Rules Of Engagement

26

He gazes at me for a beat, his gray eyes penetrating. “Do you even drink whiskey?”

I say archly, “Just because I wear a lot of pink doesn’t make me a P-word.”

Another chuckle, this one very dry. “That would’ve been so much more impressive if you’d actually said the P-word.”

“If I’d actually said the P-word, my mother would’ve rolled over in her grave.”

I can tell he’s surprised by the mention of my mother, and intrigued, but he doesn’t ask a question, so I offer up the information on my own.

“She and my dad died in a car accident when I was sixteen. I was in the back seat, but except for a few scratches and bruises, I wasn’t hurt.” I take the glass from his hand and swallow a big gulp of whiskey, grimacing at the burn.

“f**k,” he says softly. Then: “s**t, sorry.” He winces. “Oh, crap.”

I wave it off. “Don’t worry about it. Sundays are cheat days, anyway.”

“Cheat days?”

“Yeah, like when you’re on a diet and you give yourself one day a week to go crazy and eat all the junk food and sweets you want.”

He squints at me. “I’m having a hard time imagining you going crazy.”

“It was a figure of speech.” I take another swig of whiskey, then push the glass toward him. “You ever tried Glenlivet? That’s my favorite.”

Mason looks like he’s going to fall out of the booth. “You really do drink whiskey.”

I smile at him. “Let me guess. You thought I’d like… piña coladas?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of Shirley Temples.”

That stings. “Right. I enjoy a few non-alcoholic cocktails while I’m grooming all my cats.”

I look down at my hands, vowing to ditch my nude nail polish and start wearing something edgier. Maybe I’ll get some of those pointy stiletto nails, too, and use them as weapons. I could claw Bettina’s eyes out.

The thought makes me feel substantially better.

When I glance up at Mason, he’s studying me with such focus my face flushes. “What?”

“Tell me about Robert.”

I’m taken aback by his intensity. It’s the kind usually reserved for stalkers. “Why?” “I’m curious.”

When I heave a sigh, he says, “You know everything about the type of woman I like, right down to bra size.”

I say sourly, “Yes, and I really could’ve gone my whole life without that particular tidbit of information, thank you very much.”

“Meanwhile, I’m in the dark about your type.”

When I send him a questioning look, he says casually, “Maybe I know someone.” “You’re assuming I’m looking.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No.”

That surprises him. He leans back in the booth and simply stares at me.

“I’m too busy with work.”

One corner of his mouth quirks. “Matchmaking.”

“Don’t say it like that. I’m helping people. I’m helping you, bozo.”

Holding my gaze, he says softly, “Yeah, but we both know what I really need isn’t a wife.”

The flush spreads down my face to my neck. “If you’re putting yourself down right now, stop it. I don’t like it when you do that.” When he doesn’t respond, I start to get nervous. “Unless you were talking about, um, s*x or something.” He arches his brows.

I ask timidly, “Were you talking about s*x?”

“Let’s get back to Robert.”

“Let’s not.”

“Come on. I haven’t fired you yet. You have to do what I say.”

That makes me laugh. “Uh, no, superstar, that’s not how this works.”

Leaning forward on his elbows, Mason pins me in a gaze so hot and intense I feel for a moment like I’m sitting in a sauna dressed in every piece of clothing I own. Sweat breaks out along my hairline.

He says, “Did he satisfy you sexually?”

“Wow, go straight for the jugular, why don’t you?”

Bypassing my shock, he continues. “Because I can’t imagine a guy like that having any idea what he’s doing in bed.”

I feel insulted on Bobby’s behalf. Our s*x life wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible, either.

Okay, it was terrible, but hell if I’m going to admit it to the man who beds every woman he sees.

“He was perfectly adequate.”

I hate myself that it came out so—gah!—prim.

Mason pushes the glass back toward me. Thankful for the distraction, I take another swig.

“Is that why you broke up with him? Because he was ‘adequate’?”

“Who said I broke up with him? Maybe he dumped me.”

“He looks at you like you’re crack and he’s an addict. He didn’t dump you.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not. Answer the question.”

The song on the jukebox changes to “Let’s Get It On”, by Marvin Gaye, and now I think God’s just screwing with me. “Why is this topic so important to you?”

“It just is. Answer the question.”

Exasperated, I slump against the hard leather back of the booth and give up. “Fine. I broke up with him because I knew I’d never feel about him the way he felt about me. And he’s a good guy. A really good guy, despite what you might think. He’s smart, kind, and loyal. He should be with someone who loves him like mad.”

After studying me intently for a long time, Mason says, “It took you ten years to realize you didn’t love him?”