“Trix, we’re here.” Mason’s voice calls me from sleep. “Wake up.”
I blink open my eyes and jerk upright. “Shit, shit . . .” I wipe a light sheen of sweat from my forehead. “Sorry.”
He chuckles. “For what?”
“Huh?” I blink over at his grinning face as reality seeps to the surface. Just a dream. I peer out the truck window to see we’re idling in my driveway. “Whoa . . .” I sit up and stretch my stiff neck. “What time is it?”
“Almost four-thirty.” He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry I kept you out so late.”
“No, it’s fine.” I notice the sun hasn’t begun to peek up over the mountains, which means I’ll still get a decent nap before I have to be at work. A breath crawls up my throat, and I cover my mouth to avoid a full, gaping, ugly, tired yawn. “Man, I crashed on the way home.”
“Yeah, you did. Must’ve been all that jerky.”
My cheeks heat, knowing it wasn’t all the junk food we ate that made me tired; it was the hot and heavy make-out session and the equivalent of an emotional marathon conversation that followed. Which would also explain the dream.
A tiny tilt of his perfect lips and the memory of him sliding them down my neck send a shiver up my spine. This guy is so sweet and innocent on the outside but sexy in a way that betrays his shining surfer-boy look. And he’s a wonderful listener. At times, when I was talking about Lana, I could feel his anger, as if he felt the pain of my words. He’s the kind of guy a girl could get used to.
A girl. But not this girl.
And nothing reminds me of that more than my dream. I’m almost glad I fell asleep on the way home. Lord knows I needed a reminder. I’m living my life for Lana, and until I find her killer, there’s no room for anything else.
But God . . . Mason. No, I can’t.
“Thanks for tonight.” I grab the door handle, and a quick flash of confusion crosses his expression.
“Hold on.” He grabs his door handle to get out.
“Mason, you don’t have to walk me up.” Please, don’t come to my door. It’ll just make things harder.
As if he didn’t hear me, he moves from the truck, rounds the hood, and ends up at my door. Before I can beat him to it, he opens it for me. I snag my clutch, scoop up my shoes, and I slide out.
“What kind of a man doesn’t walk a woman to her door?” The insinuation behind his question drops my gaze to the concrete driveway.
Every man I’ve ever been with.
I tuck my hands under my arms in eighty-five degree weather, feigning cold to avoid him holding one of them. We proceed to the front door in silence, and I busy myself with my keys to keep from looking at him and getting sucked into those gentle blue eyes. “Thanks again. Oh!” I start to shrug off his flannel shirt.
“Don’t worry about it.” He grabs the lapels and pulls the shirt back up over my shoulders, his thick fists meeting in the middle of my chest. “Hold on to it for me.”
“Is this like an earring thing?” I tilt my head, trying to ignore the heat of his knuckles that threatens to rest against my cleavage. Just one deep breath and—no . . . I shake my head.
“An earring thing?” He drops his hands, and I’m immediately grateful as I am equally bereft.
“Nothing. Forget it.” I slide the key into the door, hoping to make a quick getaway, because damn if this man isn’t magnetic or something.
He chuckles and grips my elbow gently. “Oh, come on. Now I’ll be lying in bed all night”—the heat of his chest warms my back, and I fight the urge to moan and sink into his hold—“thinking about you.”
Oh no, no, no, no . . . That voice is deep and heavy with something I’m going to refuse to name.
“. . . and wondering what an ‘earring thing’ is.”
I turn toward him, my back against the door. Ugh . . . big mistake. He’s so close. I attach my gaze to his chin, hoping it’s a safe place to land, or at least safer than his lips or his eyes. Or that hair, all that blond hair. Gah!
“It’s what girls do when they want a repeat. They leave something behind, usually of value, so they have