Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
One the other side, big blue eyes stare back at me in shock.
Payton
My mouth is hanging open, my limbs frozen as I stare through the clear glass.
Mason.
He’s…here.
Why is he here?
He squeezes his eyes closed, and mine fall. The blood on the floor is what snaps me out of it, and I jump up, my camera tumbling to the wooden deck beneath my feet as I dash for the slider. I tug, but it’s locked. My eyes snap up to him, but he’s facing away from me now, so I run around the wraparound porch. Thankfully, the front is open, and seconds later, I’m barreling into the house, coming to a screeching halt when I reach the kitchen.
“Oh my god.” My hand drops to my belly, worry washing over me and completely unsure of what I’m really looking at. “Mase.”
“Leave.”
My head snaps up, our eyes locking, and he gives me a look I’ve never seen from him.
Anger. His lip is curled, teeth clenched, and there’s a dark fire in his brown gaze.
I move closer.
“I said leave,” he snaps, his head yanking in the opposite direction.
I bend down in front of him, one hand holding on to the island to keep me steady, my other trembling as I reach out and brush my fingers over his knee.
Slowly, he glances over, and the bravado falls instantly. “Please leave,” he whispers, his tone so desperate, something stirs in my chest. “I can’t stand you seeing me like this.”
“Well, we have to get even, don’t we?” I whisper, smiling softly when he frowns. “You’ve seen me a heck of a lot worse.”
A hint of a smile tugs at his lips before it’s gone. “So you’re saying this is only fair?”
I shrug and he drops his chin to his chest.
“Can I help you stand? You may or may not have glass sticking out of your ass.”
Mason huffs a laugh, and instantly his back bows, a harsh wince whooshing past his lips. He starts panting, and worry claws at my throat.
He’s hurt, that’s obvious. But how? When?
I stand, tugging gently on his left hand, seeing as his right is cradled to his chest, but he doesn’t budge, instead yanking back with a look of horror on his face.
“The baby.” He shakes his head.
“If I feel like I’m straining myself, I’ll stop. Trust me.” I reach out again, and Mason’s jaw twitches.
Slowly, he allows me to take his hand, but he gives me little to no weight, his nostrils flaring with his own exertion. He turns slightly as he stands, leaning a hip against the island, and I shift behind him. I glance at his back, and there’s no glass in his sweats I can see, so I shuffle closer, hoping he’ll lean on me at the least.
“Be careful,” he whispers. “Don’t get glass in your feet.”
I look down at the sandals I’m wearing but say nothing as I try to slide under his left arm, but he doesn’t allow it, shifting away and moving ahead at a slow pace.
His posture is rigid, his fist bloody and clenched. I follow behind as he makes his way toward the couch and eases himself down.
A harsh breath hisses past his lips, and he drops his head back with a pant, as if it took all he had in his tank to get there.
My heart rate picks up, concern consuming me. He’s so pale, no sign of the forever tan I know him to wear, and his face is scrunched in pain and misery. Before I turn to a pile of panic, I rush back into the kitchen, snagging the first aid kit.
When I come back, Mason glances my way from the corner of his eye. “I’ll be fine. You can go.”
I lower onto the cushion beside him.
“I’m serious, Payton.”
I fold my feet under me.
He faces forward with a frown. “I’m tired.”
“I could use a nap.” I tip my head. “I mean, you’re just a little bruised. I’m the one carrying around a bowling ball.”
A grin splits his lips, and he jerks, his hand flying to his ribs. “Fuck, it hurts to even think about laughing.”
I say nothing, and after a stretch of silence, he sighs and holds his palm out.
Gingerly, I take one, using a pair of tweezers to remove two small pieces of glass, and then wipe the skin clean. The little cuts aren’t big enough to need a Band-Aid, but I add one anyway because they have little footballs all over.
Mason glares at the small white strip, and realization hits me hard and fast.
Oh my god, football.
My eyes fly to his face, and when he looks at me, it’s with a loaded expression I know all too well. It’s panic and pain. It’s fear and loss laced with utter disappointment.
And it’s all pointed right back at himself.
I have a million questions, and based on his next words, it must show.