Reckless (Mason Family 3)

Fuck.

“Do you need to go?” she asks as the water shuts off.

“Yeah. But I don’t want to.”

“It sounds important.”

I scoot my chair back and stand. “I feel like a total asshole leaving without eating after you spent all of this time—”

“It’s fine.” She smiles widely. “Honest. No worries. It’s fine.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent.” She looks at the table and then back at me. “I’ll … I’ll bag this up and then bring it over later. Or not, if you don’t want it.”

She nibbles on her bottom lip.

“I definitely want it,” I tell her. “Would you mind bringing it over later? Or I could come back and get it when I get back? My brother needs my help, which is very freaking weird, so I feel compelled to make sure he hasn’t lost his damn mind.”

She grins. “We’ll figure it out. Go. Make sure he’s okay.”

I get the feeling she wants me to leave. I’m not sure why. She doesn’t seem irritated or upset. Just ready for me to go.

“I’ll find you when I get back?” I offer.

“Sure.”

I head to the door. “Thanks for dinner. I owe you one.”

“No,” she says, opening the door for me. “This was because I owed you already.”

I grin. “Looks like it’s going to be a vicious cycle then.”

She twists her lips as I step onto the porch. “Have a good night, Boone.”

“You, too.”

I turn around to face her. Every fiber in my body screams at me to go back inside. It takes every bit of restraint I can gather to override the instinct.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked in case you need inside so you don’t have to go through the window,” I tease, hoping for one more smile.

She sticks her tongue out and closes the door instead.

I laugh to myself as I head across the lawn.

I wonder just how this is going to play out. While it might seem like Jaxi is a woman who will be in and out of my life in a matter of days, something in the bottom of my gut tells me it’s not going to be that easy.

Maybe it’s because I already feel like I know her. Elementally. Although it’s possibly also because I’m so intrigued by her. It’s as if she’s hiding, and strangely, I want to know her more. I want to put in the effort.

I need to get back here as soon as I can. This I know with certainty.

Eight

Jaxi

“And have a curve at your hip that’s hot as hell.”

My face feels hot and practically aches from the stupid, silly grin splitting my cheeks.

I’m sure he didn’t mean it—not like my brain wants to take it, anyway. He was probably being kind and gratuitous. I did make him dinner. It was probably just a reaction to that.

Still …

I feel like I’m walking on air as I make my way back to the kitchen. One glance around the room, and reality hits me like a lead balloon.

Crap!

I pick up my phone and find Libby’s number.

Me: Best place in town to get delicious (and cheap) spaghetti?

I wait for a long minute, but there’s no response.

“I bet they’re out doing some fun,” I say.

After sitting my phone next to the sink, I start cleaning up the mess. Boxes and paper towels go in the garbage, and spoons and pans go into the sink. I imagine Libby and Ted in San Diego, hanging out on the beach. Before I know it, I’m thinking about being in Hawaii … with Boone.

I imagine him in a pair of pineapple-print swim trunks. Warmth spreads through me as if the Hawaiian sun itself was shining from above.

He would be a lot of fun, I think.

I turn on the water and begin to rinse the tomato sauce off the cookware.

My brain wanders to what it would really be like to have a man like Boone—someone who’s calm and funny and seems to be inherently kind.

“If something seems to be too good to be true, it usually is,” I remind myself.

Just as I start to overthink everything, my phone buzzes.

Libby: Try Hillary’s House. Not sure if they’re open or not.

Libby: Didn’t you just make spaghetti?

I fire back my response.

Me: I did, and thank God Boone had to leave and didn’t eat any of it.

Libby: It was that bad?

Me: Yup. I took a bite and almost threw up.

I wait for her reply. It takes a couple of minutes for it to come.

Libby: I’ll call you later. Okay?

I furrow my brow. Weird.

Me: Sure.

Libby: xo

Me:

My stomach tightens as I re-read her text. It could be read so many different ways, and without context, it’s impossible to know how she meant it.

“You can’t overanalyze this,” I tell myself.

Instead, I blow out a breath and find the delivery app. The icon for Hillary’s House is beyond adorable with a pink and white double-h logo. In a few quick presses of a button, spaghetti and garlic bread are on their way to me.