Page 13 of The Real Mason
Pre-Domination 101, I romanticized its castle-like appearance.
I gulp. Now it looks like a dungeon: ominous and foreboding, dangerous.
For the millionth time, I think about turning and running.
Two weeks ago I believed wild horses couldn’t have kept me from coming to Mason’s house tonight.
I was wrong.
I debated showing up until the last possible second.
A couple of times on the drive over, I was tempted to turn around and go back to my sweet, maiden-in-the-forest cottage, complete with white picket fence. Only sheer strength of will and determination not to be a coward kept the car pointed in Mason’s direction.
I’m already regretting my decision. Except I can’t turn away. It’s a compulsion to understand that keeps me standing here. I need to reconcile the man I’ve been with for six months with the things I’ve read—a quandary I’ve mulled over almost obsessively since the first page of that “romance” novel he instructed me to read.
I snort.Romance.What a joke. Romance is candlelight and roses, long dinners filled with meaningful looks—not whips, chains, St. Andrew’s crosses, and screams.
I purse my lips. Whatever happens tonight, I will not scream. I refuse. No matter what.
My skin is overheated, my breath fast. I’m hyperventilating.
I press my palms to my hot cheeks.Calm down.I’ve got to get ahold of myself.Remember, he said we’d talk.I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. I can put a stop to all this madness with the words he gave me. That’s all I have to say, and everything will cease. He promised.
I can call it off, but I had to come. I have to understand.
I shift on the balls of my feet. Where is the man? For someone insistent on punctuality, he certainly doesn’t follow his own rules, now does he?
I’m both annoyed and terrified—pretty much a nutshell of the last couple of weeks.
Oh my God, where is he?
I need to get this over with.
Why won’t he open the damn door?
I scowl at the black doorbell.
And just like that, horror rushes over me, slamming against my ribs.
In all my fretting, I forgot to push the bell.
I glance down at the rose gold watch I’m wearing.
7:03.
I’m late.
I’ve been lost in thought for a whole six minutes. I got here with three minutes to spare and worried them all away and then some. The urge to bolt, to run to the safety of my car and screech down his driveway like a bat out of hell consumes me.
No!I was here on time.
I contemplate running again, but stand my ground. I’m going through with this insanity. It’s one night. A couple of hours. Then I can put it to bed.
Surely he won’t hold being late against me.
I was here!
Okay, I need to relax. It’s three minutes. Mason is a reasonable man. I have six months of proof to back up my theory.
