Chapter Twenty-Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE DREADED EX – Tired: they’re the epitome of evil and you wonder how anyone ever dated them. Wired: you would’ve dated them, too.

A nother Blanton’s?” the bartender asked, gesturing to Sawyer’s empty glass.

“Yes, please,” she said, hoping the desperation didn’t show in her voice. She was infinitely grateful that Bex was here to keep her company, but it still didn’t totally eliminate the fish-out-of-water feeling. Bex had introduced her to Davi Shah, who was equally as hilarious as she was beautiful, the two of them bonding over both having been stuck in an elevator with Mason. The conversation had eventually turned to set gossip, and Sawyer smiled and nodded and drank and pretended she had any idea what happened on sets. Her drink was empty all too soon.

This house was bigger than her entire apartment building, and the holiday decorations had definitely not come from the sale section at Party City. There was a tuxedoed pianist playing tasteful covers of pop songs, for fuck’s sake. At this point, if the queen herself showed up and declared someone the diamond of the season, she wouldn’t be surprised. Or worse, Usher would show up, and she would have to dance battle it out for Mason’s heart, a la She’s All That.

“Make that two, please,” a husky voice called from her right.

Sawyer did a double take. She recognized her from the night at the bar—and the photos of her and Mason, photoshopped to appear torn down the middle.

The bartender placed their drinks in front of them, and Kara grabbed hers immediately, turning to face Sawyer, crystal glass extended. “Cheers.”

Sawyer took a beat too long to jump into action, too busy staring at her. Flawless amber skin, silky black hair that Sawyer swore was a mile long, enchanting dark eyes, a cute as hell little mole on her cheekbone. “Cheers,” she mumbled.

Her eyes widened as Kara threw back the entirety of the drink, and Sawyer tried not to do the mental math on how many dollars she’d just swallowed without tasting it.

“Another one, please,” she said to the bartender. “And we’ll pretend it’s my first.”

The bartender smiled. “I’m not here to judge,” he said with a flirty grin before spotting the ring on her hand, still wrapped around the glass.

And God, what a ring. Sawyer was wearing a gown covered in crystals, but the rock on Kara’s hand outshone her by far.

“Beautiful dress,” Kara commented, giving her an approving sweep from head to toe.

“Thanks, it has pockets,” Sawyer said automatically. She was fairly certain she was contractually obligated to reveal that fun fact.

Kara groaned. “Jealous,” she said, taking a small sip of her new drink. She ran a hand over her fitted teal sheath as if hoping pockets would materialize. “One of these days, I’m going to throw one of these, and either everyone has to wear Spanx and heels or no one does.”

Sawyer snorted into her drink, and Kara smiled. Goddamn it. Sawyer didn’t want to like her. She didn’t want to hate her either—she didn’t believe in that kind of petty woman-on-woman competition—but it didn’t change the fact that Kara had hurt Mason. But she also wanted to thank her, because without their second breakup, Sawyer never would’ve met Mason.

Kara groaned, glancing across the room as she took another sip of her drink. “That one’s my pockets.”

Following her gaze, Sawyer spotted Peter Levine. “Oh my,” Sawyer said with a barely suppressed giggle. Sawyer wasn’t incredibly savvy on the Who’s Who of Hollywood, but everyone knew Peter Levine, the son of a former Bond girl and a notorious party boy. There was a rosy flush to his cheeks, and if that weren’t enough to signal that he was already half in the bag, his over-the-top hand gestures would have given it away.

“Would you believe that this is our third party of the night?” Kara murmured under her breath. She held up her hand. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

Sawyer smiled weakly.

By comparison, despite tossing back her first drink, Kara seemed entirely sober. Seeming to read her train of thought, Kara nodded. “I don’t normally drink, but my ex is here somewhere, and we’re cool, but I know everyone else is going to make it weird, so—” She raised her glass by way of explanation.

Sawyer cleared her throat nervously, because now it felt like lying to pretend she didn’t know who she was. “Kara,” she began, not entirely sure how to broach this topic. Before she could find the words, a hand appeared at the small of her back. She knew it was Mason without looking, but even if she didn’t, the way Kara’s eyes went wide, gaze bouncing between the two of them, reading their body language like a book, would have given it away.

Sawyer swore the volume of conversation in the massive room quieted to watch as the on-screen couple, off-screen exes greeted each other.

“Kara.” Mason’s PR Face was firmly in place, his tone the epitome of pleasant.

Kara composed herself in a blink, smiling warmly and leaning in to air-kiss his cheek. “Mason.”

“I see you already met my—” Mason broke off, the hand at her back flexing slightly as he struggled to figure out how to introduce her. She hoped Kara hadn’t seen the bolt of terror and excitement that shot through her when she thought Mason was about to call her his girlfriend.

“Sawyer,” she finished for him, extending her hand.

If Kara noticed anything, she gave away nothing, and Sawyer suspected her PR mask was as fine-tuned as Mason’s. Kara shook her hand briefly, glancing over her shoulder to where Peter was holding court. “Well, I’d introduce you, but—” She took a prim sip of her drink, sharing a knowing look with Mason that Sawyer didn’t like. “I’ll spare you.” Peter gestured grandly, stumbling sideways half a step. Kara sighed heavily. “Actually, I should probably…” She gestured vaguely in Peter’s direction. “It was nice to meet you, Sawyer,” she said warmly. “Mason.”

“Kara.”

As she made her exit, Sawyer loosed a breath. Mason’s hand at her back began rubbing slow circles. She leaned into his side instinctively.

“What did you two talk about?” Mason asked.

“Your bedroom prowess.”

Mason concealed his too-loud laugh with a cough. “What did you actually talk about?”

His expression was still PR Face neutral, and she hated that she had no context clues to know how he was feeling about seeing Kara for the first time. And frankly, she was trying to pretend she wasn’t still reeling from the strange pang of jealousy at Kara and Mason’s unspoken interaction. Jealousy and… longing. She used to have that with Sadie. She missed having it. A voice that sounded a lot like Lily’s rang through her head, reminding her she could have it, if she wanted it. He was standing right next to her, wanting it. The only thing stopping them was, well, her.

Whatever was written on her face cracked his neutral expression, a slight crease forming between his brows. “You alright?” he asked quietly.

Sliding her hand into his, she led him across the room, down the enormous hallway, trying the first door she saw, relieved to find it unlocked. The sounds of the party fell away as the door shut behind them. She gave the lavish office a cursory glance before refocusing on Mason, who leaned against a curio case, pulling her by their still-joined hands to stand between his legs.

Setting down her drink, she placed her hands on either side of his face. His eyes fluttered shut, and exhaling slowly, his PR Face melted away. When he reopened his eyes, he smiled. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she echoed. “Are you alright?”

He nodded. “Glad that’s over. Better, now that it’s us.”

The word us made her stomach swoop far more than two letters had any right to. She nodded, leaning into him.

“I’m sorry I fumbled your introduction,” he said with a wince.

She smiled, nudging her nose against his and earning a smile. “It doesn’t matter. I know what we are.”

Mason stared down at her, his expression unreadable.

She knew he was resisting the urge to press her for clarification. She traced one of the buttons on his black shirt with her fingertip, trying to figure out a way to tell him what she was feeling without slamming the emotional equivalent of the panic button. She was tired of pretending, too. Tired of pretending she didn’t feel anything at all. She stifled her instinct to make a joke, trying to find a way to meet in the middle of what he wanted and what she could give.

For someone who wrote thousands of words for a living, she was not very good at them in real life. With books, she had multiple chances to get it right, to reword it, to express it all wrong, and then edit it until what was left accurately conveyed what was in her head and in her heart. It didn’t work like that with people. You weren’t guaranteed a do-over, and they were already on their second chance.

She envied Mason’s ease with his feelings, the way he’d conveyed so much when all he’d said was I think you might be my favorite person . Simple words that spoke volumes.

She traced the lines of his face with her fingertips, hoping he could feel the way she felt through her touch, could read it in her expression. But just in case, she would try to tell him with her words, too.

“I envy you, you know,” she managed.

Mason’s eyes widened, brows shooting upward.

“This may come as a surprise,” she began with heavy sarcasm. “But losing Sadie the way I did—it fucked me up. I envy the way you’ve never stopped chasing love and joy.” She swallowed the lump in her throat, pressing her lips together to fight back the prickle in her eyes. “I’m so scared of ending back up in that place that I stop myself from getting too attached, because it can’t hurt me if I never let it in.” Sawyer laughed humorlessly. “I’m doing a shit job of selling myself, aren’t I?”

The corner of Mason’s mouth twitched up, his dark eyes scanning her face with so much barely restrained hope. “Sawyer.” Her name came out in a deep rumble, as if it lived in the depths of his chest. “You don’t need to sell me. I’ve been sold. Since the very first accidental innuendo.”

The sincerity in his voice made all of Sawyer’s self-preservation instincts light up, to backtrack before she could disappoint him. Taking a deep breath, she pushed past the fear.

“Me, too, probably,” she admitted with a laugh. “I just wouldn’t let myself feel it. And I haven’t magically changed. I’m still scared. My life is still a mess I’m trying to clean up. I just know it’s better with you in it.” The way Mason’s face lit up was both a balm and a blaring alarm. She didn’t want to get hurt again, but more than that, she didn’t want to hurt him . She took a deep breath for courage. “I’m telling you all this because I wouldn’t have minded if you called me your girlfriend, but I also don’t care if you don’t, so long as we know what we are to each other.”

Mason made a confused jerk of his head, half nodding, half shaking it. “And what… are we?” He was the living incarnation of half agony, half hope. If he was Wentworth, then she was Knightley. If she cared about him less, she might be able to talk about it more. Was this what happened when you let yourself fall for someone? Suddenly, every interaction became narrated by Jane Austen?

She brushed her lips against his. “We’re each other’s person.” He sagged against her, bringing their foreheads together as he exhaled shakily. “I’m yours.” His hands on her waist tightened, as if checking that she was really there. “And you’re mine?”

His gaze flicked up to hers, watching her through his lashes. “Of course I am, Sawyer. I’ve been yours.”

She shuddered, his words washing over her like the shock of ice water and a warm blanket all in one. And then they were both moving.

She’d almost forgotten what kissing Mason was like, how all-consuming, but her mouth had not, the memory of him imprinted on her lips.

Their mouths met in a clash of teeth and tongues, as if to make up for lost time. He moaned into her mouth when she took his bottom lip between her teeth, claiming it. His hands at her hips roved south, cupping her ass and squeezing roughly, pulling her into him all the while. Their hips met, and they both groaned, Sawyer instinctively grinding into him. Her hands tangled in his hair, undoing his careful styling, needing him closer. She had the strangest sensation that she wanted to devour him, or to crawl inside him, to consume and be consumed.

The door to their right opened, and they both went as still as statues.

Someone muttered a soft “ oops! ” before closing the door behind them.

Sawyer’s eyes traveled back to Mason’s. His hands were still full of her, her hands frozen in his hair, their chests heaving in tandem with their labored breathing. They remembered themselves in fragments, Mason loosening his grip on her, her dress that he’d been gradually working up falling back to the ground in a whisper of fabric. She smoothed back his hair, but once freed, the curls didn’t want to lie back in quite the same way.

“Oops,” Sawyer breathed innocently.

Mason grinned, cupping her face between his hands and bringing her back to him in a crushing closed-mouth kiss. “You wanna get out of here?” he murmured against her lips.

“Is that an option?” She rolled her hips against him, eliciting a hiss of pleasure from him.

He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, her brow, the crown of her head, as if needing to gradually pull away, like doing it all at once would be too much. She could relate. “Yes.”

A loud grumbling cut through the quiet, and Sawyer realized it was her stomach. A laugh burst out of them both.

“We did skip dinner,” Mason said reasonably.

Sawyer snorted. “Speak for yourself. I made that charcuterie table my bitch while you were off brownnosing.”

“Charcuterie is dinner foreplay,” Mason said dismissively. Intertwining their fingers, he brought her hand to his lips. “May I take you to dinner, Sawyer Jo?”

She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she hated her middle name, especially not when it sounded so sweet when he said it, the exact opposite of the way she was used to hearing it.

“If this relationship is going to work, you should know that I consider anything after nine p.m. too late for dinner. Late nights belong to the breakfast gods.”

Mason nodded seriously, and Sawyer wondered if she’d ever be able to date a nonactor after this. The way Mason committed to her bits so readily, not only keeping pace with her nonsense, but reveling in it—she was growing accustomed to it all too fast.

Easing his phone from inside his coat pocket, Mason flashed her the time. Ten fifteen. He grinned broadly. “Waffles,” Mason moaned.

“And here I thought only I could get you to make those noises.”

He grinned, kissing her hand once more. Fingers intertwined, they slipped out of the room, trying very hard not to look like two kids who’d been caught making out beneath the bleachers. Between Mason’s mussed hair and the grin Sawyer couldn’t seem to wipe from her face, she didn’t think they were very convincing.

Mason never dropped her hand, keeping her close to him as they skirted the room, promising to catch up with people later. Judging by everyone’s level of inebriation, they wouldn’t remember that they never came back.

When Mason got snagged by a sweet older woman he couldn’t say no to, he guided her behind him, pressing something into her hand. Glancing down, she saw their coat check ticket and a folded bill. She slipped away before the darling woman could notice her, tucking herself into the alcove beside the coat check and praying neither Bex, Kara, nor Davi would spot her while she tried to facilitate their escape.

Mason found her a few minutes later, but there was something off about his posture. She handed him his coat with a quizzical look, and he nodded down. Following his gaze, she grinned at the bottle of champagne he’d nicked from somewhere , concealing it beneath his suit jacket. They slipped out the front door, giggling like loons.

As they sank into the back of a black car, Sawyer curled into Mason’s side while he gave the driver the address for his favorite dive-y diner. His arms came around her, making quick work of the champagne bottle’s foil, cage, and cork before the driver reached the front. If the driver noticed them hastily guzzling the foam that poured out—Sawyer licking it off the bottle as Mason licked it off her —he said nothing.

Sawyer was lightheaded, and it had nothing to do with the bottle of bubbles they passed back and forth. Okay, maybe it was a little bit the champagne’s fault. But she knew it was mostly the guy beside her, who made her feel bubbly all on his own.

She traced the contours of his jaw with her eyes, watched his Adam’s apple bob as he took a swig from the bottle.

“I think you might be my favorite person, Mason Alexander.”