Page 80 of Thirst For Me
I didn’t want to spend another night thinking about a man who isn’t thinking about me.
Who cares if Maria and Trish and even Sophie think he wants me? They don’tknow. They’re not Mason, and Mason left.
Mason, who could probably have me with just one touch, oneword, business rivalry or no, hasn’t made a move and clearly isn’t going to.
But when the path spits us out onto Honeymoon Lane, I find myself gazing up the Grant family’s driveway, because I am thinking about him.
Of course I am. The man is impossible not to think about.
Have I ever been this attracted to anyone else on earth?
Sadly, no.
I can’t see his house from here. I can’t see the cidery or anything at all but trees. But I know he’s probably in there, somewhere.
It’s disturbing how well I know his routine by now. How I mentally track him all day, filling in the gaps between my glimpses of him. And since he’s not at the bar, and I know the cider house is closed for the night, I can guess where he’ll probably be.
At home.
Showering, maybe. Cleaning up. Going to bed.
Doing laundry or watching TV or jerking off?
And not thinking about me.
I stop in my tracks at the entrance of his driveway, by theSea Haven Orchardsign.
“I’m going to pop in,” I tell Sophie before I can change my mind. “To see Mason.”
She considers me thoughtfully. “How drunk are you, and should I veto this?”
“Not very. I had two drinks. And no, I’m okay.”
“Hmm. Do you want me to wait here? Or come with you?”
“No. No, you go home. I’ll catch up with you soon.”
“Okay ...” She gives me a quick hug. “But if you don’t come home, I’ll just assume ...?”
“You can assume that some member of the Grant family shot me for trespassing.”
“Not funny.”
“Humor is all I have left.” I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Go have phone sex with your amazing husband.”
“He is amazing,” she says dreamily. “Good luck! And if you want to yell at him or screw him, just know that I support you one hundred percent.”
“Love you,” I call after her as she fades away into the dark between the far-flung streetlights.
I walk up the quiet drive and climb right over the low traffic gate that says the cider house is closed. I pass the cidery building, the distillery, and take the fork in the path that leads me to another, smaller gate. It has aPrivate Propertysign on it, meant to keep customers from wandering up to the house.
I go right through, and up the path to where it splits off again. I take the way that leads me to the front porch of the Grant family home.
The house is large and white, a modern farmhouse, probably updated from its original form, with a charcoal-gray roof and black window frames, and a dark-blue front door. There’s a wide white porch along the front, and a faint glow coming through the windows.
I climb the steps in the dark, my heart thumping. After I ring the bell, it takes a minute before the porch light flips on and the door opens from inside.
Mason.
