He nodded toward my table. “Your friend tagged you in a picture on Facebook and said you were on your way here. So I thought I’d crash the party for a little while and buy you ladies a drink or two.”
Well, that was mildly embarrassing. It hadn’t been the most flattering photo. We’d been in the back of Sharon’s husband’s car, me reapplying my lipstick and Sharon feeling like the world should know about it.
“You should see her Instagram,” I huffed. “Every time we’re out, she posts a photo of me with the all-caps caption, ‘SHE’S SINGLE.’”
Mason let out a laugh and grabbed his beer from the bar top. “That’s a reason to get Instagram if I ever heard one.”
“Oh, you.” I was ready to dare any woman alive to resist this man’s charm. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Sharon.” I linked my arm with his and guided him away from the bar. “I should warn you. She finds it hysterical to people watch and guess who’s divorced.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “We all need hobbies,” he responded amiably. “I’m happy to contribute to the statistics.”
I couldn’t help but ask. “Are you?” I hoped he didn’t find my question too intrusive, but I was so curious. “When we had dinner in Phoenix, you didn’t say a word about splitting up with Meghan.”
Mason grinned wryly to himself and took a swig from his beer. “I was saving that story for the next time you and I have dinner. Think you can last that long?”
“Only if we have dinner soon,” I joked. “No, but of course. I’m sorry if I got too nosy.”
“You didn’t.” He sent me a quick, reassuring smile right before we reached our booth.
I slid in first and went through introductions, and Mason shook hands with Sharon before he took a seat next to me.
The music faded as the cover band began their soundcheck, and Sharon excitedly informed us that she’d left song requests on the band’s Facebook page. While she adored country music, I tolerated it. A few songs were good. Otherwise, I preferred mainstream and rock.
“But this is rock too,” Sharon insisted. “It’s country rock.”
“It’s the twang,” I said with a shudder. “It’s just awful.”
“Hmpf.” Sharon raised a brow expectantly at Mason. “What about you, Mason? Do you like country?”
“It works.” Mason inclined his head and shrugged slightly. “If the mood strikes, I’ll listen to it when I work in the garage.”
I sighed internally, remembering the one and only time I’d seen him in his garage. We’d visited in Phoenix when he was with his first wife—otherwise known as Tristan’s useless mother—and Mason had been working on a rocking chair.
“He makes the most beautiful furniture,” I explained to Sharon. “But he refuses to take commissions. He says it ruins everything.”
He shot me an amused look. “I prefer to make the rules, not follow them.”
I bit my lip, wondering how far I could push things. “I wouldn’t give you any rules or guidelines to follow if you were to make me, say, a coffee table. I happen to be anything but happy about the one I just ordered.”
“Hmm.” He considered it. “Then I’d have to be in the mood to make a coffee table.”
Damn it. “So, get in the mood?” I suggested innocently.
That earned me a wolfish grin and a shake of his head. “You’re still trouble, Lis.”
What the hell did that mean? I hadn’t been anything remotely close to “trouble” for as long as the Calverts had known me.
The sound of Sharon sucking the last drops of her drink through her straw caught my attention, and I glanced over at her to find her watching me intently.
Oh, good grief. I could practically read her mind, and no, Mason was off-limits. That door wasn’t merely closed; it didn’t exist. He was my brother-in-law, for chrissakes. Or former. Whatever. We were family, and he was dangerous. You gazed very briefly and very carefully at the sun; you didn’t fly to it.
“That’s my cue to get you girls new drinks,” Mason said. “What’re you having?”
“I think Lissa needs a Screaming Orgasm,” Sharon replied.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I mean, you’re not wrong, but…” I snorted and managed to get ahold of myself before I glanced up at a tickled Mason. “Gin and tonic, please. Extra lemon.”
He inclined his head and faced Sharon.
“I’m a rum and Coke kind of girl,” she said. “Thank you, Mason.”
“Of course.” He headed toward the bar, and I couldn’t even count to three before Sharon pounced.
“You have to—”
“Don’t even,” I warned.
“But—”
“Sharon!”
“Why? If you don’t see all the signals he’s sending you, you need a new transmitter.”
I rolled my eyes and finished my drink. “He’s like this with everyone. Trust me. I’ve known the man for twenty years.”
Kind of. It wasn’t like we’d been friends, but two decades of Christmases, Thanksgivings, and the occasional anniversary party added up.
Thankfully, Sharon let it go.
Three
The band was a few songs into their set when Sharon said it was time to shake what our mamas had given us.
“At our age, we don’t shake,” I muttered into my glass. “We jiggle.”
Man, the third drink hit the sweet spot.
Sharon hadn’t heard me over the music, but Mason evidently had. His eyes lit up with silent laughter as he slid out of the booth.
“Mason, are you joining us, or are you going to watch the table?” Sharon asked. “I wouldn’t mind seeing your moves, you know.”
He glanced at me while I got out. “I think it’s better I stay back and enjoy the show. Your purses are safe with me.”
“Ha! No purse for me.” I had no idea why I was smug about that. “I have my phone right here.” I pointed to the side of my boob. The phone was tucked into my bra, right underneath the strap.
Mason dropped his gaze to my chest, only to avert it quickly and smirk at the floor. “I have no appropriate response for that, so I’m just gonna wish you ladies a fun time on the dance floor.”
Holy fuck, I was awkward. I’d literally just pointed at my rack in front of my ex-husband’s brother.
Before I could make it worse, I dragged Sharon to the dance floor, and I completely ignored her snickers.
“I can’t believe I did that.”
“Me either, but I’m so glad it happened,” she laughed. “I’m sure he appreciated it too.”
I scoffed.
“Hey.” She stopped me before we could reach the crowd dancing and enjoying the live music, and she leaned closer so I could hear her properly. “There’s nothing wrong with having fun, Lissa. It doesn’t have to be celibacy or marriage. I don’t need to remind you of that, do I? It wasn’t that long ago you had a man’s tongue down your throat.”
Where it truly shouldn’t be! What an awful memory to slap in my face. I got her point; I wasn’t foreign to getting frisky when I was out, though it wasn’t common either. The man she was referring to was my last. It was several months ago, and he’d introduced me to the definition of tonsil hockey.