Page 6 of Hidden Resolution (Stonebrooke #2)

S honda was done.

Finito.

Kaput.

Gonzo.

And so fucking over Mason Sharp’s moody, mysterious, emotionally stunted man-child behavior.

Sure, she understood he had intimacy issues.

His boundaries loomed higher and were tougher to climb than Everest in winter.

But leaping out of a cab like it was about to explode, all because the driver had asked if they were on their honeymoon?

Pfft. Yeah, next-level jackassery.

She fumed the whole ride back to her room. Once inside, she resisted the urge to hurl things—like maybe one of those overpriced hotel vases serving no purpose except as tacky tropical décor. Instead, she opted for a long, scalding shower and promised herself she was not going to cry. Ever.

No, she wasn’t that invested.

Or not yet, anyway.

This was her vacation, too. And if Mason wanted to sulk in some dingy island bar and unravel over an innocent inquiry, it was his prerogative.

But she was done tiptoeing around his hair- trigger emotions.

Let the pansy-ass mope! She had better things to do than wait around on a guy who couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss her cross-eyed or ghost her.

She slipped into her cutest sundress. A bold floral print, low neckline, with a body-hugging fit screaming, “I may be alone, but about to be far from lonely.”

After a swipe of gloss and the slightest spritz of perfume, she headed out the door.

“Mason, you fuckwit! You don’t know what you’re missing,” she muttered, giving him the mental bird.

The steel drums hit her ears long before she stepped onto the tiki bar’s patio.

They were playing Day-O , and her hips knew exactly what to do.

She swayed with the rhythm, loose and free, letting the music work out the tension in her shoulders.

She flagged a waitress and ordered a Mai Tai.

Claiming a seat in the shade, she let the music settle her.

This lively but relaxed atmosphere was what vacation was all about, not moody glances and emotionally unavailable gym owners.

A flash of movement caught her attention, and she did a double-take.

From the back, the guy looked like her cousin.

Same posture, same gait. But when she shifted for a better look, he was already vanishing into the crowd.

But Billy hadn’t mentioned getting away, and they were close enough to discuss his plans.

Must be a vacation mirage. The chill in her bones was harder to shake, though.

The waitress, a cheeky little thing with a fierce gleam, a wicked smile, and an I’ve-seen-some-shit attitude, delivered her drink along with a rundown of the bar’s male clientele, complete with warnings about who was trolling for a quick hookup and who might be worth five minutes of her time.

The opening notes of Shake Senora blasted through the speakers, and a golden-haired Adonis strode up. The guy looked like he’d stepped off the page of a cologne ad. With no hello and zero hesitation, he slipped his hand in hers and laughingly tugged her to the floor.

“No, I don’t?—”

He waved aside her protest as they joined his group of friends.

Wary, Shonda scanned for her waitress and received the thumbs-up telling her to go with it.

And why the hell not? At the very least, it was a story Erica would appreciate.

Within a minute, the dance floor was packed.

Bodies moved in sync, and laughter filled the air.

Spinning and swaying, she found herself swept up in the collective energy, feeling the music and the carefree joy of it all.

Three songs later, winded from laughing, she wove her way back to her table only to be drawn into a tequila-shot lineup. Because, of course, the band was playing Tequila , and those were the rules.

Lick. Shoot. Suck.

Repeat.

And repeat again.

Annoying thoughts of Mason evaporated in a haze of lime and salt. Amid endless laughter and spilled booze, Shonda felt at home with her new friends. Before long, they were shouting out songs to be played, dancing, and singing at the top of their lungs.

For the first time in days, she let herself be free. No worrying about who was going to flake or freak out or drop her mid-sentence. Her brain was buzzing, but she didn’t want to stop. It felt too good to let her hair down, both literally and figuratively, and consume questionable amounts of rum.

The vibe mellowed as the tempo changed to a slower, sultry tune. Her nameless blond partner considered it his cue to close in, placing his hands on her hips, intent clear in his hot eyes.

Another man’s hands brought reality rushing back.

She wasn’t ready for another casual fling, not this soon.

Giving him a regretful head shake, she spun to leave and walked right into a wall of muscle. Both hands flew up, bracing against a familiar chest.

Oh no!

She knew those muscles. Her brain had already filed the topography, but her fingers didn’t get the memo. They drifted lower, exploring the ridges of his abs beneath his shirt.

Yep. Definitely Mason Sharp!

“Having a good time, love?” he asked, amusement rich in his tone.

“The best!” she gushed. “You should’ve been here. We did tequila shots.”

She waved toward the crowded madness at the bar.

“I arrived as you were downing your second shot.”

“You did?” Shonda couldn’t recall seeing him, but then again, she hadn’t been searching either.

“Hey, man. I saw her first.” Her blond friend interrupted them with a scowl.

Neither she nor Mason appreciated his complaint.

“Fuck off.” Mason’s voice left no room for argument.

“Why don’t you ask the lady who she wants to be with?” her ex-dance partner challenged, clearly a few drinks past smart.

“Yes, why don’t we?” Mason said silkily, his gaze locked on Shonda. Challenge glinted in his eyes, compelling enough to make her shiver.

There was only one true answer.

“You, Mason,” she replied. “I choose you.”

His smile was instantaneous, wide, gloating, and downright indecent.

“Good luck, pal,” he called over his shoulder, wrapping his arms around her.

They swayed to the rhythm as the sun dipped low, casting a golden light on everything and creating a romantic haze. The atmosphere was pure magic, as was his embrace.

Shonda refused to worry about tomorrow or his earlier behavior. All that mattered was savoring the moment.

Mason claimed her mouth, kissing her again and again in his sensual, mind-drugging way. Unhurried and dangerously seductive, punctuated with teasing little nips. Every brush of his lips whispered promises she shouldn’t believe.

The beat increased with the next song, and Mason spun her out and reeled her back in, making her giggle. Using skills straight out of Dancing With the Stars, he twirled her across the patio, right back to her original table, and drew out her chair with a dramatic flourish.

“Don’t pick up any more men while I’m gone,” he said in a low warning growl.

“I didn’t pick him up. He picked me up.”

Her retort earned her a look. The thundercloud formed.

Shit!

“What I meant was… nobody picked anybody up. We were only having fun.”

His mouth firmed, and their earlier romantic vibe vanished. Again.

“Stay.” He pointed at the table and strode off toward the bar.

“I’m not a dog,” she called after his retreating back.

Who the hell did he think he was? Leaving with no explanation, chasing off her dancing partner like an aggressive mongrel, and issuing commands?

None of it sat well, and the anger she’d stuffed down resurfaced in a rush. She grabbed her purse, spun on her heel, and stormed out the side door.

Mason wasn’t sure what demon had possessed him earlier.

He was fairly certain it had more to do with how he was starting to feel about Shonda and absolutely nothing to do with the driver’s question.

The realization that he actually liked her was disconcerting.

Added to his insatiable need for her, well, the old hemmed-in feeling had grabbed hold.

He’d needed space to get his head back on straight and break the spell she’d cast on him.

When he’d arrived back at her hotel room to apologize and she hadn’t answered, he assumed she was either pouting or had set out for the afternoon to find entertainment on her own. Because the latter sounded more plausible, he wandered down to the tiki bar.

He’d lingered in the shadows, sipping a scotch, content to watch her enjoy herself. The face she’d made after each tequila shot was side-splitting funny. When the mood shifted, causing couples to pair up, Surfer Boy’s intention became clear. With no other recourse, Mason had stepped in.

A sick sort of relief flooded Mason the instant Shonda chose him. After his disappearing act, he’d been doubtful of the outcome. Had she been a little less intoxicated, he doubted he’d have stood a chance.

As he waited to settle her tab, he observed the people two rows deep, all vying for the bartender’s attention. His gaze lit on a blonde opposite him, leaning over the counter to get a better look at the main room.

Shonda?

How the hell had she reached the bar before him?

The woman cast a glance toward the table where they’d been seated, and then spoke to a man on her right. Gold glinted against her neck, and Mason frowned at the wrongness.

Shonda was wearing dangling silver necklaces.

He glanced back toward their table in time to see her loop her purse strap over her neck.

Stunned, he stared at her retreating back. By the time he recovered his wits, the woman on the other side of the room was gone and Shonda was sailing out the door.

Frustrated at the bartender’s slowness, he tapped out his temper on the bar. He’d never moved so fast in his life once the bill was settled. As he shoved his way through the thick wall of bodies to give chase, his mind churned with all the possibilities of Shonda’s doppelg?nger.