Chapter 1 Mason

Mason

“What the actual fuck, Mason?”

I groaned as Trent’s voice echoed through my foyer, then lay back on the couch and tried to pretend like if I didn’t look at him, he wouldn’t be able to see me. Which, of course, was bullshit. But I was fresh out of ideas.

“What day is it, motherfucker?” Trent’s voice was louder now, closer, and despite my better judgment I cracked an eyelid open to find him standing over me, his normally dark expression even darker than usual.

“Leave me alone,” I croaked.

“Nope.” He shoved my feet off the end of the sofa to take a seat on the buttery white leather. “It’s Sunday. And you want to know what happened? I was just fucking humiliated out there.”

“Shit. Sorry about that.” I turned, pulling my feet up onto the ottoman, then yanked my blanket a little closer to my chin.

“You are not,” Trent muttered. “You know Sunday is rugby in the park. How the hell are we supposed to win a game without our star player? Today was Medical versus Surgical, you piece of shit. You think the surgeons are going to let us live this down? Ever?”

I winced, knowing he was right. Fucking surgeons, cocky pricks. Fact was, they shouldn’t even have been playing rugby considering how precious they were about their delicate hands, but that didn’t seem to stop them.

“Look,” I said, feeling slightly bad for the first time since he’d basically broken into my place, “I’m kind of going through something right now. It’s an emergency and—”

“Not being able to find the contact info for your one-night stand does not constitute an emergency, no matter how many times you try to frame it that way, Mason.”

“One man’s burden is another man’s gift. Tomato, tomahto. No crying over spilled milk.” I ran out of bad, inapplicable sayings and straightened up on the couch. Trent snagged the remote from my hand and muted the episode of Treehouse Masters I’d been watching.

“Still no luck, huh?” Trent asked, a little less harshly this time—though still not by much.

“Nope,” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I checked every dating site I could think of. She wasn’t on any of them. I even looked on Tinder. Nothing. In fact, no one with the name Bren at all.”

“Hey, here’s an idea.” His lips twisted into something resembling an encouraging smile. “Just go on a date with someone from Tinder and forget about it. It’s been a week, dude. Let it go.” Trent crossed his arms over his chest, and I reached for the bowl of lukewarm soup in front of me.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“That you discovered the holy grail of pussy? The pussy to rule them all? The fucking one pussy that obliterates all the rest of the pussy?” Trent snorted. “I get it, I just don’t buy it.” He shoved a hand through his thick, dark hair. “There are plenty of girls out there. I could even set you up with one of Kayla’s sisters if you would just—”

“No, I’m going to find this girl.” I clenched my fists, then blew out a ragged sigh. “It’s just going to take a little more work than I expected.”

I already knew I was spinning my wheels in vain trying to explain her to a guy like Trent. For him, every woman he dated was the same—a chance to get laid and, if he was lucky, have a good time before, during, and for a little while after. Maybe.

For me? It wasn’t so easy.

Don’t get me wrong. I could have just about any woman I wanted. That wasn’t a cocky thing, either. It was just…well, the truth. Ever since I’d been old enough to know how sex worked, I’d been able to find willing partners, but for me relationships were about more than just a quick roll in the hay. Becoming a doctor hadn’t hurt the situation, and loving women on the whole didn’t hurt me any either.

And still, I wanted something more. Now that I was getting older…

Well, that something more seemed to be getting more and more important all the time. This girl had blown my fucking mind in the best possible way. She’d been gorgeous, of course. But she’d been funny, and smart, and unexpected. I’d gone to sleep totally satisfied and stoked to tell her exactly that in the morning, only to find she’d ghosted.

Gone, without a word or a note, even.