho! So the truth comes out.” Mason cocked me an I-got-you-now smirk. “Pray tell, Miss Randall, how do you have such an awful track record when you’ve only had ~one~ boyfriend?”

I straightened my spine. “Sometimes it’s more about the quality than the quantity that counts.”

His eyes darkened with feeling. “That bad, huh?” His features softened as if he might want to comfort me, which, okay, I wouldn’t mind. Really. “What did he do? Cheat on you?”

I tried to pull my hand away again. No luck. But I didn’t try too hard. I didn’t really want him to let go, and it warmed me that he initially refused.

“Among other things.” I kept my voice light, trying to play it down.

Mason’s face darkened. “~What~ other things?”

Thank God I was saved from answering, because my mind went blank, trying to concoct a good lie.

“See, they ~are~ dating,” a voice said as a trio of girls passed by our table about twenty feet away. “He’s holding her hand. I told you he couldn’t be a gigolo.”

Mason jerked his hand from mine and scooted backward to put some space between us. The way he shuttered away his expression, like a house yanking down its blinds, sent a bolt of fury straight through me. I wanted to maim everyone who’d ever hurt him with their barbed gossip.

I glared at the passing girls. “We can ~hear~ you, you know.”

All three of them snapped their gazes to us and just as quickly looked away again. Hustling into a light jog, they hurried off until their giggling echoed back.

“Don’t listen to them,” I told Mason. “They’re…ignorant”

“Doesn’t matter.” He shook his head as he slammed his calculus book shut and shoved it into his bag. Sending me a tight smile, he stood up. “Have a good Labor Day weekend, okay?”

Before I could respond, he turned and strode off, his shoulders rigid and hands fisted at his sides.

I sighed.

Depression hit hard as I remembered it really was going to be Labor Day weekend. Dawn had taken off work at her night job for Friday, and the café where she worked would be closed on Monday, so I wouldn’t be going to the Arnosta house until the next Wednesday. And since school was closed for the holiday, I wouldn’t even have a good reason to see Mason around campus until Tuesday.

Strangely, I missed him already.