Crashed (Mason Brothers 2)

It had been a stroke of genius, really. I’d noticed a bakery in the plaza next to one of the restaurants where I’d applied. I had the feeling that to impress Andrew Mason, I’d have to do something unexpected. A Hi cake seemed like just the thing.

But I stood on the porch in dead silence, holding the cake toward the camera over the door and waving. And nothing happened.

“Hey,” I said out loud in case he could hear me. “I’m your new neighbor. Come on.” I pointed. “Cake here.”

Still nothing.

He was home; I knew he was home, because I’d seen a car come and go, an Asian guy in scrubs come to the front door and get let in. Andrew Mason was here, but he was ignoring me.

“Hey,” I said again as sweat rolled down my back. Jesus, it was hot. I thought California was hot. Why didn’t anyone warn me that Michigan was fucking boiling?

I sighed as sweat rolled down my temples in the silence. Why was I doing this? Why was I going to so much trouble? It wasn’t because I thought that poor, sad Andrew Mason needed a friend. It wasn’t because I was a naturally kind person. I couldn’t have said why I was doing it, in fact. And so far, I wasn’t getting anywhere.

And for another reason I couldn’t explain, that didn’t discourage me. It only made me more determined to get him to answer the goddamn door.

I was wondering what to do—the cake was about to start melting—when my phone pinged in my pocket. An incoming text. I should probably ignore it.

My phone pinged again.

Sighing in annoyance, I balanced the cake on one hand and fished out my phone with the other. Swiped it on. Saw two texts from a number I didn’t recognize.

Go away.

I mean it.

I felt my jaw drop. Surprise, first, and then outrage. What the fuck? I immediately hit the button to dial the unknown number.

On the other end, the phone rang once and then a masculine voice said, “Can’t you read?”

“Andrew Mason?” I said.

“No, it’s Chris Evans. Who the fuck do you think is telling you to go away?”

“How… How the hell did you get my phone number?”

“You have no idea how much personal information the average cell phone transmits. It’s all there. It’s only a matter of accessing it.”

God, what a voice. Deep, even, perfectly calm. And all those big words. I felt a shiver despite my outrage. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had given me a shiver.

“So what else do you know about me?” I asked him.

“Your name is Tessa Hartigan, this is your phone number, you have an L.A. address, you’re staying in the house across the street,” Andrew said. “And you’re currently standing on my front porch with a cake that says Hi on it for reasons I have yet to understand.”

“I’m being neighborly!” I said, exasperated.

“No, you’re treating me as an object of pity. That’s an entirely different thing.”

“You’re not an object of pity!” I was shouting now, which I was vaguely aware of, though I didn’t really care. “You’re my new neighbor, and I’m saying hello! It’s what normal people do!”

“How many of your other neighbors did you bring a cake to?”

I was silent, my mouth still open in outrage.

“I thought so,” Andrew said. “You can go now. I’m not letting you in.”

“Jesus, are you this hard on everyone you meet?” I said, my voice strangled because I was so pissed off.

“Absolutely,” he replied. “My therapist tells me it’s a defense mechanism.