Chapter 4: Hearts on the Line

Mason stared at me, face blank. "What are you doing?"

Our breaths mingled in the small space.

I watched the water droplets slide down his abs, disappearing beneath the towel at his hip bones.

I swallowed and said, voice trembling, "I’m interested in you."

My voice was barely above a whisper, but every word was true. I wanted him—badly.

Mason closed his eyes in frustration. "Move aside."

His patience was slipping, but I wasn’t ready to let go.

I said, "Babe, I don’t want to—!"

Before I could finish, he snapped. He scooped me up and tossed me onto the bed like I weighed nothing.

I squealed, bouncing on the comforter, heart pounding with victory.

I knew he was interested too!

The bed was so soft I sank right in, my skirt riding up to my waist.

The sheets smelled like him—clean, a little spicy, and totally intoxicating. I felt exposed, but I didn’t care.

Mason loomed over me, jaw tight, eyes dark and stormy.

He was all tension, standing over me like a man barely holding it together.

I immediately struck a pose and whispered, "Babe, I’m really recovered now. We can...!"

I fluttered my lashes, arching my back just a little, hoping he’d finally break.

Mason gave me a long, unreadable look and leaned in closer.

That pink chest was just inches away.

Come on, come on!

Don’t hold back!

Take me!

The next second, he yanked the comforter up and wrapped me like a burrito.

"Don’t catch a cold."

Then he turned and stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

I stared at the ceiling, bundled up like a human tamale, and wondered what I had to do to get this man to lay a hand on me.

Mason, are you even a man?!

I texted my best friend, "If a guy blushes every time he sees you but won’t touch you, what’s up with that?"

She replied instantly, "Girl, that’s classic impotence."

I shot back, "No way. Everything works fine—I’ve checked myself."

Best friend: "Wait, checked yourself? Who is this guy?"

I typed, "It’s my husband!"

Best friend: "Huh? Another new husband? Which celebrity is it this time?"

Me: "...Never mind, this time it’s for real."

Best friend: "Then maybe he’s had enough fun outside. You should check up on him. You know what they say—the grass is always greener. If he’s messing around, kick him out."

Honestly?

Even though this bestie is just a gaming buddy I picked up post-amnesia, her people skills are pretty on point.

She’s never let me down in a boss fight, and maybe she’s got a sixth sense for real life, too.

So, Mason’s had enough fun outside?

I’m cute as hell, and he dares to look elsewhere?!

The more I thought about it, the more ticked off I got. I stormed off to confront Mason.

But he was already asleep.

Of course, his phone was locked—I didn’t know the passcode.

But I found a note tucked in his desk drawer.

It read:

Name: Riley Bennett

Age: 25

Favorite fruits: watermelon, blueberries, honeycrisp apples

Favorite drink: vanilla chai latte

Favorite animals: ragdoll cat, golden retriever, velociraptor (I mean, really? Did I have a dinosaur phase? Guess I was quirky even before the accident.)

Favorite sleeping posture: basic + curled up

Biggest dream: become a queen

...

On the back, in Mason’s handwriting:

"Remember everything she likes, and get it right the first time."

The note was so worn the edges were practically see-through.

The paper was soft, like he’d folded and unfolded it a million times. I could picture him hunched over, scribbling down every detail, desperate not to forget a thing about me.

My chest ached with emotion.

Tears stung my eyes. I’d forgotten so much, but Mason hadn’t let a single thing slip through the cracks.

After the car accident, so much of my past was just gone.

But someone had taken the time to write down every little thing about me, in careful handwriting.

I don’t even remember being into cheesy romance, but Mason still remembered.

And here I was, doubting his feelings for me.

How could I be so dense?

A soft sound came from behind me.

I turned. Mason was awake, watching me with wary eyes.

He stood in the doorway, hair mussed, eyes guarded. The tension was thick enough to slice with a butter knife.

"What are you looking at?" His voice was low, almost accusing.

I waved the note. "Your evidence of guilt."

I tried to sound stern, but my voice wobbled with something softer—maybe hope.

Mason’s face changed instantly. He got out of bed and walked toward me, step by step, until my back hit the wall.

A classic wall slam. My favorite.

He boxed me in, hands flat on either side of my head. My heart thudded so loud I was sure he could hear it.

Mason’s heartbeat was loud and fast—like he’d just run a marathon.

What did that mean?

He was nervous—because of me!

A man whose heart races for a woman—if that’s not love, what is?

I glanced down at myself...

Uh, I really did go all out tonight—low-cut camisole from Victoria’s Secret, short shorts. Oops.

No wonder Mason was losing his cool.

Suddenly, his voice cut through the haze, rough and husky.

"My evidence of guilt? Tell me, what did you find?"

As he spoke, his hand drifted up, fingers tracing along my neck, slow and dangerous, like he was daring himself to go further.

His touch sent shivers down my spine, a mix of fear and anticipation.

I grabbed his hand and guided it along my neck, my heart racing.

"Babe, be brave."

Mason: "Huh?"

I shook the note in his face and said, dead serious, "You can’t hide that you love me anymore. Why don’t we try the real thing?"

I looked up at him, daring him to deny it. My heart was in my throat.

When he saw what was written on the note, Mason looked relieved, like he’d dodged a bullet, and tried to turn away.

But I clung to his hand, stubborn as ever.

"Let go," he said, his breath coming faster.

As we struggled, my camisole strap slipped down at just the right moment.

His hand instinctively caught it, playing the role of my missing strap.

The instant our skin touched, Mason froze, ears blazing red, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

"Ouch, you hurt me." I pouted up at him. "Babe, how are you going to make it up to me?"

That night, I finally crawled into Mason’s bed.

Because I insisted my chest was hurt and I might get sick, he had no choice but to let me stay close.

Mason had to give in.

It was late, the apartment quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge.

Mason seemed asleep, breathing slow and steady.

I couldn’t sleep, so I secretly admired his abs and that flawless, snow-white chest.

I must’ve kissed and nibbled them a lot before.

Dang, girl, you were living the dream.

When you’re this desperate, you even envy your own past self.

Just as I tried to tug his pants down a bit, Mason’s hand shot out, grabbing my wrist like a reflex.

He growled, "What are you doing?"

I replied sweetly, "Babe, I think you got hurt by me too. I’m giving you a checkup."

Mason said flatly, "Go to sleep."

Now I was annoyed.

I rolled over and straddled him.

"Is that how you talk to your wife?"

Mason immediately stiffened, eyes wide.

I pressed closer, grinding my hips into him.

He grunted, gripping my waist, and forced out, "Riley, we’re not the kind of relationship you think."

What’s that supposed to mean?

He doesn’t want to admit it?

I scoffed, "Then what are we? Strangers?"

Mason went cold, face like stone, and nodded silently.

I slapped his chest, leaving a red mark on his pale skin.

Damn, that felt good—so firm and springy.

I let myself enjoy it for a second.

He stared at me, shocked. "You hit me?"

His lips were as red as his chest—so tempting, but I held back.

"You say I’m a stranger? Then why did you stay by my side day and night for a whole week after my accident?"

"And why did you write a note about my likes and say you had to remember, get it right the first time?"

"Not to mention, after I got home, you made soup for me every day, ran me a foot soak, even gave me massages."

"Do you do that for just any stranger? Why hasn’t ‘America’s Sweethearts’ given you an award yet?"

Mason pressed his lips together and turned his head, refusing to meet my eyes.

His chest rose and fell, so perfect I almost forgave him again.

Just as my hand was about to sneak another touch, Mason spoke coldly.

"Think whatever you want. Either way, we’re not the kind of people who can just sleep together."

I was mad. Really mad.

Sure, Mason’s got movie-star looks, an amazing body, and the kind of feelings that could melt steel.

But that doesn’t mean he gets to keep pushing me away.

A girl like me—there are plenty of cute guys out there!

Why hang myself on this one stubborn tree?

My best friend felt bad for me and invited me out to a club.

She promised she’d find me eight hot guys—like something out of The Bachelorette—to help me get over my heartbreak.

That night, I went all out—full face of makeup, a little black dress, sheer black stockings, and my best strappy heels. I even spent extra time on my eyeliner, aiming for that fierce cat-eye look.

Mason was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of chicken soup. When he saw me, he stopped, frown deepening. "Where are you going?"

He stood there, ladle in hand, the kitchen filled with the aroma of simmering broth and ginger. For a second, I almost caved.

See? He does care.

I lifted my chin. "You’re not my husband, so why do you care where I go?"

Mason replied, voice cool, "You’re not fully recovered. You shouldn’t get sick."

That’s all he’s got?

I gritted my teeth. "You think I’m not fine, but there are plenty of people who think I am—and want to take me out every night—!"

Suddenly, he pinned me against the door, voice low and urgent. "I said, you’re not well. Don’t mess up your health."

His grip was gentle but unyielding, his eyes dark and pleading. For a second, I forgot what we were even fighting about.

I was furious and slapped his chest.

My mind went blank for a couple seconds.

Damn.

That familiar electricity was back.

Since our fight three days ago, I hadn’t spoken to him.

But my body still missed him.

I kept dreaming about him in the shower—those sculpted muscles, pale skin, and those two pink dots like cherry blossoms in the snow.

Finally—finally! I had an excuse to hit his chest again!

Come on, Riley! Stay mad! Don’t give in!

I swallowed and smacked him a few more times.

Then both my wrists were caught and pinned above my head.

Mason held my wrists with one hand, his expression stormy.

"Are you addicted to hitting me?"

Help! My husband is not only hot, he’s psychic!

Give me one good reason not to love him!

I immediately changed tactics, cooing, "Babe, I’m only addicted to you."

Mason smiled, just a little. "Didn’t you say you were gonna party with other guys every night?"

I waved my hand. "That’s just talk. You’re my home!"

His eyes went cold. He let go and turned back to the kitchen. "I’m not your home. Go if you want."

How could I let him walk away?

I chased after him and hugged his waist. "Babe, babe, I was lying! I only have you in my heart. There are no model guys, no wild parties. My heart is yours!"

Mason’s face softened. He looked down at me. "Is that the truth?"

I nodded like crazy, and my hand couldn’t resist slipping under his shirt, tracing his abs.

With hands this fast, I could win Olympic gold...

This time, he didn’t pull away—just closed his eyes, letting me touch him.

The sunset spilled in, lighting up Mason’s face. His eyelashes fluttered, like he was longing for more.

I stood on tiptoe, ready to kiss those red lips.

Then the doorbell rang.

Mason snapped to attention, pushed me away, and headed for the door.

I clung to him, refusing to let go. "Babe, ignore them, let’s keep going."

He sighed. "You’re out of stomach medicine. It’s probably the delivery I ordered. I’ll get it."

He finally gave in for once, but the moment was ruined.

I jumped on him like a koala, arms around his neck.

"Then take your wife with you."

Mason smiled helplessly, and for a moment, I saw real affection in his eyes, before he hid it away.

He just carried me with him to open the door.

The next second, a bunch of grinning faces popped in from the hallway.

"Hey, bro-in-law, is Riley home? We’re here to take her to the 'Twilight Lounge.'"

Their voices were loud, teasing, like the cast of a reality show barging in. Mason’s jaw tightened, and I couldn’t help but grin. This was my life now—messy, noisy, and a little bit wild. But with Mason by my side, honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.