Chapter 2

Mason's Mercedes pulled up forty-five minutes later. I knew it was his before I even looked up. I'd spent my entire adolescence listening for it, heart hammering every time Sloane mentioned he was coming home from the city for the weekend.

Tonight, my heart hammered for a different reason.

The car parked at the curb. The door opened. And there he was.

Mason Chen. Six feet two of lean muscle and careless arrogance, dark hair pushed back from his forehead like he'd just rolled out of someone's bed, jaw set in that permanent sneer that made him look like he was bored of you before you even opened your mouth. He was wearing a black button-down with the top three buttons undone, gold chain resting against his collarbone, sunglasses pushed up into his hair even though it was past nine at night.

He looked like every bad decision I'd never let myself make.

"Lucy." He didn't even look at me. Just tilted his head toward the passenger seat. "Get in."

Not hey, you okay? Not I heard what happened. Just get in, like I was an inconvenience his sister had guilted him into picking up.

I should have been used to it by now. I'd known Mason for ten years. Ten years of sleepovers at Sloane's mansion, of pool parties and holiday dinners where he'd stroll in late with a different girl on his arm every time. Blonde girls. Tall girls. Girls who looked nothing like me who was a plain, brown-haired, forgettable Lucy.

To him, I was just Sloane's annoying little friend. The one who tagged along. The one who asked too many questions and laughed too loud. The one he'd once described as aggressively average when he didn't think anyone was listening.

I climbed into the passenger seat anyway because I had nowhere else to go.

The car smelled like him. Leather and expensive cologne and something darker underneath. I pressed myself against the door, as far from him as the seat would allow, and stared out the window.

Sloane had stayed behind. Someone has to pack up your stuff from Mrs. Harlow's, she'd said, kissing my cheek. Go with Mason. I'll meet you there.

Traitor.

"So," Mason said, pulling away from the curb with one hand on the wheel. The other rested on the center console, close enough that I could see the silver rings on his fingers. "Sloane says you got robbed."

"Mmhm."

"That's rough." He didn't sound like he meant it. "Everything?"

"Wallet. Phone. About three hundred dollars I was supposed to use for rent." I kept my voice flat. Casual. Like I wasn't actively falling apart six inches away from him. "The apartment's gone too. Mrs. Harlow gave it to someone else."

He let out a low whistle. "Damn, Luce. When it rains, it pours."

Luce. He hadn't called me that since I was fourteen and he was eighteen, messing up my hair just to watch me get annoyed. I hated how my stomach still flipped.

"It's fine," I said.

"It's definitely not fine." He glanced at me then, just for a second. His eyes were dark and unreadable. "But whatever helps you sleep at night."

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

His house was exactly what you'd expect from someone with his last name. A sprawling modern mansion. The kind of place that cost more than Imy earnings in my entire lifetime. Sloane's family home was the same, her parents had millions, and they'd made sure both their children wanted for nothing.

Mason killed the engine. The garage alone was bigger than my old apartment. "Guest house is out back. Pool house, technically. But it's got a bed and a bathroom. You can stay as long as you need."

"You don't have to do this."

"I know." He finally looked at me. Really looked. His gaze swept over my face, my ratty sweatshirt, the dark circles under my eyes. Something flickered across his expression. Pity, maybe. Or amusement. "Sloane asked. Consider it a favor to her."

Right. A favor to Sloane. Not because he cared.

I followed him through the side gate, past a heated pool that glittered under landscape lighting. The pool house was nicer than any place I'd ever lived. There was a stack of fluffy towels on the counter and a bottle of wine next to two glasses.

"Wasn't sure what you'd want," Mason said, noticing my stare. "The wine's from Sloane. She said you'd probably need it."

Of course. Sloane being thoughtful. Mason just providing the space.

"Thanks," I said.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. The position made his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt. I looked away.

"One rule," he said. "I have people over sometimes. Girls. Whatever you hear, whatever you see, you keep your mouth shut. Got it?"

My stomach twisted. "Got it."

"I'm not trying to be an asshole. Well." A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe a little. But this is my space. You're a guest. Don't make it weird."

Don't make it weird. As if I was the one who'd make things weird. As if I was the one parading a revolving door of blondes through his bedroom.

"I won't be a problem," I said quietly.

"Good." He pushed off the doorframe. "Night, Lucy."

"Night."

He left. The door clicked shut. I stood in the middle of the beautiful, sterile pool house and tried not to cry.

This was fine. This was temporary. I would find a job, save some money, get back on my feet. Mason would continue to barely notice me, and I would continue to pretend that was fine.

I could do this. I had to.

An hour later, I couldn't sleep.

The pool house was too quiet. Too perfect.

I needed water. Real water, not the fancy glass bottle on the nightstand that probably cost more than my weekly grocery budget.

The main house was dark when I slipped through the side door Mason had shown me earlier. I didn't turn on any lights, didn't want to announce my presence like some kind of ghost. Just padded barefoot across the kitchen tiles. The kitchen was absurd. Marble everywhere. A stove that looked like it belonged in a restaurant. A fridge that probably had an opinion about me.

I found a glass in the cabinet, filled it at the sink, and froze.

Voices. Coming from somewhere down the hallway. Mason's, low and rough. And a woman's. High and breathy.

"—can't believe you made me wait," the woman was saying. "My friends are already at the club."

"Then go." Mason's voice was flat. Dismissive. "I didn't ask you to stop by."

"You never ask. That's kind of your thing, isn't it?"

A pause. Then the sound of movement. A soft thud against a wall.

I should have left. I should have taken my water and gone back to the pool house and pretended I hadn't heard anything. But my feet wouldn't move.

"You're such an asshole," the woman said, but she was laughing. It wasn't an insult. It was an invitation.

"And yet you're still here." Mason's voice dropped lower. "What does that say about you?"

I backed away from the kitchen, glass clutched to my chest, and nearly tripped over a decorative vase. Something clattered. The voices stopped.

Shit. "Hello?" Mason called out.

I ran. Barefoot across the floor, through the side door, across the patio. I didn't stop until I was back inside the pool house with the door locked behind me, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I thought I might be sick.

I pressed my back against the door and slid down to the floor.

This was going to be impossible.

Because it wasn't just that Mason was a playboy. It wasn't just that he was rude or that he'd never look twice at someone like me. It was that even knowing all of that, even knowing he had some faceless blonde pressed against his hallway wall right now, I still felt something hot and humiliating tug in my chest every time he said my name.

I rested my forehead on my knees and stayed there until the faint sounds of laughter from the main house finally faded.