I grip Mason’s arm and step through the front door of the dim, old-time tavern. He is disheveled as hell from a long day. But the look is drool-worthy on him. I’ve said it before and I’ll forever stand by it—messy hair and a little stubble on his jaw has this magical way of upleveling this man’s sex appeal to otherworldly proportions. I maybe greasy and windblown from our journey to Honey Hill but I’m proud as hell to be the woman on his arm tonight. Like second nature, he slides his fingers through mine, squeezing my hand as we walk. I can’t help the massive grin that peels across my face.
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