Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans Book 4) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,85

the tension in the air, to put her at ease. But he remained stubbornly mute. Go figure. And since she and silence had never been on friendly terms, she found herself saying, “And I know it might have sounded like I was propositioning you when I said I was determined to take a lover. But I wasn’t. Not that I don’t think you’d make a good one.” He started blinking rapidly. “I mean, come on.” She waved a hand in his general direction. “You’re, like, the very definition of man. So it stands to reason you’d be good at doing that quintessentially man thing.”

His eyes were bugging out of his head. Scared they might pop out and go rolling across the table, she hurriedly added, “But you don’t really like me. And the truth is, sometimes I’m not so sure I really like you. You’re rude and grouchy, and you never talk. I think you’ve said more words to me tonight than in the two and a half months I’ve known you. So even if I do look at you and think bow-chicka-wow-wow, I’m not sure—”

He started choking. She assumed it was on a slice of orange. Startled, she scooted around the bench seat and whacked him on the back.

“Fuckin’-A,” he wheezed. “You’re about to punch a hole through my spine.”

“Well, excuse me for trying to help.” She frowned at him.

“Stop talking.” He continued to wheeze. His eyes were watering.

“Sure, sure.” She nodded. “My pleasure.” She ground her teeth and picked up the discarded orange peel. Then, unable to stop herself, she said, “Look.” When he glared at her, his face a study in frustration, she rolled her eyes. “Just let me say my piece and then I’ll stop talking. I swear.”

There was a muscle twitching beneath his eye, and she was worried now that she might give him an aneurysm, but she just needed to get this last bit out.

“When I said I was ready to take a lover, I was talking in the general sense. Not about anyone in particular.” She firmed her chin. “And the reason I’m approaching it so pragmatically is because I’ve tried doing it the usual way, but it hasn’t worked out.”

She could have stopped there. But, as always, she figured, In for a penny, in for a pound. If she was going to open up her raincoat and show him the goods, she might as well stand there and let him take a good, long gander.

“See, I was a super-late bloomer in high school,” she explained, thinking back on Johnny Gallagher, the hottest boy in school, and the way he’d always ruffled her hair like she was his kid sister instead of someone he’d consider taking to the prom. Mason reminded her a little bit of Johnny. Same black hair. Similar blue eyes. Apparently she had a type. Who knew? Of course, right now she’d settle for a brown-eyed blond. Anyone who could get the job done.

“No boys were interested in flat-chested Alex Merriweather, I can assure you,” she said. “And then in college I was so focused on my studies that I really didn’t give much thought to guys or getting laid. And then there was grad school and research, and that’s when it started to occur to me that maybe I should really try to make this thing happen. But it was too late.”

Mason’s face was almost purple now, but she was certain she saw his left eyebrow quirk with interest. It was all the encouragement she needed.

“I mean, it’s fine to tell a guy you’re a virgin when you’re eighteen, right? They take it as a challenge, considering the average American loses their virginity at seventeen. Only twelve percent of twenty- to twenty-four-year-olds are still virgins.” Yes, she’d done the research. And like everything else she happened to read, the facts and figures had stuck in her head. “That stat drops to less than five percent for women between the ages of twenty-five and twenty-nine. Five percent!”

She realized she was rambling and reined herself in. “Which means that if I try telling a man I’m still a virgin at twenty-seven, he assumes I’m some sort of religious fanatic, frigid freak, or a woman itching to get hitched. For the record”—she skewered him with a look when he seemed like he might have something to say to that—“I’m none of those.”

There. Done. Now, say something!

But he pulled a classic Mason and just continued to sit there, staring at her as if