Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SHOPPING MONTAGE – In the wise words of Donna Meagle and Tom Haverford, “treat yo self.”

S awyer was fairly certain she’d hailed the only taxi driver in the city who drove the speed limit. She drummed her fingers along the back of her phone case anxiously, willing him to go faster. He braked for the yellow light rather than running it, and she fought back an aggravated scream. It wasn’t his fault. She was going to be late all on her own. She’d finally found her writing flow an hour before she was due to leave, and she cursed herself for not getting ready earlier.

Being late was only half of her frustration. She’d finally hit the midpoint of her incredibly messy draft, and her characters were starting to fall for each other again. She’d written them a steamy sex scene that was so long she’d definitely have to cut it back later, but she was so goddamn horny herself that she wanted someone to get some release. Before she could finish the scene, she realized she was running late. For the second time in as many days, she was left hanging.

After Mason crashed on her couch, she’d planned on suggesting they take Rule #2 off the table. Things were good with them. If they could remain friends after a one-night stand and car sex, it seemed silly for them not to keep the benefits—and orgasms—coming. But when she came out of her bedroom to state her case for morning sex, Mason already had his shoes on. He kissed her on the forehead briefly before leaving her to write, which was, well, annoyingly considerate.

She wasn’t easily deterred, however. She was so tightly wound after writing smut all morning that if his hair was doing that cute floppy-ends thing, she may throw herself at him. God forbid he gave her a hug and their hips touched and—Sawyer gripped the taxi seat as her vision swam, squeezing her legs together to provide a modicum of relief. She may have named all her vibrators Mason, but they paled in comparison to the real thing. And she wanted the real thing. Soon. Today, preferably.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, and she was so grateful for the distraction that she’d already swiped to accept before realizing it wasn’t Mason calling to see where she was.

“Hi, Tess,” she said in surprise.

“Sawyer!” her agent exclaimed. “ Sawyer .”

She laughed nervously. “Is this a good call or a bad call?”

On the other end of the line, Tess snorted. “Please. You know I save bad calls for after the holidays.” Sawyer filed that away under Things to Be Anxious About Later. “I just finished your proposal and had to call you. I love it. Emily’s going to love it, too. It’s so fresh and so you, and I’m dying to read the rest.”

Sawyer’s eyes stung, and she blinked rapidly, swallowing thickly to dislodge the unexpected swell of emotion stuck there. Her writing group chat had exploded with praise for her pitch, their support picking right back up as if she’d never disappeared. It had buoyed her, silenced her impostor syndrome, but she hadn’t realized how much she’d been dreading Tess’s verdict until now.

“Wow, um, well, I guess I should finish writing it?” She still needed her publisher to accept the proposal, but Tess’s enthusiasm was like a balm. She had more people in her corner than she thought.

“Yes,” Tess said emphatically. “I’m going to put a polish on your pitch and send it over to Emily this afternoon. Sound good?”

Sawyer nodded before remembering that Tess couldn’t see her. “Yes, I—yes. Thank you.” Even if they accepted this pitch, she still had to finish the draft and a round of edits to get paid. Only then would her bank account’s steady dwindling stop haunting her.

The taxi pulled over outside Mason’s building, and Sawyer slid the driver cash and told him to keep the change. No matter how broke she was, she wouldn’t not tip. She bade the driver a good day before stepping out onto the curb.

“Sawyer,” Tess said again, softly. Sawyer had the distinct impression Tess had been speaking that whole time and she’d completely zoned out, too happy and hopeful to process anything else. “I know this is an early draft, but it’s already really, really good. Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop.”

Mason appeared, wearing his usual gray coat and navy beanie, her smile widening as she met his gaze. “I don’t plan on it,” she promised.

“Good,” Tess said sternly. “Now get back to work.”

“Will do,” Sawyer said around a laugh before hanging up.

Mason smiled down at her, excited for her even though he had no idea why she was smiling. Yet another person in her corner. It had been so long, she didn’t know what to do with the feelings threatening to bubble over. Stretching up on her tiptoes, she flung her arms around his neck, making a point of keeping her hips away from his as she rocked from side to side happily.

If Mason found her exuberant greeting odd, he didn’t show it. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezing her back in a rib-crushing hug.

“Sorry I’m late,” she mumbled, pulling back.

He shook his head. “It’s fine. I called ahead and let them know. Who was that?” He jerked his head toward her phone.

The grin worked its way across her face again, and when Mason’s hand took up residence at the small of her back as they walked, she was fairly certain the grin was there to stay. “My agent. I sent her my proposal a few days ago, and she really liked it.”

Mason beamed down at her. “Of course she did. She has taste.”

Sawyer wrapped an arm around Mason, too happy to reply. It was a completely impractical way to walk, but neither of them stopped. If he stopped touching her, she may float away.

Mason’s steps slowed as they neared a boutique with faceless mannequins in the windows. He opened the door for her, and she simpered at the gesture before entering the store. It smelled expensive. She barely had a moment to feel guilty about the snow sludge she’d tracked onto the gleaming tiled entryway before her attention was sucked in by the racks of gowns. Silky dresses, embroidered lace, dresses that sparkled like diamonds, dresses in every color of the rainbow. It was a riot of color and texture and somehow felt elevated in a way her explosion-of-color apartment never could.

“Dress-shopping montage is another cliché,” she muttered out of the side of her mouth as Mason came to stand beside her. “Add it to the list so we can cross it off.” Outside of Christmas dinner, they’d done a good job of sticking to the list. Well, that and when he brought her pho. Okay, they were doing a terrible job, but if she wanted to bend the rules—aka obliterate the cursed Rule #2—then she needed to stick to her other resolutions.

She couldn’t read the expression on Mason’s face before his PR Face slid into place at the sound of heels approaching. She hated that he felt like he always had to filter himself around other people, but she was grateful he never did it with her, at least.

“Mason!” A middle-aged woman in a fitted amethyst pantsuit approached them, arms extended toward him. She kissed him on both cheeks warmly.

“Celia,” he greeted. “Thank you for seeing us last minute.”

The older woman tittered. “Of course. Anything for Moira. Now, Mason, introduce me to your lovely lady.”

Sawyer started, too busy taking in Celia’s many rings and eyeshadow the same color as her suit. “I’m Sawyer,” she said after a beat. Extending her hand, she fumbled her way through an air-kiss when Celia leaned in instead.

“Beautiful,” Celia said, her eyes sweeping over Sawyer from head to toe.

That was generous. She’d gotten ready in the cab, finger-combing her hair and using her phone camera to apply lipstick and mascara between potholes.

They followed her to the back of the store, Celia taking their coats before settling Mason on a leather couch with a glass of champagne. When Celia’s back was turned, he pointed to the glass with boyish glee.

Sawyer repressed a smile, trying to channel Mason’s enthusiasm. She had never been big on shopping. She’d never really had the money to spare, her closet curated over many years of thrifting. Life as an author wasn’t exactly luxurious. The royalty payments were unpredictable and spent almost immediately on her one-bedroom apartment’s exorbitant rent.

Celia pressed a flute of champagne into her hand and instructed her to look around while she hung up their coats. Sawyer wandered along the racks, fingers trailing over the lush fabrics, occasionally pulling one out before slotting it carefully back into place. There were no price tags. The champagne did little to ease the dryness in her mouth.

“Mason,” she hissed, crossing over to him. “This is too much.”

He grinned up at her. “It’s one dress, Sawyer.”

She glanced around to ensure Celia wasn’t lurking nearby. “And how much does one dress here cost?”

Mason shrugged. “The price of my sanity at not having to go to this party alone. Now.” He shooed her away with a hand. “Put on something sexy for me.” He draped his arms along the back of the couch, champagne dangling casually from one hand as he sank deeper into the cushions, legs falling slightly open.

Sawyer straightened like she’d been struck by lightning, lust pooling in her gut. He was so—Fuck. Cocky Mason was something. She wanted to crawl on top of him, to straddle him until that smirk slid from his face. Before she could do any of that, Celia reappeared.

“Anything catch your eye?” she asked brightly.

“Oh, um—” Sawyer dragged her attention from Mason as he took a sip of champagne, licking his lips afterward. Slowly, like he knew the deep dive into Horny Town her thoughts had taken. “I’m not sure. What are you wearing?” she asked Mason.

The corners of Mason’s mouth turned down as he considered. “Black? But I also have navy, gray, maroon. Whichever.”

“Men have it so easy,” Celia whispered conspiratorially, and Sawyer couldn’t help but warm to her. Celia stepped back, assessing gaze bouncing between the two of them, her attention landing on Sawyer’s red lipstick. “Mason, you’ll wear the maroon suit, it will complement her best. We’ll work backward from there.”

Mason nodded curtly at the order, biting down on his lip to keep from laughing. Yeah, Sawyer liked this lady. She followed Celia back over to the rack, forcing the words out before her nerves could swallow them. “What do you think would look best with—” She gestured to her full chest and hips.

Celia studied her for a moment, but when she met Sawyer’s gaze, her eyes were fierce. “Oh, honey—everything.”

Sawyer was too surprised to respond. As much as Sawyer loved her body—she was kinda stuck with it her whole life, so she figured “might as well”—the self-loathing always kicked in when she had to dress it, and things never fit quite right. She knew from shopping with Lily that it wasn’t any easier on the tall and willowy end of the spectrum, but that knowledge didn’t make it any less of a buzzkill to try something on and have it distort your mental image of yourself like a fun house mirror.

Celia seemed to sense that Sawyer was out of her depth, snapping into action and marching over to a rack across the room and grabbing a flowy navy number, a ruby sheath, a millennial-pink cloud of tulle, and a few other dresses. Sawyer had no idea how she kept track, but she knew the woman had very specific things in mind by the way she approached the rack and had a dress in her hands with minimal perusal. Celia doubled back to grab one last dress before gesturing for Sawyer to follow.

She knew the navy was a no before Celia even finished clipping her into it, but Sawyer allowed Celia to lead her out onto the pedestal in front of the three mirrors. It was worth it simply for Mason’s reaction. He ran a hand over his face to compose himself as Celia situated the skirt and slight train. Sawyer simply smirked at him as his gaze met hers in the mirror. The sheer fabric crisscrossed over her chest, leaving asymmetrical gaps beneath her breasts, along her rib cage, her lower back. It was beautiful, but far more skin than Sawyer was used to showing, especially to a roomful of strangers.

Correctly gauging her expression, Celia nodded curtly. “We can do better.”

Sawyer was going to leave this woman the most glowing review online.

The pink tulle explosion was next, and while Sawyer was surprised at how much fun the skirt was, it was simply too much dress. Mason was a fan of that one as well, but she had a feeling it was simply for the fact that the corset top made her tits look amazing. She gave him a little shimmy when Celia’s back was turned, and he feigned passing out on the couch. The ruby dress was a masterpiece of lace and leather accents with a slit so high she thought Mason was going to cry when she said it wasn’t the dress.

When she passed on the next two, she expected Celia to grow frustrated with her, but the woman simply smiled and asked her what she had liked and disliked about each dress. She told her clumsily, trying to remember what little she knew about dress styles, and Celia nodded along.

“Sexy is fine, but—conservative sexy, I guess. Is that a thing?”

Celia tittered out a laugh. “Yes. I love an old-fashioned gal.”

Sawyer waited until Celia disappeared out of the changing room to laugh. The only thing old-fashioned about Sawyer was that she liked to drink an old-fashioned. She was ready to be done with this outing so she could drag Mason back to her apartment and put on an entirely different type of fashion show, where the silk and lace garments were much, much smaller. Sawyer bit back a moan at the idea of flouncing around in lingerie while Mason manspread all over her couch. She hoped the lust wasn’t apparent on her face when Celia reappeared a moment later.

Sawyer’s eyes widened at the flimsy thing in her arms and wondered if the woman had been listening to her at all, but agreed to try it on. As Celia zipped her up, she sighed.

“You’re a magician,” Sawyer breathed.

Celia smiled from over her shoulder. “I don’t think we should show him, do you? Keep it a surprise.”

Sawyer nodded in agreement, and Celia helped her out of the dress before taking down her measurements and her address, promising to courier over the dress once they had made a few alterations.

Mason’s eyes widened in surprise when she stepped back out in her jeans and baggy sweater. “Nothing?” he asked, looking crestfallen—not with her, but like he’d failed her.

Sawyer shook her head. “No, we found it. You’ll see it on New Year’s.”

A smirk spread slowly across his face. He pushed up off the couch, standing so close she had to tilt her head all the way back to look at him. His hand cupped the back of her neck, thumb stroking up and down over her wildly thrumming pulse point. “Tease,” he breathed.

“You like it,” she shot back.

“I do.”

His breath coasted across her brow, and she shivered at the low timbre of his voice, the promise it held. She was infinitely grateful that her Christmas gift hadn’t ruined anything between them. She was going to take Rule #2 off the table so smoothly, it would be like a waiter yanking off the tablecloth but the place settings remained undisturbed.

Mason’s gaze lingered on her mouth and she smirked. Rule #2’s days were numbered. He placed a quick kiss against her brow before following Celia, who watched them fondly, and Sawyer felt strangely guilty, like they were lying to her.

Sawyer hovered awkwardly behind him while he paid, still feeling a little uneasy about it, but it was his event, and normal people didn’t have gowns sitting around for work parties . She tried to push the discomfort aside. Clearly, he had no qualms about it, and if she got her way, soon, clothes would be an unnecessary thing between them.

That thought buoyed her instantly, grinning eagerly when Mason turned, gesturing for her to follow him out.

“Champagne always goes straight to my head,” he mumbled once they were on the sidewalk, his cheeks slightly pink from the cold and the bubbles. “Wanna grab something to eat? Do you have time?”

She leaned against his front, propping her chin on his chest. “I need to get back to writing, but I have some time. Buuuut,” she drawled with a sly smile up at him.

His gaze met hers, mirroring her smile hesitantly. “But?”

“But I don’t want to eat.” She arched on her tiptoes to bring their faces closer together. She wrapped her arms behind his neck as his came around her waist. She nudged the tip of her nose against his, brushing her lips across his in the barest hint of a kiss. “I spent the whole morning writing about orgasms and could really fucking use one.”

Mason pulled back slightly, not meeting her gaze.

She guided him to look at her, her smile faltering. His eyes were flat and tight where before they’d been soft and molten. “I thought we needed the rules so it didn’t get complicated, but we’ve slept together twice and nothing’s changed, right?” she asked with a forced lightness.

He took a step back, out of the circle of her arms, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

It wasn’t that cold today, mild by Chicago winter standards, but suddenly Sawyer felt like her very bones were shaking, the expression on his face speaking volumes before he even opened his mouth.

“I can’t do it,” he said quietly.

“Okay.” It was a wonder how her voice cracked so many times in the span of two syllables. “We don’t have to sleep together. Let’s just—let’s get some food,” she suggested clumsily, embarrassment stinging her cheeks. Had she really misread things so badly?

He pressed his lips together, taking a controlled inhale. “No, I—I need to say this.”

Sawyer’s bones were shaking so violently, she wasn’t sure how she was still standing. “Okay. I—should we go somewhere to talk?”

His eyes fluttered shut, and he shook his head jerkily. “No. Because we’ll go, and you’ll say something witty and make me laugh, and I’ll forget why this is important.”

She nodded for him to continue, absently wondering if this was what it felt like to die by quicksand—slowly, knowing it’s futile to struggle, accepting the end.

“I hate shopping.” He glanced behind them to Celia’s boutique. “I hate IKEA. I hate crowded public places like the Millennium Park ice skating rink. But doing them all with you—I don’t hate.”

“I don’t hate doing them with you either,” she admitted, her voice barely audible above the wind coming off the nearby lake. “I’m sorry. I know I’m doing a terrible job at upholding my side of the list.”

“Forget the list.”

Her brows shot upward at the edge in his voice.

“This—” He gestured between the two of them. “Isn’t about some list for me. It hasn’t been for a long time. Rules or no rules, this is already complicated, Sawyer. Everything has changed.” He stared at her imploringly. “What happens when we’re done with the list? What are we then?”

She knew what he wanted her to say, that the reason she kept adding items to their list was to buy more time with him, to write off the way they couldn’t stop finding excuses to spend time together.

“We’re friends,” she said weakly.

Mason’s gaze softened. “Of course we are. But we’re not just friends. Friends don’t name their vibrators after each other.”

Sawyer’s cheeks burned. She knew it had been risky to do that with Mason in the next room, but if she was being honest with herself, she’d been half hoping he would catch her. And he had, but she’d underestimated his self-control.

Before she could come up with a response, Mason took half a step closer. He was so close, a hairbreadth away, purposefully not touching her. “Don’t be embarrassed. I think about you, too. All the time. Trust me—I want nothing more than to go back to your apartment right now, but if I do, I’m not going as your ‘friend.’ I’m not going to fuck you like we’re friends or a one-night stand or whatever that was on Christmas. If we have sex again, we have to be on the same page about what it means, and right now…” He shook his head, taking a controlled inhale.

Her heart was pounding in her throat, as if when she opened her mouth, it was going to jump ship.

They were in a standoff. They had only two rules left, and they each wanted to take a different one off the table. But it didn’t really matter, did it? Sex or no sex, feelings or no feelings, this was always the way it was going to go with Mason. He was leaving. LA was always there, looming on the horizon. Better now than later, when she’d grown even more accustomed to his presence in her life.

“So, we’re done,” she said flatly. “With the list.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to clarify, other than it was easier to focus on that than the fact that she was losing yet another friend.

Mason turned away, taking a jolting step backward. When he met her gaze, his normally expressive face was unreadable, PR Face firmly in place. She’d seen him do it plenty of times, but never for her. It was like a kick in the gut.

“I… Yeah. I think I’m done. I mean, it’s clearly not working. I’m still hopeless, but the tabloids are moving on at least, and you’re writing again, so—” His voice was detached, like they were business partners concluding a deal. He ran his hand over his face, though it only seemed to further wipe all emotion from his features.

The quicksand was up to her chest now, pressing in on all sides, making it hard to breathe. She wanted to bolt, but she was stuck.

He studied her for a long moment before inhaling shakily. “Okay, well—”

“I should get back to work,” she said at the same time, relieved her voice had mostly returned to normal.

She could almost visibly see him latch on to her excuse like a lifeline. He nodded. “Let me call you a Lyft,” he offered, pulling his phone from his pocket.

“I got it,” she said hastily. She tapped through her phone on autopilot, summoning a car. “I’ll see you later?”

They both knew “later” was a conveniently vague way of promising something while promising nothing.

He nodded, not fully meeting her eye. “Bye, Sawyer.”

His gaze raked over her, as if desperately trying to memorize her, one last look before never seeing her again.

As soon as his back was turned, the quaking in her bones turned into a full-body shudder, and she practically fell sideways into her rideshare when it arrived. She’d ended plenty of friends-with-benefits situations before, so why did her whole body feel simultaneously flushed and chilled? Her head felt light, and she was barely able to remember her own name when the driver asked for it. She’d never felt like this before. Perhaps she was coming down with something.