Page 18 of Summer Lessons
Jefferson popped him on the ass like any other athlete would pop a teammate.
“Course—but we may not want to hit the whole game on the course, if you know what I mean.” He winked and slid into the car, cranking the motor with the confident turn of the key.
The car rattled off, leaving Mason staring at its trail of exhaust, fighting the absurd impulse to hold out his hand and whisper, “Call me,” to the air pollution Jefferson left in his wake.
WHEN HEgot back home, he passed Dane, keenly involved in an online game ofDestinywith Carpenter over the PS4. All Mason knew about the game was that sometimes he could hear Nathan Fillion’s voice, and that was pretty sexy, but other than that, there was an awful lot of bloodshed for a Saturday afternoon.
For a moment he expected Dane to put his game on hold and make some sort of clairvoyant pronouncement along the lines of “You smell like come!” but he didn’t. He saved that for when Mason got out of the shower, put on clean sweats, grabbed a book, and cuddled up in his corner of the couch.
“Good game?” Dane asked, his eyes on the screen ahead of him.
“Not bad—more like a clinic. He taught me the basics.” On the soccer field. Apparently he was like blow job pro in the bathroom—Mason had learned just from the pressure of his tongue and palate alone.
“Good. Gonna see him again?”
Mason was so tempted, right then, to spill out, “Yes, and I’m probably going to get blown again, but that doesn’t stop me from being confused as fuck!”
Instead he shrugged. “Well, we’re going golfing next week still.”
“Promising!” Dane turned and graced him with a smile before going back to his game.
Mason made plans to pack a sweatshirt for Jefferson, and wet wipes, rubbers, and lubricant for whatever else might come… er, pop… er… show up.
He wasn’t going to turn down more sex, no matterhowconfused he might be about it.
LILLIAN BRADFORD,Mason’s secretary, was a crisp, efficient woman in her fifties. She left her hair color at iron gray but always made sure it was perfectly coiffed in pinned curls, and she wore pressed, navy-blue suits to work every day. Mason had actually paid attention to the cut and length of the jackets and skirts to see if she woredifferentsuits in the same color or just the same suit. Turned out she owned four different suits in the same color, but that didn’t stop the impression that the woman was unsusceptible to the vicissitudes that shook the earthly masses.
She’d been the one to tell him that Schipperke (as he still thought of Skip) was “a tall gentleman, fair hair, and a strength to the jaw. Would I say he’s handsome? Very. And fit. And….” She had looked up and to the right then, as though accessing a hidden file in her brain, her no-bullshit blue eyes steady as steel. She returned those eyes to Mason’s face and continued speaking as though she hadn’t paused. “Vulnerable,” she said. “Mr. Keith is vulnerable, and a bit naïve.”
Mason had already gathered that by how easy it had been to fluster poor Skipper. “He’s young,” he’d said wistfully.
“More than that, sir.” Lillian had compressed her lips tightly. “That boy, sir, is in desperate need of some mothering, and all he seems to know is men. I would suggest you keep that in mind if you’re seeking a… a connection with him.”
Masonhadkept it in mind. He’d kept it in mind that she apparently thought he was a merciless cradle robber and that he should probably lay off his IT phone tech fascination entirely. When he’d come into the office after he and Dane had run into Skipper and Carpenter on the golf course, he’d told her—somewhat dispiritedly—that Skipper was well and truly in love with Richie.
“That is too bad, sir. I would very much like to see you happily matched.”
“Have we been watchingPride and Prejudiceagain, Mrs. Bradford?”
“Sense and Sensibility, sir. It’s my husband’s favorite. Something about when the eldest Miss Dashwood bursts into tears just melts his crotchety old heart.”
“As it should,” he’d replied. She’d turned to leave, the military precision of her heel pivot showing twelve years in the Air Force before she’d married, opted out, and stayed home to raise two sons. “Mrs. Bradford?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you. For, you know, helping me meddle in my own love life.”
“Of course, sir. And sir?”
“Mrs. Bradford?”
“Do keep trying.”
That had been after Thanksgiving. Now, after New Year’s, when pretty much the entire office was coming in after pretending they were working from home, she stood in front of his desk, crisp and efficient as always, at the beginning of the day.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bradford. I trust your holidays went well?”
“Not so much, really, sir. My boys both brought their wives, neither one of which is interested in procreating and both of whom have decided… ideas about things.”