Page 15 of Take Me (Cherry Blossom Lake #5)
Erika
“ A t least the room’s nice.” I set down my bag and survey the honeymoon suite. There’s a massive king bed with an oak-slatted headboard I could swear was designed for lovers to tie each other up.
I’m staring at that—decidedly not thinking about bondage—as Mason pops out of the bathroom. “There’s a massive jacuzzi with a basket of rose petals beside it.”
Great. “Knock yourself out if you need a bath.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.” God, this is awkward. “We’re apparently stuck sharing a bed, so hygiene is kinda imp?—”
“You want to smell me?” He stomps over and lifts up his arms.
He’s wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt and some kind of cologne or deodorant that smells like fresh grass and cedar. He smells delicious and looks even better.
I might not have spent much time checking out Mason before, but I’m noticing everything now. How nice he smells, how tall he is, how a job slinging kegs has toned his physique to perfection.
“Ung,” I manage.
Mason rolls his eyes. “Ugh? Seriously?” He makes a big show of sniffing himself. “I think I smell great.”
“You smell fine, and I didn’t say ugh . I said ung , which is a totally different word.”
One eyebrow quirks. “Define ung and use it in a sentence, please.”
“God, you’re infuriating.” I push past him and pick up my suitcase, determined to ignore him as much as I can. “I call dibs on six hangers and at least one dresser drawer.”
“I call dibs on the feathers.”
“What?” I spin around to see Mason standing by the bed with a weird little smile. He’s holding a basket filled with shimmering peacock feathers. There’s a laminated card hooked on the side, and he pulls it off and starts reading.
To our dearest guests,
Welcome to the honeymoon cabin at Sunridge Vineyards! As honeymooners for 40+ years, we hope you feel the love seeping from every pore of this magical place!
As you may have observed, our neighbors to the east have a lovely farm filled with free-range peacocks.
These feathers have been humanely collected and carefully sanitized.
Please use them in whatever way titillates you and your beloved as you enjoy your romantic stay with us.
If magic ensues, feel free to take the feathers home with you!
Warm wishes,
Jed and June Clark
He lowers the card and looks at me. “There’s a list of ideas. Body parts to tickle, different ways to tease and tantalize and?—”
“I’m good.” My voice sounds weirdly high. “Where’s that sparkling rosé Larissa mentioned?”
“I’ll find it.”
Sounds like we could both use a drink. We’ve got nearly four hours until the welcome reception, and it won’t take me more than fifteen minutes to get ready.
Maybe twenty if I fuss with my hair, but who am I kidding?
I don’t know how to do much more than brush it or maybe clip some behind my ear with the barrette Hazel loaned me.
I unpack my bag, keeping my distance from Mason. I get the sense he’s doing the same, since he unloads his own duffel into the nightstand on the far side of the bed. That takes him two minutes, and then there’s the joyful pop of a cork.
“Here you go.” He hands me a flute, and I take it.
“Thanks.” I’m not usually a fan, but I gulp nearly half before I notice he’s holding his glass for a toast. “Sorry.”
Mason clinks his glass to mine. “To friendship.”
“To friendship.” Now I feel like a jerk. “Sorry I’m being grumpy. I just—this is weird, right? Is it weird for you?”
“Being forced to share a bed with you?” He pretends to shudder. “Girl cooties are gross.”
I laugh and okay—I can do this. This is Mason, my goofy best friend. So what if he’s built like an underwear model and smells so good I want to take bites from his biceps? I settle for sipping more bubbly.
“This is good.”
“Right?” He squints at the bottle. “They hooked us up with nice stuff.”
“I should probably pace myself.” I set down my glass to stuff a handful of panties in the dresser drawer. There’s a thong in the mix, which I don’t normally wear, but Hazel insisted I shouldn’t show panty lines. Thank God I brought sleep shorts and a big, roomy T-shirt for bedtime.
Mason’s still milling around behind me. If he’s cataloguing my underwear, he at least has the tact not to say so. “Last time I had sparkling wine was at some fancy vet fundraiser Annabelle took me to.”
“Was it good?”
“Not especially.”
“Remember that time freshman year that we stole the cheap-ass bottle of Brut from Wyatt Richardson’s parents’ liquor cabinet?”
Mason groans. “I puked in the blackberry brambles, then fell in it.” He laughs at the memory. “Took me a week to pull all the stickers out of my arms.”
“And I had to hose you off in his backyard.” I have no memory of Mason removing his clothes, but he probably did. “See? That’s why we could never date for real.”
“Because of my poor judgment with booze at sixteen?”
“Because we’ve witnessed each other’s most disgusting moments.”
Mason quirks a brow. “That actually sounds like a reason to date someone. Your dirty laundry is already out there, familiar and flapping in the breeze.”
“Dirty laundry, huh? As I recall, we rinsed out your puke-stained clothes and hung them out my car windows to dry on our way home the next morning.” It was raining, so suffice it to say, that didn’t work. “We were real geniuses back then.”
Mason laughs and takes another sip of rosé. “I might polish this off and go for a hike. You need a couple hours to get ready?”
Crossing my arms, I glare at him. “In what world would I ever take that long to get ready?”
“I don’t know.” He gestures wildly toward the clothes I’ve hung in the closet. “Annabelle always took hours on her makeup and hair when we went someplace nice. I have no idea how long it takes you to look like you looked when you showed up last night.”
I try to untangle whether that’s a backhanded compliment or an insult. I settle for not really caring. Not appearing to care. With my arms still folded, I stare down my pal. “I can be sexy as fuck in twenty minutes or less.”
Lifting his glass, Mason nods. “In that case,” he says, “let’s take this rosé for a hike.”
Our hike is amazing, a heart-pounding climb to the top of a viewpoint surrounded by evergreens dripping in rainwater diamonds. We’re forced to rush on our way back down the trail, laughing and buzzing with booze as we jockey our way through the rain.
My damp yellow t-shirt clings to my breasts, and twice I catch Mason staring. But his eyes dart away, and I know it’s just what we talked about last night. Before this all started, we’d never noticed each other’s parts.
I’m noticing now as we trudge to our room and Mason peels off his t-shirt. “Mind if I take a quick shower?”
“Go for it.” I should probably do the same. “Save some hot water for me.”
“You want to go first?” He frowns. “The sign in the lobby said it’s solar. We should probably conserve.”
“Are you suggesting we shower together?” I’m totally kidding, but Mason blanches and backs toward the bathroom.
“I’ll—uh—be fast.” He slams the door before I can point out I’m kidding.
I was kidding. Really.
It’s not like I’m standing here picturing Mason under the spray of the shower, his water-splashed pecs rounded and chiseled. And I’m definitely not imagining that dark slash of hair trailing over his abs and down to his?—
“You belong with meeeeeeeeee…”
I stop laying out my clothes and laugh the instant I place the song.
Taylor Swift, which is soooo Mason. He surprised Harper on her twelfth birthday with tickets to see the goddess herself in concert.
For months, Mason practiced belting out Tay-Tay’s hits so he could sing with his niece at the show.
Hearing him now makes something inside me give a warm, tender tug. The lyrics spin the story of a girl harboring a secret crush on a friend, and I order myself not to think about that. It’s just a stupid song.
“All yours,” Mason says ten minutes later as he steps from the bathroom with a towel around his waist.
“Uh, thanks.” I gather my things and don’t meet his gaze as I slip past him through the steam. I lock the door tightly behind me, which feels silly and necessary all at once.
By the time we’re both ready, we’ve still got thirty minutes to kill until the shuttle starts running to the wedding venue. Mason pries open the mini fridge. “There’s a chilled bottle of estate Pinot Gris in here for forty bucks. Want a glass?”
“Sure.” I hold out my flute and he fills me up to the brim. I let my eyes travel the length of his body, from his crisp blue button-down to gray slacks that hug his ass more than normal. I’m used to just seeing him in jeans. “You look nice.”
“So do you.” His eyes brush my collarbones, and he shakes his head slowly. “Decided to skip the yarn thing with the buckle, huh?”
I look down at my dress and tug at the tie on the front.
“It’s an Alice and Olivia Minka Maxi Dress in serenade dark cherry with a keyhole cutout and adjustable tassel straps.
” I pivot to show him the back, and I catch his pained look when I turn back around.
“Is it the smocked back or the keyhole thingy that’s causing you to make that face? ”
“What face?”
“Like I’m not dressed right for this wedding.” I pull on the boots Hazel loaned me, then take a big swig of wine. “Don’t worry. Most of the top half gets covered by the denim jacket.”
“I wasn’t worried.” He knocks back half his wine. “Is the keyhole cutout that thing in front where you’re uh—” He gestures to my chest, then reddens and turns away.
“Where I’m busting out the underboob?” I tug it down a little, hoping it’s not too risqué. “Yep. Hazel says it’s trendy.”
“Hazel would know.” He’s still not meeting my eyes. “What the hell is a smocked back?”
“Beats me. Hazel kept repeating it when I told her which outfit I’d picked. Maybe it’s the stuff that makes it stretchy so it comes off easier?”
“Mmph,” Mason says, and drinks more wine.