Page 21 of Hidden Resolution

“No, I’m sick of you ordering me around,” she snapped. “I was right the first day. You’re an asshole.”

He released her, feeling thoroughly insulted. Other than the cab incident, he’d been there for her in every way, seeing to her safety and comfort.

“I’m an asshole? I find you kissing up to a fucking wannabe surfer dude—less than two hours after I leave you, I might add—and I’m the asshole. That’s rich.”

“I wasn’t kissing up to anyone. I was having a good time. Your twisted mind always makes everything worse than it is,” she retorted.

“Really?” he scoffed. He held up his hand, ticking off his points. “So no one broke into your room? You weren’t doing shots and dancing all over a stranger? You’re really here on the island alone, even though I just saw your twin at the bar?”

She halted in the process of pushing past him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Stop pretending,” he snapped, over the runaround. The entire situation reeked, and he was thrust back into the head games Melanie loved. “I want to know what’s going on, Shonda.Why did you pick me? Do I have patsy tattooed on my fucking forehead?”

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

She shoved against his chest and stormed off.

Perhaps hewascrazy. The intelligent thing would be to walk away, but he couldn’t leave without answers. He caught up and cut in front of her.

“I want the truth.” Inhaling deeply, Mason met her furious glare. In a voice far calmer than he was feeling, he asked, “Are you playing me?”

“Would you believe me if I said I wasn’t?”

She looked sincere. Sounded sincere. Added to both was how much he wanted to believe her. God, he was a gullible fool.

Hauling her close, he buried his nose in her silky hair.

“If you’re in trouble, you can tell me, love. I’ll help you,” he promised.

“Mason.” She drew back and cradled his face in her palms. “Look at me. Really look at me.”

He did, but she must’ve seen the smidgeon of lingering distrust. Her bright, searching eyes dulled, and her expression hardened.

“I see. Good night, Mason.” Her tone dripped with ice, freezing him out, and it wasn’t a place he wanted to be.

“Shonda—”

“I said good night.” She ruined her frosty dismissal with a hiccup.

Shoulders back and head held high, she left him, weaving slightly from the alcohol she’d consumed. And because his desire was to hold her, to hold tight to whatever was building between them, he let her go. Yes, he was a contrary bastard, but in past relationships, clinging had cost him dearly.

He was almost one hundred percent certain she spoke the truth, yet a tiny kernel of doubt held him in place.

But only for a heartbeat.

With a savage curse, he jogged to catch up.

“Hold up!” he called.

“Why won’t you just go away?” she cried. And perhaps there was a gleam of tears in those solemn eyes to match her frustration.

“I will once I see you safely to your room,” he assured her.

He’d have said it wasn’t possible for her to stick her nose up so far, and he’d have been wrong. If the hotel sprinkler activated, she’d drown.

“I don’t need you,” she told him, haughty and proud.

Suddenly, it registered: she was too buzzed to lie. For fuck’s sake, sometimes his idiocy was award-winning.