“Who is everyone?”

“Joey. Dylan.” She pops the tab on her lid but doesn’t take a sip. “They’ve been bugging me about it all morning. Non-stop. They want me to admit things. Label it. Us. I don’t feel like I should have to. It’s nobody’s business what I’m feeling, or what I’m not feeling.”

Our eyes meet. My hand curls into a fist on the table.

What she’s not feeling?

“That’s complete bullshit,” I want to say, but I don’t. I didn’t coax her to sit with me and practically beg her to talk just to have an argument.

But I know she feels something. I know this changed for her too. I don’t buy her denial.

She’s freaked out because she knows what this is. Not because she doesn’t.

Brooke looks away again, tapping her fingers on the cup.

I force my hand to relax and slide it into my lap. “All right, then don’t. Don’t explain it,” I suggest, catching her cautious attention. “Why do we have to be labeled anything? Why can’t we just continue doing what we’re doing, ‘cause I thought it was pretty fucking great.”

“But everyone . . .”

“Who cares about everyone?” I ask, my voice growing a decibel louder. “Am I asking you to tell me what this is? Or if you could start referring to me as your boyfriend?”

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.