Friday afternoon had come and I had gone through my first shift at Aletta without Rhia.

It went torturously slowly without her snarky side comments and short lines of motivations too often including the word "beotch."

College, on the other hand, had gone relatively quickly, mainly due to the free period we had. We found ourselves in one of the main libraries of the school.

High rising and lit up with circular chandeliers, cream-coloured pillars carved the edges of the building. Shelves filled to the brim with invaluable first editions lined the sides of the the tawn walls. It was the most beautiful library I'd ever seen. It felt unreal.

"Did you notice how similar Prof Lawrence and Prof Harvey look?" Cleo scoffed, indignant, "And they say all Asians look alike. You almost can't differentiate between the two."

"I mean you could differentiate anything if you used dy by dx." I cracked a dorky smile.

Cleo stared at me for a while, holding back a smile. "You are the epitome of a math nerd, you know that?" she mused.

"Math is cool," I replied.

"Most people seem to think otherwise."

We spent the rest of the period studying and completely the week's assignments. Luckily, there was not as much homework for me to do this weekend, and a little revision would suffice.

I reached the apartment with an unusual burst of energy. Mason had given me a second access card for his room, which I swiped, then pushed open the door.

I shuffled in, setting my bag down on the counter. He was sitting at the table, a sketch pad in front of him.

"I took a look at those records," I said, by way of greeting, "Horrendous."

I made no effort to talk about what had happened last night. His nightmare. If he wanted to talk about it, he would. I wasn't going to be that person.

He lifted his eyes to me as I chugged down a glass of his mango juice.

"Logan gave them to you?" he asked.

"Sort of," I said, "Where were you?"

"Buying groceries," he replied, "including that juice you're currently drinking."

I set down the glass so that it purposely chinked on the smooth granite surface. "For however long I'm here, I'm paying half of the expenses."

A grin quirked on Mason's lips. "If I were to say no—"

"I wouldn't listen anyway," I said, "I've got a computer application for Charley's records. It'll be easier for the guys there to use. So now that I'll be of no use in that department, I've got to contribute somewhere else."

He sighed deeply, closing his sketchpad. "If it helps you sleep at night."

I nodded, heading back to the door. I wanted to see that sketchpad. I doubted he'd show it to me, though. It seemed personal.

"Where are you going?" he called.

"Shopping," I threw behind my back. Then, highly aware that he'd most likely refuse, I asked, "Wanna come?"

There was a long pause before he said, "Yeah. Yeah I'll come."

Shit.

I tried not to grimace when he got off the bar stool and edged toward me in black jeans, a white shirt and a light denim jacket rolled up to his forearms.

"Nice shirt," he muttered, staring down at my favorite shirt, with the focal point of an iridescent alien saying I DON'T BELIEVE IN HUMANS.

"I know, right?" I quipped.

He mumbled, "Trust you to believe aliens exist."

I narrowed my eyes. "What? Of freaking course they do."

Mason shrugged. "It's hard to believe..."

"Isn't everything?"

"...Improbable," he persisted.

I raised a brow. "That, my ill informed acquaintance, is where you are terribly wrong. There are billions of galaxies and earth doesn't even form a tiny speck of that. It would be improbable for alien life not to exist."

Light bounced in Mason's eyes. He smiled, a sight I saw slightly more often of recent. All he said was, "Okay."

"You should try believing in things, Mason," I muttered. "You'd be pleasantly surprised."

He didn't respond. We stopped outside, where my red Bentley was parked close to Mason's motorcycle.

"We could always take Rebecca," Mason suggested.

I scowled at the mention of the name. "Nope, we're taking my car."

Mason chuckled. "Give me your keys."

My palm tightened around my car key. "No. I'm driving."

For a second, Mason just stared at me with incredulity. Then, he sighed with slight exaggeration, and opened the door. I got in after him.

Mason dwarfed the passenger seat of my car. His large, brooding figure was far too encompassing for the seat. His curls brushed the roof of the car. It made me realize how truly tall he was.

The sight brought a smile to my face.

He glowered. "You going to start the car anytime soon?"

I pulled into my bottom lip to keep myself from laughing. "Okay, okay," I mused.

I switched on the car. While I drove, Mason was largely silent. It was normal, I realized. I always did most of the talking.

I didn't like shopping. The things that looked nice on the mannequins almost never looked as good on you, and if they did, you probably wouldn't like the color, or the style, or something of that sort.

So when I drove into 5th avenue, I was not as amazed as I'd liked to have been. The buildings were high rise, and hundreds of branded shops covered every accessible place, lit up in the dusk of the day as the sky receded into a shade of purple.

Mason scoffed. "Not my favorite place."

I curled my lip as I glared at his side profile. "I didn't force you to come."

His stared at me, his gaze softening. Then it morphed into that insufferable smirk of his.

"You make it better," he mused.

He caught me off guard. I composed myself as quickly as possible.

"Stop spewing nonsense," I muttered, then I looked at the parking machine, "35 bucks for underground parking? What a rip off."

I could almost feel Mason's amused expression as I took the parking slip anyway, driving into the nearest parking bay at an awkward angle.

"At least you got it at half price," he mused, getting out of the car.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "What do you mean?"

He motioned to the parking bay with a smirk. "You took up two spots. Two parkings for the price of one seems pretty fair to me."

I rolled my eyes walking ahead of him. He caught up with me eventually as we reached street level.

I walked into the first shop I saw. I decided that I was buying my dress here, and nowhere else, because I had no patience for things like this.

No patience at all.

Bright lights lit up the store, and tones of black, beige and cream gave it its sophistic appeal.

"What are you looking for anyway?" Mason asked, right behind me.

A saleswomen offered me a polite smile and her help, which I politely refused. I knew what I didn't want —surely that was good enough.

I swept my eyes back to him. "An evening dress. Caleb invited me to a charity ball your parents are holding."

Mason's eyes flashed. Surprise, then the closest thing to anger. "They're not my parents."

I stopped flitting through the hangers of plastic-lined couture. "What do you mean?"

Mason sighed. "Caleb and I are step brothers. My father remarried his mother."

"And you don't think of your father as a parent?"

His jaw clenched, and he simply said, "No."

I exhaled. There was a long pause before he decided to break the silence between us.

"What if I was also invited to this... charity ball?" he mused.

I froze. "But you aren't."

Mason chuckled lowly. "That's a little presumptuous of you. I'm still my father's son, after all. He still engages in pleasantries and invites me to his parties. I just choose to refuse them politely. Sometimes."

I narrowed my eyes. "Did you refuse this time?"

Mason shook his head. "I wasn't going to go."

I let go of a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"But—" he started.

Lead weighed down my heart.

"I've changed my mind," he said, those dark brown eyes marking their spot, "I suppose my father gets tired of seeing Caleb's pretty face so often. What better time to offer him some aesthetic variety?"

"Whatever," I grumbled, "your presence makes no difference to me."

He winked, edging closer to me. His lips neared my ear.

"You shouldn't speak lies, blondie," he whispered, "not when I see through them so easily."

A shiver cantered down my spine, and I swallowed, my breathing shallow. I pulled out a dress from the rack abruptly, broadening the distance between us. "I'm going to try this out," I muttered.

"Go ahead," he said, a maddening smirk on his lips as he cleared out of the way for me.

I only really got a look at the dress I'd picked when I was in the dressing room. I needed a distraction, and had just taken a random dress off the rack.

Well, I might as well wear the damn thing. I unzipped the protective sheet of plastic covering it. It was long, with a tulle blue skirt, a sweetheart neckline and a... compromising slit that would show much leg.

I stripped off my clothes rather unwillingly, and struggled into the dress.

The bright light, the unflattering mirror and the fact that Mason was waiting right outside did nothing for my self esteem.

Suddenly I was not Everly Reed.

I was the largeness of my breasts, the lanky way I stood, the way my hair stood up in places and worst of all, the faint white stretch marks tainted on my thighs, so clearly visible through the see-through net of the dress.

I had always hated my stretch marks.
They had appeared during my puberty phase. I'd stopping running, stopped all forms of physical activity. And my body showed me how much it loved that.

I'd always found those discoloured lines unattractive. Ugly.

Maybe I still did.

Shut up, that small part of me hissed, you are your own definition of beautiful and worthy.

That part was beginning to sound annoying similar to Mason. But I doubted he found me beautiful and worthy. Who the hell cared?

I buried my insecurities with a metaphorical shovel.

I huffed, waddling out of the changeroom without a second thought.

There was a low whistle from behind me. I turned to meet Mason's intrigued look.

I rolled my eyes. "How does it look?"

Mason pursed his lips, staring directly and relentlessly at my boobs. "Tight," he muttered.

I bit my tongue to keep myself from lashing out immediately. "That was very helpful. Really," I said tersely.

I grabbed three more hangers of long dresses, catching the eyes of shop assistants who looked over at me with amusement.

Then, back in the changeroom, I peeled off that exasperating blue dress and slipped on a red one instead.

This one was more flattering on my chest, and had an intricate lace pattern that cascaded down to my hip in a sensual bow.

When I walked out this time, Mason's eyes clouded over with something I couldn't recognise. He swallowed.

"You wore red before," he said quietly, "for him."

"You're right," I muttered. "It's a bit repetitive."

I made my way back to the change room, unzipping the red dress and trying on a long, light, white one.

It fit nicely at the sides, the soft fabric falling down to my feet. It had a long slit as well, but I found myself not caring. The neckline V-shaped, only slightly exposing. No gems, no embellishments.

I walked out. Mason just stared at me with a blank face. He hadn't given an ounce of positive feedback. Not a small bit.

I sighed, asking, "What do you—"

He pounced on me.

My eyes widened as he backed me into the changeroom, my spine meeting the wood lining the small, enclosed space. His arms were on either side of me, as he leaned down to meet my gaze.

"Mason—" I breathed.

"God, Ever," he choked out. "It's fucking gorgeous. Everything you wear is fucking gorgeous. You could be wearing a damn rag for all I care. I've been trying so hard to play it down but you're insufferable. So stop asking me for validation, because my answer will be the same."

"I'll take this one, then," I squeaked, worming my way out of his hold.

Did he really think that?

Did I care?

Maybe he was just tired of me changing so many times. I knew I was. But why did he have to be so angry about it?

I visited the changeroom for the last time, carefully removing the dress and putting on my own clothes before stepping out.

Mason had disappeared.

Had he left without me? No. I began searching the store. After ten minutes of searching through the endless racks and mannequins, I finally found him.

He was staring down at something in his hands with a transfixed gaze.

"Mason," I called.

He whipped his head to me. As I neared him, I noticed the cream colored sweater in his hands.

"This... feels nice. Soft," he said, eyes on not leaving mine. "Reminds me of you."

I blinked, my mouth dry.

"It's cashmere," I said, eventually.

"I'm taking it," he said.

"It's from the women's section," I reminded him.

He frowned.

"Clothes shouldn't have a gender. I'm taking it," he said, picking up the XXXL.

I shrugged. "Okay."

We walked over to the paying section in silence, no mention of what had happened a few minutes ago.

He handed the cashmere sweater to the cashier, and she scanned it in.

"Give me the dress," Mason said quietly.

I held on tighter. "I'm paying for it."

"Don't be stubborn, blondie."

The cashier's eyes darted between us.

"It would be rude to refuse," he continued.

There he was, playing me where it hurt most.

Declining Caleb's offer to pay with the credit card he'd given me seemed utterly futile. I sighed, handing him the dress.

When Mason placed in down, he pulled out a card and handed it to the cashier. She stared at him with a little awe and adoration in her eyes, before returning her gaze to her work.

He handed me a fancy box containing my dress, his sweater in a bag. I was about to disclose a "thank you" before his phone rang.

He answered it quickly. Whatever the person on the other end was saying, it made a frown appear on Mason's face.

After a while, he cut the call and placed his phone back in his pocket.

"Who was it?" I asked.

"The investigator," Mason replied.

I urged him to continue as a knob formed in my throat.

"They still have that guy from the club—Wilkins, by last name, in custody," he said, "The fingerprints don't match."

Fear coursed through my veins.

If it wasn't him that broke into my apartment, who was it?

*

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