He followed me to ask me about Lane, and when I told him the truth, he was jealous. I’ve never had a guy get jealous over me before. Even the men I’ve been intimate with have always understood what I am, what I do. It’s a mutual agreement of no attachments. I’ve never had an opportunity to have a real boyfriend, not that I’d want one. Since the beginning, I’ve been on a fact-finding mission. Relationships are a distraction I don’t need. Not that anyone’s offered me a commitment. I get naked for strangers for a living for crying out loud, not exactly the kind of woman a guy wants to settle down with.
I move through the kitchen, flicking on lights, and hear Mason’s heavy footfalls behind me. He doesn’t say anything, but I catch him checking out the place from the corner of my eye.
My place isn’t a dump; it’s a nice two-bedroom house in a subdivision where all the houses look the same. My furniture isn’t anything to brag about, but it’s comfortable and serves its purpose. But something about having him in my home makes me wish I had things he’d be impressed by.
We move through to the living room, and I click on a lamp at the side table. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
He doesn’t sit, but meanders to the back sliding glass door and parts the vertical blinds to peek outside.
I head to my bedroom and pull open a drawer at the bottom of my dresser. Tucked in the back, beneath my everyday clothes, is a stack of pictures, and I grab it to sort through them until I find the right one.
A questioning voice in my head asks why I’m exposing this part of my life to a guy I hardly know. I’ve had plenty of guys in my home and in my bed, and I’d never dream of opening myself up to them like this. But something about Mason feels . . . different.
When I saw him with the kids at the Youth Center, he seemed genuinely invested. Then came the night at the club, our kiss, and his brief rage of jealousy about me having to go back to work. No one has ever expressed that for me before. And as much as it pissed me off, it flattered me. That he would think I’m special enough to keep hidden from the pervings of other men was sweet, even if his actions right after were just as infuriating.
I find the photo I’m searching for, shove the rest back into the drawer, and head out to the living room.
“You live here alone?” He’s studying a row of DVDs in my entertainment center.
“No, after Gia left, I found a roommate through a girl I work with.” I plop down on the couch, lean on the armrest, and tuck my feet up under me. “She’s a nine-to-fiver, has a serious boyfriend. I rarely see her.”
He holds up a DVD. “You watch cartoons?”
I squint to read the title. “It’s not a cartoon; it’s Disney.”
“Still a cartoon,” he mumbles.
“Animated movie.” He wouldn’t understand what something like Disney means to a young Russian orphan, how Svetlana and I dreamed of becoming the princesses we’d seen in those movies, swept off our feet and rescued by a handsome prince. What a joke.
He studies the cover with confusion etched on his face and tucks it back into its spot. “Strangest stripper I’ve ever known.”
I hold up a finger. “Exotic dancer.”
He scrunches up his face adorably. “There a difference?”
“I think so, and if I’m the strangest one you’ve known, can I assume you’ve known a few?”
“No.” He moves toward me and drops down on the couch, not putting too much distance between us but enough that we’re not touching. He nods to the photo in my hand. “What’s that?”
A sudden unease washes over me. Is this a mistake? Too late now. What am I going to do? Shove the damn thing down my shirt and run away?
I thrust the photo in front of him before I can change my mind. He takes it, tilts it toward the light, and studies it before turning to me. “Are these kids from the Youth Center?”
I lean over, hit for a second by the scent of his cologne and warmth of his leg now against mine. “No, um”—I point to the scrawny girl in the middle, eighteen years old, flat-chested and knobby-kneed with long mousy-blond hair—“that’s me.”