Page 3 of Love, Clumsily (Fur Real Love #2)

Sullivan’s was the closest thing Pine Haven had to fine dining, which meant the tablecloths were actual cloth and the menu included at least three dishes I couldn’t pronounce. I arrived five minutes early and was shown to a table in the corner.

He navigated through the tables with careful precision, clearly concentrating on not knocking anything over.

He was dressed in dark jeans that hugged his powerful thighs and a deep blue button-up that strained slightly across his chest and shoulders.

His hair looked like he’d attempted to style it but had given up halfway through.

He was breathtaking.

“Hi,” he said, sliding into the seat across from me with surprising grace. “You look amazing.”

I glanced down at my own outfit—a gray button-up with subtle texture, sleeves rolled to my elbows, and my best dark jeans. “Thanks. So do you.”

“This shirt is too small,” he confessed, tugging at the collar. “I don’t usually dress up, and apparently I’ve gotten… bigger since the last time I wore this.”

Bigger how? I wondered, my mind immediately going places it shouldn’t in a public restaurant.

“It looks good on you,” I assured him. “Very… fitted.”

He laughed, relaxing slightly. “That’s a polite way of saying I look like I’m about to Hulk out of my clothes.”

“I wouldn’t complain if you did,” I said, surprising myself with my boldness.

A flush crept up his neck, and he cleared his throat, looking both pleased and flustered. “So, um, how are you liking Pine Haven so far?”

The conversation flowed easily after that.

I told him about my escape from city life and my terminally boring ex.

He told me he’d lived in Pine Haven his whole life, except for college, and now worked remotely as a software developer.

He was close with his family, who lived just outside town, and had a small circle of tight-knit friends he’d known forever.

What struck me most was the contrast between his physical presence and his demeanor.

He occupied space like someone twice his already considerable size, drawing eyes from around the restaurant, but he spoke softly and listened intently, like he was afraid of taking up too much space in the conversation.

And there were odd moments—when the waiter dropped a tray in the kitchen and Mason tensed before the crash even happened, or when he commented on the mint in my water before I’d even noticed it was there. Once, he stopped mid-sentence and turned toward the door seconds before it opened.

By dessert, I was both thoroughly charmed and completely convinced that there was something unusual about Mason Holloway.

“So,” I said, as we lingered over coffee, “are you going to tell me?”

He froze, cup halfway to his lips. “Tell you what?”

“Whatever it is you’re hiding.” I leaned forward. “You have this whole mysterious vibe going on. Very intriguing.”

He set his cup down carefully. “I’m not… I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mason,” I said gently, “you’ve been holding back all evening. Every time the conversation gets too personal, you redirect. You’re hyperaware of everything around us—sounds, smells, movements. And you keep looking at me like…” I trailed off, not sure how to describe the intensity in his gaze.

“Like what?” he asked, his voice dropping lower.

Like you want to devour me, I thought.

“Like there’s something you want to say but can’t,” I said instead.

He was quiet for a long moment, studying my face. “You’re very observant,” he finally said.

“And you’re very evasive,” I countered with a smile to soften the words.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated, Julian. I’m… complicated.”

“I like complicated,” I said, reaching across the table to touch his hand. His skin was startlingly warm. “What I don’t like is being kept in the dark when someone is clearly interested in me.”

“I am,” he said immediately, turning his hand to grasp mine. “Interested in you. Very interested. But there are things about me that are difficult to explain.”

“Try me,” I challenged.

He seemed to wage an internal battle, then shook his head slightly. “Not yet. I want you to get to know me first—the normal parts—before I dump my baggage on you.”

I could respect that, even if my curiosity was killing me. “Fine. But at some point, you’re going to have to trust me.”

“I want to,” he said, with such sincerity that my heart skipped. “I really do.”

The walk back to my place was comfortable, the night air cool against my skin. Mason walked close beside me, our hands occasionally brushing, sending little electric currents up my arm each time.

“This is me,” I said as we reached my cabin. It was small but charming, with a covered porch and a view of the forest behind it.

“It’s nice,” he said, looking around appreciatively. “Peaceful.”

“That was the goal.” I turned to face him, suddenly nervous. “Do you want to come in? For coffee, or…?”

His eyes darkened. “I want to. But I probably shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” I asked, taking a step closer to him.

He swallowed visibly. “Because if I come inside, I’m going to want to kiss you. And if I kiss you, I might not want to stop.”

The blunt honesty sent heat rushing through me. “That doesn’t sound like a problem to me.”

“Julian,” he said, my name almost a groan. “You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”

“Then explain it to me,” I challenged, moving closer until we were nearly chest to chest. I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, and something about that size difference made my pulse quicken.

“I can’t—I’m not good at—” He made a frustrated sound. “Words aren’t my strong suit.”

“Then show me,” I whispered.

Something in him snapped. With a growl that sounded almost inhuman, he surged forward, backing me against my front door. One large hand cupped my jaw while the other braced against the door beside my head, caging me in.

Then his mouth was on mine, and holy hell, if I’d thought he was holding back during dinner, it was nothing compared to the restraint he must have been exercising now.

The kiss was hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for this.

His lips were firm but surprisingly soft, and when his tongue swept into my mouth, I made an embarrassing sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

I clutched at his shoulders, feeling the incredible strength beneath my fingers. He was all hard muscle and heat, pressing me into the door with just enough pressure to make me dizzy with want but not enough to hurt.

His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair and tugging lightly. The slight pain sent a jolt of pleasure straight to my groin, and I arched against him, seeking friction.

He groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. His hips pushed forward, and I felt the impressive evidence of his arousal against my stomach. The size difference between us had never been more apparent—or more arousing.

I slipped my hands under his straining shirt, desperate to feel skin, and was rewarded with the sensation of hot, smooth muscle under my palms. A dusting of hair covered his lower back, thickening as my hands moved upward.

When my fingers traced his spine, he shuddered and deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring my mouth with increasing urgency.

“Inside,” I gasped when we broke for air. “Let’s go inside.”

For a moment, I thought he’d agree. His eyes were dark with desire, his breathing ragged. But then something shifted in his expression—a flash of what looked like fear.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice rough. He stepped back, putting space between us, though it clearly took effort. “Not tonight. Not yet.”

“Mason—”

“Please,” he interrupted. “Trust me on this. I want you—god, I want you so much it hurts—but I need… time. To prepare. To make sure I don’t…”

“Don’t what?” I asked, still leaning against the door, my lips tingling from his kiss.

He ran a hand over his face. “Lose control,” he finally said. “I’m afraid of losing control with you.”

There was something in his voice—something primal and almost dangerous—that should have scared me. Instead, it sent a thrill of excitement through me.

“What if I want you to lose control?” I asked softly.

He closed his eyes briefly, like my words caused him physical pain. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he repeated.

“Then tell me,” I insisted.

“I can’t. Not yet.” He took another step back. “I should go. I’m sorry.”

Before I could protest, he leaned in for one more brief, searing kiss, then turned and walked away, his strides long and purposeful. At the edge of my property, he looked back once, his expression a mixture of desire and what looked almost like grief.

Then he disappeared into the darkness, leaving me aroused, confused, and more intrigued than ever.

What the hell are you hiding, Mason Holloway? I wondered, pressing my fingers to my still-tingling lips. And why do I have the feeling it’s going to change everything?