Everyone remembers the night the boy band Eleven broke up. Hearts shattered around the world, including my own.
I made a mistake, and I’ve been avoiding bandmate Mason Nash ever since.
At first it was hard, but eighteen months ago, he made it easier by leaving Hollywood and disappearing.
When Eleven reunion talks start, I’m against it completely. I could really do with the publicity, but I don’t want to face Mason again. I’m sure he won’t want to see me either.
I don’t miss LA or anyone in it. Not even the guys from Eleven.
So, when they turn up on my doorstep talking about reunions, the last thing I want to do is hear them out.
I hold strong too. Until my eyes land on Denver Smith.
My ex-best friend.
Two and a half years ago, he ghosted me, and I still don’t know why.
I want answers—I miss him—but I don’t want to let him back into my life if there’s a chance he’ll walk away again.
I’m almost done rinsing the dishes to go into the dishwasher when a presence behind me makes me flinch. I’m so tired I didn’t hear Mason come in, but now that he’s practically pressed against me, I need all my strength not to lean back against his big body.
“You know, I’ve heard detergent washes dishes better than just water.”
“Ha, ha, smartass. I’m only rinsing them all before putting them in the dishwasher.”
“They have production assistants for that.”
I spin, and Mason takes a step forward, boxing me in. It’s a brave move considering I can still hear everyone out in the main area of the house.
“Are you hiding from me or from everyone?” His low voice goes straight to my cock.
I clear my throat and look Mason in the eyes. “Haven’t I peopled enough for four days?”
He has me locked in place, and I’m fighting every urge to lean in and kiss him again. That has to come from him.
“I thought today was a good day,” he rumbles.
I got to spend it with him by my side, so yeah, I guess it was good. Exhausting and long, but he’s all that matters.
Mason licks his lips as his gaze drifts down to mine. I mirror his movements.
For the briefest of moments, I think he is going to kiss me.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, I silently beg.
He doesn’t. Mason steps away. “You always were a bit of a loner.”
No, come back. I’m not a loner. I just want to be alone with you.
“I guess we have that in common,” I point out. “You ran away to Montana …”
“There’s a difference, though. I didn’t have much of a choice. You surround yourself with people, but you don’t enjoy it. You’ve always been like that. And one day, you’re not going to be able to pull off the nice-guy act anymore. No one is as happy as the person you are on camera twenty-four hours a day. You need an outlet.” He moves to the dishwasher and starts stacking plates.
He’s right, of course, but I don’t want to go there.
“In your words, they have production assistants for that.” I nod toward the dishwasher.
“I’m being helpful.”
“Mm. Helpful or torturous?”
Mason’s deep brown eyes crinkle at the edges like he’s trying not to smile. “Me doing your dishes is torturous?”
It’s sexy is what it is.
I don’t have the balls to say that. “It’s scary. You … doing something domesticated? Never would’ve happened back in the day.”
“You know I’ve been living alone for over a year, right? Who do you think did the dishes?”
I narrow my gaze. “Your mom?”
“I do have the ability to look after myself, thank you very much.”
“But you still can’t cook.”
“You can’t either!”
“I can cook more than you.”
“A turtle can cook more than me. That isn’t an accomplishment.”
I grab the closest dish towel and whip him with it, laughing when his whole body tenses.
“I know you didn’t just do that. There is no possible way Denver Smith threw down that challenge.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because he knows he will lose.”
“Do I, though? I mean … really?”
“Oh, it’s on.” Mason steps closer to counter where there’s another dish towel, but I step in front of him and whip at him again.
It makes a satisfying thwack against his arm.
“Son of a—” He reaches around me, pinning me against the counter again. “You’re going down, Denny.”
“I wish.” I really do wish.
Mason pauses, and I waggle my eyebrows at him. His mouth drops open, and I take the opportunity to use his distraction to my advantage. I steal the other dish towel, so now I have both.
“Oh, so you’re going to play dirty,” Mason says. “Good to know.”
We struggle and wrestle, Mason’s hips still pinning me against the counter as he tries to get a towel from one of my hands.
Damn, he’s stronger than he used to be.
I spin so I’m facing the counter, and I clutch the towels to my chest, but holy fuck, that’s the wrong move. Because now Mason’s big body is pressed against my ass, and if I’m not mistaken, that very big, very hard thing digging into my back isn’t his leg.
He’s … hard? For me?
I look at him over my shoulder. His expression is so lustful it makes my dick ache. His dark eyes are fiery and focused on my lips.
It’s difficult not to push back and rut against him, but I hold firm because I think he’s going to kiss me again.
His pink tongue darts out the tiniest bit, and then—
He steps back and turns toward the dishwasher.
What just happened?
Did he chicken out? Is he trying to drive me fucking crazy?
I startle at a feminine voice. “People are starting to leave.” The production assistant stands near the entrance to the kitchen, her gaze ping-ponging back and forth between Mason and me, and suddenly it makes sense.
We were too careless.