Chapter Twenty-Six

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

GRAY SWEATPANTS – You know the ones.

M ason woke her up with lazy kisses. “Good morning,” he breathed into her hair.

“Good morning,” she murmured sleepily back.

She’d slept naked. She never slept naked, hating the way her skin stuck to itself. However, she didn’t hate the feeling of Mason behind her, wrapped around her. She stretched like a cat in sunshine, relishing the tightness of her muscles after what they’d done in the middle of the night. The sun was fully risen now, a peek of it visible around the edges of Mason’s blackout curtains.

“What time is it?”

Mason reached blindly for his phone, nearly knocking it off the bedside table and catching it at the last minute.

“Ten,” he said. She could see the moment he reached the same conclusion she did.

“Brunch,” they said in unison.

Mason jumped out of bed before turning back and scooping her up, carrying them both into the shower. At the first spray of cold water, they both screamed. Passing soap and shampoo back and forth, they washed the evidence of last night from their bodies, an easy rhythm like they’d done this a million times.

It wasn’t until she got out of the shower that she realized her dilemma. She had no clothes. She loved last night’s dress, but there was no way she was putting it back on. It was too early to mess with that much dress. The boning of the corset meant she hadn’t worn a bra, so all she had was last night’s underwear, and she wasn’t putting those back on either.

Sensing her mental dilemma, Mason rifled through his dresser, tossing her a T-shirt and sweatpants. She tugged them on, tightening the drawstring of the pants and fantasizing about a bed-headed Mason wearing them slung low over his hips.

“What’re you thinking about over there?” he said with a crooked grin, waiting until she made eye contact to slowly zip up his jeans.

“How good you would look in these sweatpants.” Crossing over to him, she slid her hands into his back pockets.

He grinned down at her, resting his forehead against hers. “We’re already late,” he reminded her, brushing his lips across hers. “Should we be later?”

With a groan, she pulled back. “No. We can make up for it later.” She didn’t miss the way his eyes lit up at the word later .

The one thing she couldn’t borrow from Mason was shoes, so she resigned herself to strapping her heels on, because there was no way she was going barefoot down the streets of Chicago. She rolled the legs of the sweatpants up so they wouldn’t drag on the ground, and struck a pose.

Gold heels. Gray sweatpants. Black T-shirt.

Mason’s dark eyes swept over her from head to toe, once, twice. “You are the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen,” he said around a laugh.

They made it back to her place in record time, the roads mercifully empty as most of Chicago had yet to poke their heads out.

we’re gonna be late , she texted Lily on the way, to which Lily replied, WE?! Sawyer ignored that, running up to her apartment and changing as quickly as her throbbing head would allow. Hurrying and hangovers did not go well together. Mason, by comparison, seemed completely fine.

“I was too busy schmoozing to raid the open bar,” he explained when she pointed out how not hungover he was for hangover brunch.

Sawyer groaned good-naturedly as they hopped off the L train and walked the remaining distance to Lily and Beau’s. On the whole, she didn’t feel terrible, beyond a slightly pulsing headache that she hoped would abate after a carb-loaded breakfast and some hair of the dog.

Lily and Beau’s apartment was only a quick train ride from her apartment, in an up-and-coming artsy neighborhood that Sawyer would love to live in, but she wasn’t willing to take on a roommate to afford the rent. Thankfully, Lily and Beau were always happy to host her, and she was well-acquainted with being their third wheel to bar openings and Shakespeare in the Parks.

Sawyer froze with her hand over the door, turning to Mason. “I know you’ve met Lily, but I feel like I should warn you that her and Beau are, like… a lot . In a good way, like being cuddled to death by a litter of very hyper puppies.”

Mason grinned. “You said Beau is in tech, right?”

Sawyer laughed at herself. “Er, like he manages the tech crew at Steppenwolf.”

Mason’s brows rose slightly, impressed, before leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Are you really forewarning me about meeting your actor friends?”

Sawyer blinked at him. “Right. I forgot.”

He stared down at her, bemused, before rapping on the door with his fist.

If she hadn’t already warned him, the answering cheers from the other side of the door would have sufficed.

“And don’t eat the red jam in the fridge,” she cautioned. “It’s not jam.”

Mason fixed her with a quizzical look. “What is it?”

“Stage blood.”

Mason choked on a laugh. “Do you know this from personal experience, or—?”

Thankfully, Beau opened the door, sparing her from having to come clean about the toast incident. Lily bounded out, dragging Sawyer into a hug. For such a string bean of a person, she gave fierce hugs. There was an attempt to temper her excitement for Mason’s benefit, holding her hand out for a handshake—then enveloping him in a hug anyway. Beau hugged Sawyer before appropriately greeting Mason, who was still wearing a slightly baffled expression.

Lily and Beau ushered them inside, and Sawyer watched Mason take in the space. Their walls were decorated with Lily’s watercolor art and stage props Beau called “mementos” that were actually “pilfered.” None of it went together, but it provided Sawyer some solace that someone’s apartment was even more eclectic than hers. On top of the mishmash of styles, they had black and gold New Year’s decorations and what appeared to be wedding decor to celebrate their anniversary.

If Mason found any of this odd, he didn’t show it. But it wasn’t his PR Face. He seemed genuinely enraptured by it all. Sawyer slid her hand into his and squeezed. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed by Lily, who gratefully didn’t comment on it beyond a widening of her eyes as she led them over to the makeshift bar.

“Mimosas?”

Sawyer groaned. “Please. No more bubbles. I can’t.”

Beau lit up. “Bloody Marys!”

Beau pulled a bottle of booze from beneath the bar and began constructing their drinks with obvious enthusiasm—though Beau rarely did anything in any other way.

As Beau twirled their pint glasses in seasoned salt, Mason listened attentively to Beau as he described the extensive research he’d done to perfect his Bloody Mary recipe.

“So,” Lily said from behind her half-empty mimosa, dragging Sawyer into the kitchen under the pretext of checking on the breakfast potatoes. “What happened between yesterday and now? Not that I thought your grand gesture wouldn’t be successful—obviously, the two of you are meant to be together. But I’d be lying if I didn’t expect not to hear about it for weeks, in true Sawyer fashion.”

Sawyer ignored the gibe. She told Lily everything. Maybe not immediately, but once she knew how she felt, she always told her. “It wasn’t a grand gesture,” she mumbled defensively.

Lily waved this away. “Listen, the faster you tell me, the faster we can save Mason from my wonderful husband’s Bloody Mary monologue.”

Sawyer smirked. Under her breath, she relayed an abbreviated version of events. Mason came over while she was getting ready—“Oh my God, it’s like you were both metaphorically running across the field into each other’s arms, only the field was a very dirty city!”—they both apologized, went to the party, ran into Kara, went out for waffles, had sex, and came to brunch.

“You spent the night?” Lily whispered. Her eyes were so wide with anticipation, Sawyer was growing concerned they might fall out and roll across the floor.

“It was late, and Ubers on New Year’s are ungodly expensive,” she said nonchalantly, hoping Lily would take the hint to not make it a big deal.

She did not. She barely stifled a squeal.

Beau poked his head into the kitchen, handing Sawyer her drink. It was at least 50 percent garnishes, as any self-respecting Bloody Mary should be.

They drifted over to the small living room while the potatoes finished cooking, Sawyer silently housing half a basket of pigs in a blanket while Lily and Beau downloaded them on their most recent projects. She hadn’t thought much of it before, but of course there was a lot of overlap between theater and film, and Beau was clearly thrilled to have a fresh audience. Mason listened intently and actually seemed to understand the technical stuff Beau did, and asked questions that Sawyer could only assume were insightful, judging by how Beau couldn’t stop nodding like a bobblehead. Their easy rapport gave Sawyer a weird doughy feeling in her stomach, and she didn’t think it was just from the pigs in a blanket.

She slid her hand into Mason’s once more, placing a quick kiss to his shoulder. She hadn’t realized how nervous she’d been about him meeting what were essentially her only friends.

Lily seemed to be feeling some type of way about her and Mason’s reconciliation. Sawyer caught her staring at their conjoined hands more than once, smiling like Mrs. Bennet about to marry off another daughter.

Sawyer wished she would stop. It made her feel like an animal in a zoo. She’d brought partners around before, though perhaps partner was too strong a word for what those relationships had been, given they had all been physical and temporary.

Was that what Mason was—her partner? It wasn’t just physical, and it didn’t feel temporary, but Mason’s future was in LA. Sawyer had fought too hard to get her life back on track to uproot it all for someone she hadn’t even been in a relationship with for twenty-four hours. Thinking about it made her palms sweat. Was there any version of this where the ending wasn’t a goddamn tragedy?

Sliding her hand from Mason’s, she wiped her hands off on her jeans. Without missing a beat, Mason pulled her legs across his lap, resting his hand on her knee. Lily jumped up as if to cheer like a baseball fan watching a home run, instead announcing she was going to check on the potatoes and dragging Beau with her to help set the table.

Mason squeezed her knee. “You alright?” he whispered, keeping his voice low enough so they couldn’t be overheard in the cozy apartment.

She nodded. “I think Lily’s going to give herself a hernia with all her barely restrained excitement about us reconciling.”

Mason grinned, ducking down to kiss her temple. “That makes two of us, but I wouldn’t call it a hernia, per se…”

Sawyer snorted. “Oh yeah?”

Shamelessly, his gaze roved over her, and she regretted not taking him up on his offer to be even later to brunch. She pressed her legs together to fight the growing ache there. The movement did not go unnoticed by Mason, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a crooked grin.

“We should rejoin them before we scandalize their couch.” She nuzzled his cheek before standing, pulling Mason up after her.

“So, how did you two meet?” Mason asked as they migrated over to the dining room table.

Lily lit up. “Well, we didn’t get stuck in an elevator together or anything adorable like that—” she began with a saccharine smile.

Sawyer took a pull from her Bloody Mary. This was going to be a long brunch. She could only pray that after this initial meeting, the novelty of Sawyer Dating Someone would wear off.

“Anyway,” Lily said, catching her breath after giving Mason an unabridged version of her and Beau’s relationship timeline. “We got married last New Year’s Eve, rented out a bunch of cabins an hour north. Kept it small and partied for three days straight. Highly recommend.”

Sawyer tensed. Lily had not just implied they were getting married not even twenty-four hours after they’d decided to try this whole… whatever they were doing.

“Sounds fun,” Mason said diplomatically.

She simultaneously wanted to kiss him and slither down her chair to the floor. She made a mental note to not leave Lily and Mason alone together. Between Lily’s big Mrs. Bennet energy and Mason’s romanticism, Sawyer and Mason’s entire life would be planned out less than a day after Sawyer finally managed to wrap her head around being in a relationship that was about more than just sex for the first time in years. She stabbed a potato morosely.

“It was fun,” Beau agreed with a pointed cough. “Sawyer, how’s the book coming along?”

Despite her mental turmoil, she smiled. “Not to jinx it, but pretty good.” Mason squeezed her knee under the table, and she grinned more broadly. Normally, she’d leave it at that, but she couldn’t help but gush, rambling about the subplots and character arcs and some of the Easter eggs she’d snuck in from her prior books, especially one from Why We’re Not Together that she hoped would survive edits.

“That one’s my favorite,” Beau said sweetly, and Sawyer felt a rush of affection for him. It was her favorite, too, even if finishing it had been the hardest thing she’d ever done, dragging herself through the edits after losing Sadie, the title of the book like a slap in the face every time. “I always thought it’d make a good movie.”

Sawyer focused on scooping eggs onto her fork, praying the conversation would move on effortlessly. Alas, today was not her day.

“Oooh, yes,” Lily cooed supportively. “What do you think, Mason? You know movies better than us.”

Sawyer’s head snapped to the side to gauge his reaction.

Mason tugged at the collar of his shirt, his gaze darting to her furtively. “Er, yeah, it would. But that’s kind of up to Sawyer.”

She couldn’t make sense of his tone, his PR Face suddenly in place. She didn’t miss the subtle fidgeting. Mason didn’t fidget.

“Would you?” Beau asked, genuinely curious.

She shoved down the vehement refusal that was a knee-jerk reaction at this point. It wasn’t Beau’s fault that Hollywood believed the only way to be happily ever after was for every aspect of your life to magically work out in the end, that the “small tweak” they’d made to the ending of her book was the vulnerable fragment of herself she’d given to her character, and that character now had closure, where Sawyer would always have an open wound. It was bullshit. Wounded characters deserved happily ever afters, too.

Once she was certain she wouldn’t unjustly bite Beau’s head off for his innocent question, she shook her head. But she didn’t look at Beau as she answered, opting instead to study Mason, to riddle out his sudden shift. “No. Not after Almost Lovers .”

“You don’t know it would be the same—”

“It’s her choice, Lily,” Beau reminded his wife gently as Sawyer glared down at her potatoes.

She loved Lily, truly, but she was supportive to a fault. The world’s best cheerleader when you needed one, and sometimes even when you didn’t want one. Like now.

“Anyone need another drink?” Beau said brightly, already pushing back from the table.

The conversation moved on, but Sawyer couldn’t stop analyzing the way Mason had clammed up. In all their chats about her film rights, he’d never given his opinion, but of course he had one, given his future job. If his reaction today said anything, they were on very different pages. No matter. It wasn’t an argument worth having, especially not in the middle of brunch. Chancing a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, she was relieved to see the PR Face was gone, he and Lily arguing amicably over the best types of potatoes.

Sawyer took a deep breath, pushing down the well of panic at Lily’s near suffocating joy for her, the inevitable disappointment her friend would feel when Mason moved to LA and this thing between them had to come to an end. She shoved it all down. One thing at a time. First, get through this brunch. Fall apart later. She could feel it coming like a storm, like someone had turned up the speed of the music, forcing her to dance along faster, like she’d been thrown seventeen new balls to juggle, faster, faster, don’t drop them or they’ll shatter, faster, faster.

“French fries,” she blurted out, her voice a little too loud, needing to drown out the flurry inside her head. “French fries are the best form of potato, hands down.”

“Agreed, but which type?” Mason countered.

“Skinny.”

The table erupted with cries of outrage (“Jojo!” “Waffle!” “Curly!”), and the remainder of brunch devolved into a battle for potato supremacy. At some point, Beau produced a piece of paper and made a bracket, and they made a pact to meet up every two weeks, a style of potato advancing each week until only the Chosen Spud remained.

Sawyer had so much fun brainstorming types of potatoes and which restaurants made them best that she almost forgot the way her legs were beginning to quake under the weight of keeping it all spinning. Almost didn’t notice that the bracket would take six months to finish, long after Mason was gone.