Page 37 of Love at Full Tilt

Mason must notice me grimace because he says, “I’m going to find us something dry to put on.

” My heart skips at his words, though I’m not sure why.

He let me borrow his sweatshirt in the car, yet this somehow feels more…

intense. Like a new level in whatever this is between us.

“Can you handle this circus?” he asks with a grin.

“Listen, dog chaos is the best chaos.”

Waffles has rolled over on his back and cries loudly as he waits for belly rubs. Toast is licking my right ear.

A soft expression passes over Mason’s face, and my heart squeezes.

For the hundredth time, I wish I could freeze this moment and collect it, save it like a picture in a photo album.

Or better yet, step right into it. I want to be a superhero whose power is to return to their memories whenever they wish.

His gaze clings to me as he tucks a loose hair behind my ear, his thumb lingering against my neck. My skin catches fire when he raises that hand absentmindedly to his mouth on his way out of the room.

By the time he returns, I’m sitting on the floor with both dogs in my lap. Toast is snoring. Waffles’s cries have been downgraded to an occasional sigh. His ears perk up at the sound of Mason’s footsteps, but he doesn’t move.

Mason lays a pair of mesh shorts and a T-shirt on the back of one of the stools at the breakfast bar and gestures toward the opposite hallway. “Bathroom’s down there if you can extricate yourself from those two and want to change.”

“Nope. I’m sorry, I live here now.”

“I’ll get you some blankets.”

“And maybe a fridge? I’ll need sustenance to keep up these pats.” As if to remind me of this, Waffles lets out a loud whine.

Mason rounds the kitchen counter and pulls a bag of treats from a cabinet. The moment he gives it a shake, Toast and Waffles take off in his direction.

I climb to my feet. “Traitors,” I mutter.

Watching me gather up the clothes he left out, he directs me one more time toward the bathroom. “My room’s down the other hall. On the left. Come find me when you’re done?” His voice snags at the end, like he’s afraid I’ll get the wrong idea.

I don’t. Or maybe I do, but I don’t think it’s wrong. That summons a blush to my cheeks as I squeeze his hand across the breakfast bar.

“So you can see all my books,” he adds hastily.

“Be there in a minute.”

Waffles trots at my heels. When I close the bathroom door, there’s a bump as he flops down outside. A moment later, a tiny brown paw slides under the gap. Apparently, I have a guard.

It’s been a good half an hour at this point since the rain has stopped, and my clothes are more damp than soaked, but they’re still uncomfortable.

The fabric of my flowered tank has lost its softness, and there’s nothing appealing about wet denim.

I actually sigh as I peel them off my body and drop them in the sink.

My heart thudding, I hold Mason’s T-shirt up against me. Time for more plus-size geometry.

The width and height seem okay—the shirt hangs down past my knees and is wider than my waist—but I’m worried about the length. The shirt could still not have enough room for me, and that would suck, because all I want is to have something of Mason’s dangerously close to my skin.

Counting quietly to three, I yank the shirt over my head.

There’s no resistance, and it settles easily against my frame.

It feels weird but also perfect to be wearing Mason’s clothes.

That’s something girlfriends do—or what I always imagined girlfriends would do.

My last boyfriend was so thin I never bothered to borrow anything of his but a scarf.

I survey myself in the mirror as I shimmy into the mesh shorts.

The shirt is white, and under the fluorescent lights, my black-and-purple polka-dot bra peeps through the thin material.

Thank the higher powers I put on a cute one today, instead of my usual cotton racerback with the tears under the arms that I refuse to throw away because it’s comfortable.

Waffles jumps to his feet as I open the door. Once I’ve dropped my wet clothes on top of Mason’s in the dryer and set it for half an hour, the dog guides me directly to Mason’s room.

The house is sprawling and airy. The kitchen opens to a dining room that opens to a vast living room, the back of which is a wall of glass doors looking out on an enclosed pool and patio. The floors are tiled like the kitchen, except for the carpeting that blankets the bedrooms.

Mason’s door is open, and Toast is lounging on the bed, his tiny back legs kicked out behind him. Waffles brushes by me and, with a sharp bark that screams, “Look, I’m here,” dives onto the comforter, only to immediately flop onto his side.

When he hears me padding across the carpet, Mason spins around in his chair. “All dry?”

I nod, my mouth dropping open as I gaze around me.

Every wall is lined with fully stocked bookcases except for the wall with his bed, which is pushed up under a large set of windows.

On the far side of the room, a tabletop has been built between two hutches and cabinets, a bridge offering more shelf space over his head.

The opposite wall boasts floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and one final, slimmer bookcase sits in the space between the door and the closet.

“You sleep in a library.”

He grins sheepishly. “I guess.”

I run my hand up the side of the nearest set of shelves. It’s been stained well, the varnish smooth to the touch, the honey color bringing out the muted grain in the maple. “Who stainedthis?”

“I did.” His voice is so, so soft.

I glance over at him. “Are you kidding me?”

He shakes his head.

“My father’s had to fire four different guys over the years for not creating a finish like this.” I flatten both palms against the wood, admiring it one more time. “Want a job?” I joke.

He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t love furniture any more than you do.”

We’re teetering on the edge of everything we need to be talking about without ever touching it.

What happens on the last day of the contest?

What is this thing between us? What happens when I leave?

But I’ve already said too much today. I don’t want to be the one to bring this up, to risk breaking these fragile moments between us.

His stare is so intense it’s like fingertips pressing into my skin, and I have to look away. I study the bridge above his desk. “Did you buy this unfinished?”

“I built it. And all the bookcases too. A friend’s father does carpentry as a side job and he taught me a thing or two over the years. And he’s got a really good workshop.” He says it hurriedly, like details will diminish his talent.

I pull my phone from my pocket. “Can I take a few pictures?”

He nods, but his hands grip his knees, his knuckles going white.

Turning my back to him, I snap some long shots and a few close-ups to capture the intricate details.

I can already see my father’s face when I show him.

Full of wonder, like a kid setting eyes on their overstuffed Christmas stocking.

He might even be so excited he’ll forget (or at least forgive) how I stumbled upon this masterpiece.

By leaving the park and hanging out with a strange boy—everything he and my mother told me not to do.

After taking one last shot from the door, I toss my phone on the bed—Toast pounces on it and smothers it with his tummy like it’s prey—and approach Mason.

Tilting his head back, he stares up at me, his mouth slack, his brow furrowed.

I cup his face in my hands. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?

” He keeps showing me all these pieces of himself, and each one wraps a new string around my heart. Pulls me down deeper.

“Yeah?” He shifts his head to lightly kiss my palm. I ignite. A bonfire threatening to burn up his carpet, his bookcases, the entire room.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

Sliding my hands over his short hair, I lock them at the back of his neck.

His knees fall open to let me closer. There’s a tingling in my lips, and something pulses at my center, and I can’t think of anything but kissing him right now.

It’s this overwhelming need, a high tide rolling over me or an endless climb to the top of a roller coaster’s first drop.

As our mouths meet, he bunches the T-shirt in his hands like he needs something to anchor him.

I’ve never had someone kiss me like this. Mason understands exactly when to interrupt his soft, gentle kisses with more-intense ones. When to part his lips enough for his tongue to slip into my mouth. When to pull away to catch a breath, and when to sink in deeper.

He tastes like maple syrup, and smells like a forest, pine and clouds and rainwater, and I can’t get close enough, no matter how firmly I wrap my arms around his neck.

The chair he’s in isn’t made for two, and I end up awkwardly straddling his right knee.

When I lean forward, the chair teeters on its wheels precariously before they return to the floor with a thud that sends the dogs zooming around the bed.

Mason’s lips are on my neck as he secures us both on our feet.

Too many shivers dance up my skin for me to feel embarrassed about knocking things over.

My fingers dig into the small of his back, clenching harder with every spark that flares under his mouth as it trails down my neck, across my collarbones.

When his lips find mine again, I kiss him once and step away. The fog clears from his rainstorm eyes, and worry puckers his brow. “Are you okay?” His voice is gravel, stones scratching stones.

I answer by gripping the hem of my shirt and slipping it up and over my head. It pools at my feet with a quiet whisper.

There’s something in his face as his eyes roam my body that seems as open and vulnerable as I feel. My heart wobbles in time to my knocking knees, but I fist my hands at my sides, refusing the instinct to cross my arms over my body.