He’s offering me a chance to delay further abuse from my co-workers. I’d be crazy not to take it right now.

On the other hand, agreeing to this means spending more time with the man I just stuck a label on.

My mind itches with hesitancy.

God, I seriously hate Mondays. I am never partaking in one again.

Wiping away another tear with the back of my fingers, I drop my arms and make my decision.

“Fine. Okay. One more cup.”

MASON

Brooke stares down at her fingers knotted together in front of her as I wait for our coffee.

She isn’t crying anymore, but she doesn’t look like my Brooke. No sweet-dimpled smile. No luminous spark in her eyes.

She looks unsettled. Caught up in some worrying thought she’s allowing to consume her. A stark contrast from the warm, gregarious woman I openly kissed and touched Saturday night.

The one who very openly kissed and touched me.

I allow my mind to go there for a moment. Be present with that Brooke. Feel her hands around my neck and her breath against my cheek. Remember her quiet words, the ones I’m not sure she even realized she was saying as I held her on the couch and enjoyed our time together.

With the softest voice, with her lips moving against my ear, she asked if I could stay a little longer, if I could hold her until her heart stopped racing. If mine was racing too, and if that was normal for me, because it wasn’t for her. She told me to kiss her, again and again, to move my hand a little higher and that no one could see us. That even if they could she didn’t care, and that she wondered what we looked like together, not just then but all the time.

“Do you think they know?” she whispered, her fingers filtering through my hair.

“Know what?” I asked, just as softly, pressing a kiss to her nose, the flush in her cheek.

“That you’re kind of my thing too.”

We laughed and talked until she fell asleep with her face pressed into my neck. I carried her to bed and lingered there. I didn’t want to leave. I was beginning to hate the moments I spent away from Brooke.

All of them. Each miserable second.

But I knew what would happen if I stayed. If I slid beside her and kissed her some more, touched her where we both wanted. If I allowed my urges to overwhelm me, I wouldn’t be able to stop. My resistance had been wavering all night and was close to being non-existent. And Brooke, among being unconcerned with her affection for me, was drunk.

She was open and comfortable, sweet and warm . . . and very, very drunk.

So I left, but fuck, it was bloody difficult, knowing the next time I saw her she would be different. Not as showy with her fondness. Still a bit tentative and unsure.

She seemed okay yesterday when we spoke on the phone. Hungover and regretting those cocktails, but still my Brooke. Laughing and willing. Even this morning when we met for coffee, there was no sign of the woman I’m currently observing.

I need to find out what’s gotten her like this. Why she’s so shut-off from me now.

What the hell could have happened in the span of five hours?

Taking the coffees as they are held out for me over the bar, I thank the barista and walk over to the seating area, moving between oversized lounge chairs and a leather sofa.

Floor-to-ceiling windows span across the front of the shop, offering a spectacular view of the bustling city, but I doubt she’s noticed yet. Brooke’s barely lifted her head since she sat down.

“Here you go, gorgeous.” I set her coffee on the round high-top table and claim the stool across from her. “I got you a mocha this time, since you had white chocolate this morning. Figured you’d be due for a bit of a change.” I take a sip of my black coffee and watch her above the brim.

Her hands slowly wrap around the paper cup. She clears her throat. “Thank you. How much do I owe for this?”

“Nothing.”

I give her a strange look when she finally glances up at me.

How much does she owe? Is she being serious?

Sighing, I set my cup down and brace my weight on my elbows. “You’re not paying me back for something I asked you out for, Brooke. That’s never happening. This was my idea. I will always treat you, yeah?”

“You shouldn’t keep paying for me when we do stuff, Mason.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it’s not like we’re . . .” she pauses, her lips pinching together through a frown. Her shoulders sag, then with a much quieter voice, she continues. “I mean, we’re just having fun, you know? When we hang out like this?”

I feel my jaw clench. I roughly scrub at my face, then stare at her, trying to figure out where this is all coming from. “Yeah . . . no, I don’t fucking know, Brooke. We’re just having fun? This is news to me.”

She leans back a bit. Her teeth drag across her plump bottom lip.

I take in a deep breath, remembering how all of this started for her. What she was solely after in the beginning before I got her to consider trying things my way.

Just having fun was her main interest then. A quick root and then nothing. I thought we were past this absurdity.

“What’s going on with you? What happened?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even and not at all accusing.

She looks away. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Her worried eyes flick back to mine.

“Don’t do that,” I tell her, straightening up. “Don’t shut me out when something obviously happened, Brooke. You were just calling me your boyfriend and crying about it on the footpath, and now suddenly we’re just having fun. Help me understand why you’re being like this. Talk to me.”

She looks down at her cup, her hands still wrapped around it. She sighs through a heavy blink. “Everyone keeps asking me what we are, or what we’re doing. I don’t know what to tell them because I don’t know. I don’t know what this is.”

“Who is everyone?”

“Joey. Dylan.” She pops the tab on her lid but doesn’t take a sip. “They’ve been bugging me about it all morning. Non-stop. They want me to admit things. Label it. Us. I don’t feel like I should have to. It’s nobody’s business what I’m feeling, or what I’m not feeling.”

Our eyes meet. My hand curls into a fist on the table.

What she’s not feeling?

“That’s complete bullshit,” I want to say, but I don’t. I didn’t coax her to sit with me and practically beg her to talk just to have an argument.

But I know she feels something. I know this changed for her too. I don’t buy her denial.

She’s freaked out because she knows what this is. Not because she doesn’t.

Brooke looks away again, tapping her fingers on the cup.

I force my hand to relax and slide it into my lap. “All right, then don’t. Don’t explain it,” I suggest, catching her cautious attention. “Why do we have to be labeled anything? Why can’t we just continue doing what we’re doing, ‘cause I thought it was pretty fucking great.”

“But everyone . . .”

“Who cares about everyone?” I ask, my voice growing a decibel louder. “Am I asking you to tell me what this is? Or if you could start referring to me as your boyfriend?”