Page 83 of Shamed
Mase is in the kitchen, pulling a bowl out from a large drawer when I emerge. He’s dressed in thin cotton pajama pants that seem to cling to his thighs and butt, and a sleeveless T-shirt that gives his biceps free reign. His dark hair is ruffled from sleep, his features soft.
He glances up and flicks his eyes between me and the kitten, a smile forming on his face that causes a weird sensation to blanket my chest, similar to when he hugged me. “Good morning.”
“Hi.” I lower Lulu to the ground beside her food and water bowls. “Do you happen to have a kettle?” I ask shyly, stepping closer. “And some tea?”
He points his elbow at a cabinet while cracking an egg. “There should be some chamomile tea behind the jug in there. There’s some coffee made already as well.”
I pull the kettle out, hugging it to my stomach while chewing my bottom lip. At least there’s one thing I can be honestwith him about. “I, um . . . I don’t actually drink coffee. I’ve never liked it.”
“You don’t?” Mase faces me, blinks, and then nods slowly. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” I ask, filling the kettle with water.
“When I brought you the food and coffee, you didn’t even look at it. A coffee drinker would have started guzzling it before it even reached their hands.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Yes, well, I’ve been called a weirdo for it in the past.”
“You took the word right out of my mouth.”
My jaw drops as I place the tea bag into the mug. “Hey, not you as well.”
When I look back at him, his mouth is kicked up into the most boyish smile I’ve ever seen on him, and my heart just about trips over itself. I’ve never seen him look so relaxed and happy, and I realize it’s probably because of how I’ve behaved with him from the beginning.
I’ve resisted him at every turn, been difficult, yelled at him, been a mess in front of him . . .
And though I have my reasons for all of it, maybe I just need to accept that when he does things for me, and tries to help me, it makeshimfeel better, and as I’m coming to realize,hishappiness is importantto me.
As I stare at his back, the tension that usually keeps my shoulders from relaxing eases a fraction, and the air around us feels a little lighter.
Somehow the thought of making him happy lifts the burden of not allowing myself anything good off my shoulders. At least, just until I’m gone in a couple of days.
“So, bad dream, huh?” he asks after a beat, popping my thought bubble.
My brows furrow, and I turn back to my mug. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I peek at him over my shoulder again, wondering what it would be like to discuss things like that with him. What would he say if he knew the truth?
I shake my head, stuffing those thoughts down into the depths of my soul, knowing they’ll still eat away at me in the background. He angles his face to me, eyeing me like he’s trying to see exactly where I just buried it all.
“It was nothing.” I turn back to the kettle, switching it on before deciding to escape into the living room while I wait for the water to boil.
Lulu follows me, and since I’m unable to resist her big blue eyes, I sink to the floor against the front of the couch to play with her for a bit.
A rod with a fuzzy mouse attached to it lies nearby, and the second I pick it up; she starts bouncing around, trying to chaseit. A smile pulls my cheeks wide, and I continue flicking the rod back and forth while trailing my eyes around the room.
A large TV sits on a cabinet in the corner between two windows, with photos and a few awards for Jiu-jitsu and Taekwondo hanging on the walls surrounding them.
A small bookshelf with a handful of books and knick-knacks stands to my right, and a rubber tree plant sits opposite the couch I’m leaning against. The coffee table is still sitting at the odd angle Mase pushed it to yesterday when he sat in a similar position to play with Lulu.
There are no festive decorations in his apartment, just like there aren’t any in mine, and I wonder if he’s going to put any up.
I keep trailing my gaze around the room until they land back on Mase in the kitchen to my left.
My eyes slowly trail over the dark waves of his hair, the way his brows pull together in concentration, and the way his tongue pokes out to wet his lips.
His muscles flex and bulge as he mixes something, ropes of muscle traveling down the length of his arms to his hands. His tattoos are a mix of swirls and patterns, and I briefly imagine tracing them with a finger.
