MASON SET LAYLA ATthe table. Harper sounded slightly off, but he couldn’t quite figure out why. His mind was so caught up in their little missed moment that he was struggling to think of anything else. He didn’t want to give up Layla, but man...he wanted to kiss Harper.
This was exactly the conundrum he’d been trying to tell Crew about when they’d been talking yesterday. Crew seemed to think Harper should simply be given a choice, but Mason was torn. Yes, he was falling for Harper, and despite the fact that they were dating, he really didn’t feel like it had been fair of him to ask her in the first place.
All he could do was hope Harper knew what she was getting into. She had been such an angel with Layla, he had to believe that she understood why he waited instead of simply kissing her whenever he wanted to.
“What can I help with?” Mason asked, straightening and stretching his back.
“Do you want to grab some salsa and sour cream out of the fridge?” Harper called over her shoulder. “Or do you have some other topping in mind?”
“Those work for me.” He dug through the shelves until he found what he wanted and glanced back to see Layla playing with the napkin holder. “Crud.” Napkins were flying everywhere and he ran over to stop her.
Harper laughed. “Let her go. They’re just paper and she’s happy.”
Mason scratched his beard. “You sure? It’s gonna be a mess.”
“I’m sure.” Harper was still laughing under her breath, so Mason decided to follow her advice.
“You’re awfully chill about messes and stuff,” he said, coming back into the kitchen.
Harper smiled. “Art is messy,” she said. “It’s a part of life.”
Mason shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“You’re a neatnik, aren’t you?”
He scrunched up one side of his face. “Maybe.” He held up a finger. “Or maybe was is the better term. But being neat while I was a single guy living alone was easy. Now it doesn’t matter how much I clean, Layla can mess it up within seconds.”
Harper nodded. “Imagine when you’re married and have multiple kids. Those poor stay at home moms.”
“Or dads,” Mason muttered. He couldn’t seem to stop his brain from taking her sentence a little further. As in...imagine if he and Harper got married and had more children...
His neck heated and he cleared his throat. That future didn’t sound too bad...but he and Harper weren’t even close to that deep of a relationship yet. He’d barely managed to spend more than an hour with her at any given point in time.
He looked over to see Layla still happy as a clam with her shredded napkins, and then scooted next to Harper. “Need any help?” he whispered. He could smell her shampoo and almost bent down for a deeper sniff.
Yeah...that’s not creepy at all.
Harper sent him a flirty smile. “Are you saying I don’t know how to make quesadillas?”
Mason opened his eyes wide and shook his head. “Nope. I’d never say such a thing.”
Harper laughed just like he hoped. “Alright, hot shot. If you can do better, be my guest.” Harper stepped back, handing him the spatula. “Don’t tell me you can flip them like you do a pancake.”
Mason shook his head. “Not a chance. I’d probably throw hot cheese everywhere.”
Harper wiped her forehead dramatically. “Thank goodness. I’ve been shown up in the kitchen enough for one lifetime.”
Mason chuckled and turned the tortillas. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
Harper pursed her lips. “Hm...something you don’t know...” She tilted her head. “I hate the color black.”
Mason paused. “Really? Don’t you use it in your paintings?”
Harper nodded. “Of course. But it’s my least favorite color.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it’s the absence of every other color,” Harper explained. “I don’t like how too much black makes things feel heavy or takes away from the bright happiness of something like, say, yellow. A little black can help the yellow pop, but too much causes the yellow to look sickly and the entire painting suddenly drags.”
Mason moved the quesadilla to a plate. “Wow...I didn’t realize painting was so philosophical. There are probably some metaphors for life in what you just said.”
Harper grinned. “Even a blind squirrel gets an acorn now and again.”
Mason shook his head with a smile and the next few minutes were quiet while they finished cooking and setting up lunch.
Harper cut the first, and now cooled, quesadilla into small pieces and took the plate to Layla before coming back. “Looks like that’s about it,” she said. “We should be covered.”
Mason slipped the last one out of the hot pan, set it aside and turned off the stove. “Great. I’m starving.”
Harper punched his arm. “You’re always starving.”
No man was strong enough to let that line go. He shifted and caged her in against the counter with his arms on either side. “Maybe my appetite is for more than just cheese and tortillas.”
Her blue eyes sparkled with joy and it only urged him on. “Oh?” Harper asked innocently. “What else could you possibly be hungry for?”
Mason leaned down until he was hovering just above her mouth. “You,” he said before giving her a quick peck. That was all it took. That one small second was enough to remind Mason of exactly what he’d been missing the past couple of days.
Harper must have felt similarly because they’d barely pulled apart before both of them reached for each other.
Mason couldn’t get his arms tight enough around her. He had one hand in her air and one wrapped around her back and still couldn’t get her close enough. When her hands went to his own hair, his knees shook and he worried he would take them both to the floor.
All his worries and concerns fled. He had Harper in his arms. His angel was right where she belonged and that meant the world was right again. The anxiety he’d been trying to drive out by chopping wood fled and he knew that no matter what life threw at him, he could handle it as long as Harper was by his side.
A scream tore through the air, followed by a thud, then silence, and Mason jumped away from Harper so fast that she almost fell over.
“Layla,” he breathed. Turning, he sprinted around the countertop to find Layla on the floor with a pool of blood around her head.
The little girl’s face was red and her mouth open, but sound didn’t emerge for three eternally long seconds. When her cry finally rent the air, it was as if the world came back into focus. Horrible, bloody, traumatic focus.
Mason grabbed his niece and cradled her in his arms. “Call nine-one-one,” he said hoarsely, not bothering to look up. “Call nine-one-one.”