Fucking hell. Not that I don’t love hearing she did that. Why couldn’t I have been present for that little offhand comment?

She frowns. “No, but you’re asking other things of me, Mason. Things I don’t do.”

“And you’re doing them.”

“I know that!” She startles at her own voice, her eyes round and regretful as she looks around us, at the attention we’ve possibly drawn, but I wouldn’t know for certain if that’s the case.

I can only look at Brooke. The anxiousness radiating off her in thick waves. I can practically feel it on my skin.

She shakes her head, drops her elbows to the glossy table-top, and begins rubbing at her temple. “I know that. God, do you think I don’t?” she asks much quieter, looking across the small table at me. Her hands lower. “Do you have any idea how strange this is for me? How confusing this must be, for me? Do you? Or are you just caught up in getting me to do things your way? As long as I’m agreeing to shit, that’s all that matters, right?”

I give her a hard look. “What? No, of course not.”

“Yeah, okay,” she remarks coldly, averting her gaze.

My brow furrows as I observe her.

Jesus Christ. Women are mysterious creatures.

I force myself to calm down, once again. The beginnings of one hell of a headache builds behind my eyes.

Just pull her aside and tell her you love her.

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Right. Because she’s not already freaked out enough. Bombarding her with that confession will surely do her in.

I absorb the idea of Brooke having a complete nervous breakdown. Right here. Right now. Being too distraught to talk or even move after I’ve divulged my deepest feelings for her.

Will I be permitted to visit her in the hospital while she’s under clinical observation? Surely the staff won’t know exactly why she’s in there. That is, if she isn’t talking . . .

Reaching out, I brush my fingers against the back of her wrist. Her eyes follow my calming gesture. “I see how hesitant you are, Brooke, but I also see how you relax around me. How playful and fucking adorable you get when we’re together, and not just when you’re pissed. Though I do enjoy that version of you a good bit.”

Her head lifts. She winces at the memory. “Christ, that hangover was epic. I thought I was dying.”

We share a brief, quiet laugh. Hers more fleeting than mine. She’s still too anxious to soften for me.

I slide my fingers lower and gently squeeze her hand. “I know I ask a lot of you. I know I have since the beginning, but I think you rather enjoy yourself when you stop thinking so much about what this is and just fucking be with me. Stop thinking, Brooke.”

“I can’t,” she whispers, tugging her hand away, her gaze drifting to the table. “I can’t stop thinking. Trust me, I’m trying, okay? But it’s not happening. Not today.” She bites at her lip and slouches against the back of her stool. “I just need . . .”

“A minute?” I suggest, drawing her eyes back to my face. I faintly smile.

I hear you, baby.

She stares at me, frowning. “Yeah,” she replies through a small nod, her voice incredibly quiet. “A minute.”

I push at her cup, sliding it closer.

An offer of coffee and company, minus the conversation. Somehow I think this is a better option for Brooke rather than what I’ve been working around to this entire time.

Talking until she understands how ridiculous her worries are. How she doesn’t need to label us if she doesn’t want to yet, just as long as she acknowledges and admits to everyone in this bloody coffee shop that she is mine as much as I am hers. Once she’s done that, we can take her announcement to the street, let the general population know. Venture out to neighboring cities and alert the media . . .

Okay, maybe that last part is a bit of a pipe dream. I’ll be fucking ecstatic with one broad declaration to the masses.

Or to me. Hearing her tell me will be enough.

Brooke regards the coffee, her expression soft and timid. Finally reaching out with both hands, she brings it to her mouth and takes a long sip. I do the same with mine, watching her, wanting to be closer so I can smell her hair and that vanilla cupcake body lotion she slathers on herself.

She turns her head and reveals the long slope of her neck. Her pale throat.

Desire hums in my blood.

Fuck, I love kissing her there.

I swallow a heaping gulp of coffee.

She needs a minute? I need a bloody minute.

Clearing all indecency from my thoughts and willing my cock not to react, I watch her dimple cave in with her next sip.

Time passes. We embrace the silence between us, only it’s not contented or easy like it’s always been. I can practically hear her mind analyzing and overanalyzing, considering labels and then dismissing them with dishonest perception.

I have to bite my tongue to keep from speaking. I know how easily I can shoot this nonsense down. How concluding my argument is.

I’m in love with you. We’re damn near perfect together, and you know it. Stop fighting this and come home with me.

Brooke taps on the side of her cup and stares between the window and the phone she places in front of her, every few minutes or so noting the time.

I finish my coffee and debate on getting another. I have a feeling my afternoon classes will be demanding and unusually difficult to focus on. Maybe a massive caffeine boost will help. My attention already wanders absentmindedly to thoughts of Brooke when I’m supposed to be instructing.

The curve of her hips. Her cute laugh. The way her tongue always tastes of sugar.

Knowing she’s across the street questioning us might be enough to distract me entirely.

Might be? Who am I kidding? I’m tempted to clear out my schedule and spend the rest of the day convincing her. Erase all doubt from her mind as my hands roam her body, as I press the most vulgar words I can think of into the flush of her skin.

That sounds like a brilliant plan.

Licking the mocha off her lips, Brooke checks the time again, abruptly standing and palming her device. She grabs her nearly empty coffee. “I need to get back before I lose my job. Dylan already has cause to fire me. I accidentally yelled at her earlier.” She looks away, muttering, “I’m yelling at everyone.”

I touch her wrist. She quickly jerks her hand up and adjusts her pony.

A subtle, yet not so subtle move to keep me from touching her? I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just becoming paranoid.

“All right then.” I stand and toss my cup into a nearby rubbish bin. Following her to the door, I hold it open and allow her to walk out ahead of me.

She steps onto the footpath. When she glances in my direction, I gesture down the street.

“I’m just down there. Where did you park? I’ll walk you.”

“Um.” She looks up at me, her eyes careful. Both of her hands holding her cup. “Maybe you don’t?” she quietly suggests.

Maybe I don’t?

I feel my eyebrows raise in surprise, my lips slowly part, though I’m not sure why. I should be expecting this.

She said so in the coffee shop. In so many words, with her stiff, averse body language, she needs me to back off a bit. Give her some time. Her minute. Honestly, it’s the last thing I want to do, but what choice do I have here? I want Brooke to acknowledge on her own what this is for her.