Rules Of Engagement

15

I say drily, “Yes, it would be truly awful to be seen attending a church service. I’m sure your reputation would never recover.”

Though it was sarcastic, the mention of his reputation does the trick. Shaking his head, he mutters something under his breath. Then he bursts from of the car as if it spit him out and starts striding toward the entrance, not looking back.

Here we go again.

I call out, “Oh, Mason?”

He stops dead in his tracks, scrubs his hands over his face, then swings around to stalk back toward me. “Sorry,” he says gruffly when he reaches my side. “Habit.”

“That’s all right. I’ve got my share of bad habits, too.”

Surprised, he lifts his brows. “Oh yeah? Name one.”

I know I can’t tell him about my hopeless addiction to collecting Harry Potter memorabilia, or that I can’t eat a bag of M&Ms without first sorting them into separate colors and counting them, or that all the food items in my pantry have to be aligned in perfect rows by size and color with all their labels facing out or I can’t sleep, because he’ll tease me ruthlessly.

So I decide on something a little less out there.

“Netflix. I’m a serious binge watcher.”

Something that could be a distant relative to a smile crosses his face. Looking down at me with his lids half lowered, he says, “But how else would you fill all those lonely, celibate nights spent with your cats?” Ouch.

I lift my chin and sniff. “You’re not half as funny as you think you are. And by the way, I never said I was celibate.” I sail past him, heading toward the front steps of the church, where a small crowd is milling, waiting for the service to begin.

Auntie Waldine is among them, wearing her Sunday finest. She spots me and waves, making the ostrich feathers on her wide-brimmed Derby hat quiver.

In a few long strides, Mason has caught up with me. “How come you get to walk away from me, but I don’t get to walk away from you?”

“I’m surprised that in your vast experience with women, you haven’t yet discovered that insulting us makes us testy. And if you’re being rude, we’re not obligated to stick around for seconds.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said you said you weren’t having s*x with anyone. I hate to break it to you, but that’s the definition of celibacy.”

Grr. The smug SOB. His smirk tells me exactly how much he enjoys throwing my words back at me. “Thank you for that fascinating input. Now let’s drop the subject, please.”

“No, I don’t think I will. In fact, if you’re going to be my dating coach, I think this honesty and openness thing needs to go both ways.”

I stop short and look at him. “Remember when you came to my office and I told you that my private life was private?”

“Yeah?”

“That still stands.”

“How am I supposed to feel comfortable sharing everything about myself if you won’t do the same?”

I realize we’re doing that unblinking stare-off thing again and take a moment to compose myself. It would be unforgiveable if I smacked him upside his skull with my handbag. Plus, I like this handbag, and his thick skull would win that matchup.

Maybe logic will work better than violence.

“Your therapist doesn’t share everything with you, correct?”

His voice drops. “I don’t share everything with her, either.”

I frown at him. “Why on earth not? Isn’t that the whole point of therapy?” “Because I don’t trust her,” comes the instant response.

“Perhaps you should find a new therapist, then.”

“I don’t need a new therapist. I have you.”

That statement leaves me feeling like something large has collided with my solar plexus. “A matchmaker can’t substitute for a licensed therapist. That’s not what I do.”

His voice contains a challenge. “You’ve got a degree in marriage and family counseling.” “How do you know that?”

“I checked out Perfect Pairing’s website. That bio of yours was pretty detailed.”

He looked me up? I’m not sure what to make of that. “Surely you don’t expect me to psychoanalyze you, Mason.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. He chides, “Oh, come on. It’s not like you haven’t already.”

Flustered by the way he’s looking at my mouth, I answer too sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

When he lifts his lashes and his burning gray gaze meets mine, our eyes lock together with a force that’s startling. He says, “Tell me you don’t think I’m a self-centered jerk with no manners and more d**k than brains.”

My mouth falls open, but no sound comes out.

He goes on, still in that soft, chiding tone, his gaze never leaving mine. “Tell me you don’t think

I’m superficial. Angry. Lonely. Tell me you don’t think you’ve already got me all figured out.” Why are we suddenly standing so close together? And why is my stomach in knots?

I shouldn’t have had that third piece of bacon.

“Of course I don’t think I have you all figured out. We barely know each other. But yes, I’ve formed opinions based on how you’ve conducted yourself around me.”

When his nostrils flare, I say, “Just like you’ve done with me. The pathetic single cat lady? That ringing any bells?”

He glares at me in silence, his jaw working.