brushed his hand away, ignoring the sparks that arced up her arm. Her body was simply reacting to the memories. They had nothing to do with the man himself.
Reese turned to face him, braced for the battle ahead. “Trust me, Mason,” she said firmly. “Our disastrous marriage was not on my mind when I chose this dress.” Bad enough she had a wedding planner that questioned her every decision—now she had to defend her choices to her ex-husband? “You need to leave now.”
“But I just got here.”
“Well, I have a wedding coming up. And I don’t have time for your pathology.”
His eyes creased with shocked surprise. “Pathology?”
Holding his gaze, she refused to back down as the silence lengthened around them. He knew well and good what she was referring to. When he’d finally returned from Afghanistan all those years ago, they’d tap-danced around the issues long enough to fill two seasons of Dancing with the Stars. Reese, gently trying to help.
Mason, coldly pushing her away.
Her ex finally broke their staring contest and headed in the direction of the door, and her heart soared, hoping he was leaving because of her insult. Instead, he turned and sank into a Louis XV-style, wingback chair. And her hopes sank along with him. He stretched out long legs encased in well-worn jeans that emphasized his raw power, and crossed his ankles. The lazy posture was all an act. Because beneath the laissez-faire attitude was a definite edge, as if he was always scanning his surroundings, taking in every detail. Looking for danger. Prepared to react.
Except, of course, when it came to relationships.
“Pathology,” he repeated, now looking amused by her choice of words.
Irritation swelled. Wasn’t it just like the man to treat the serious issues so cavalierly?
“Surely you didn’t come all this way to give me a running commentary on my dress,” she said.
“True.”
Irritation swelled when he didn’t elaborate. “Or comment on my figure.”
“Right again.”
“So—” seeking comfort, she smoothed a lock of hair behind her shoulder “—why are you here?”
And, even more importantly, how was she going to get the stubborn man to leave?
TWO
Why are you here?
It was a helluva question.
Should he be flippant and say he wanted to drive her crazy? Because she’d always been sexiest when riled? After ten years she still looked so beautiful that the first sight had been like a blast to his chest—surprising, since his lack of a sex drive lately had started to scare the heck out of him.
Or should he go with the blunt truth: because his shrink had sent him?
Pathology, indeed. A soft grunt escaped, and his lips twisted wryly. As if his screwed-up head could somehow be treated by facing the “unresolved issues in his past.” Mason had scoffed out loud at the psychiatrist’s words.
Personally, Mason was pretty damn sure his “issues”—the relentless insomnia, the crippling migraines and a sex drive that had gone AWOL—were all the result of the IED that had exploded eight months ago, nearly killing him. Traumatic Brain Injury was the diagnosis, leaving him with a crappy short-term memory, as well. But what difference did a name make when sixteen sticks of C4 had knocked him on his ass on a pothole-filled road in Afghanistan? Where he had lain, unconscious, for two hours before his buddies could extract him from the concrete-littered street.
Why he was still alive, he had no idea.
But essentially, he was here today because he’d more or less been ordered to come. He’d tried everything else, and the medical doctor’s only words of encouragement now were that things should get better with time. The operative word being should. And then his shrink had insisted that Mason reach out to all the people he’d pushed out of his life over the years, which had been easier said than done. Because, seriously, finding closure after his disastrous FUBAR of a marriage with Reese?
Impossible.
But life was difficult while dealing with searing headaches that struck without mercy. If there was any chance at all, no matter how small, that Mason could get closer to his fully functional, pain-free life, he’d grab it with both hands.
Even if he did believe the mission to be a complete waste of time.
He rubbed the scar at his temple, easing the tensed muscles. “Maybe I’m just here to wish my ex well before her big day,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t believe him.
Hell, he didn’t believe him.
Reese stared back with those inscrutable blue eyes that, at one time, had been his whole world. But that felt like a thousand years ago. And he’d been a different man. Whole.
Pathology-free.
The irony brought a smile to his mouth as he studied Reese. Her sleek blond hair gently curled at ends that lay just beyond her shoulders. The style was shorter than when they’d first met, her long hair then a remnant of her youthful years. A girl hovering at the edges of womanhood. Bright. Beautiful. And hopelessly optimistic. And unlike every other female he’d known before or since, completely classy. She had radiated an elegance that had bedazzled the guy from the run-down suburb in New Jersey. Fortunately, his long-term memories were vividly intact, his fondest ones consisting of teaching Reese the joys of down-and-dirty, sweaty sex.
She’d enjoyed every minute of it, too.
He had yet to experience that kind of intensity with anyone other than Reese—couldn’t work up an appetite for anything since the explosion eight months ago. And while the memories were a reminder of his currently missing libido, unfortunately the shared enjoyment of each other’s body had failed to bridge the monumental gap between them. It had simply blinded them both to the brutal reality.
“Not that I think you’re telling the truth—” Reese hooked a hand on a hip “—but consider your well wishes received.”
“My wedding gift is in the truck.”
She looked as if she wasn’t sure if he was kidding or not, and then drew herself up to her full height, all five foot four inches of her.
Reese jerked her head toward the door. “You should leave now.”
He could, but he was taking a moment to enjoy the view.
The fair features. The wide eyes, so blue they reminded him of a cloudless summer sky. The full, pink-tinted lips that had loved every inch of his body.
His voice dropped an octave. “In a hurry to get rid of me, Park Avenue?”
A small furrow creased her brow. “I’m too old for nicknames anymore.”
“Not true,” he said. “We just need to adjust the name.” He nodded at the dress that was fit for a royal wedding, her legs surrounded by a frothy amount of netting. Perfect. Because she was a foamy, girlie latte whose upbringing had left her too delicate to withstand his bitter, black coffee self. “I say drop the Park Avenue and just leave it at Princess.”
Was it his imagination, or did her nostrils just flare in anger?
“My fiancé Dylan is due to arrive any minute,” she said crisply.
“Dylan, huh?” he repeated out of habit.
He pulled out the small notebook in his pocket and scribbled the name down, in the off chance he needed to remember. Reese eyed his movements as if he was mocking her by his actions.
If only.
“And I don’t think you should be here when he arrives,” she said.
Unconcerned, he lifted a brow. “Is he going