by Inara Scott
Mason closed the door behind him, then followed her into the living room. She wanted to crawl out of her skin when he came closer, so she wandered toward the window.
“Sorry the view’s not more to your liking,” he said. “It’s better in the bedroom.”
She flashed him a quick look, but he had only a tiny, innocent twinkle in his eye.
An image of Mason’s bed—doubtless made with luxuriously soft sheets and perfectly fluffed down pillows, facing a million-dollar view of the Bay Bridge lit up at night with twinkling lights—flashed through Tess’s mind. She forced herself to focus on her job before she lost her mind. Wick lay on the sofa, a shapeless blob of tan fur. She ignored Mason’s dig, and that ridiculously attractive twinkle, and stared at the dog sprawled on the sofa instead. “Mastiffs are lazy, but usually a little more protective than that. He doesn’t get up when you bring someone into the house?”
“I took him out just a few minutes ago. He’s exhausted. And his knee probably hurts. Alli said it’s okay to walk him, but the vet said he may continue to be sore for a few more weeks.” Mason glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go. I’m late to meet Connor.”
“I am sorry for not getting here sooner, but I commute to the city,” she said. “Your sister’s crazy mastiff could have eaten Astro for dinner. I had to drop her off after I walked Beyoncé and Jay-Z.”
He cocked his head. “Astro? You’re a Jetsons fan?”
She pursed her lips. “Grandma had a weakness for old cartoons.”
Okay, she had a weakness for old cartoons. Whatever. Next thing he would want to know was whether she was really obsessed with Little House on the Prairie.
And of course she was, but that was none of his business.
“Huh.” He studied her for a long moment, and she had that uncanny feeling that he could somehow see inside her with that searching gaze. “A couple of things before I go.” He waved toward the kitchen. “I’ve left a set of instructions on the counter. Chuck’s the daytime security guy in the lobby during the week. I told him about you, but you’ll need to show ID until the guys get to know you better.” He held out a silver key on a keychain. “Key to the apartment is here. There’s a security system, but I don’t bother to engage it.”
“Can I get the password for your Wi-Fi?”
“It’s included in the instructions I left. You’re welcome to use the TV, fridge, anything you want.”
She turned the keychain over in her hands. The keychain had an image of a blue-and-white husky dog. “Is this your college logo?”
“High school.”
He was already heading to the door, and she followed him, speaking to his back. “Vet info for Wick?”
He stopped and turned halfway toward her. “Vet info?”
“Didn’t you say he’s on some meds? It would be nice to have his vet info in case I’ve got a question, or there’s an emergency. And I’ll need his immunization records.”
He blinked. “Vet info? Immunizations?”
She laughed. “Do you have any idea how many lawyers there are in San Francisco? I have to be careful about liability. I also need to be able to assure my other clients that every dog they’re exposed to is fully vaccinated. It’s just good practice.”
“Good practice?” He looked genuinely bemused. She repressed an eye roll. She had several clients like him, who assumed dog-walking just required showing up with a leash. But the truth was, people like her had to take things much more seriously than that.
Now, granted, the world of high-rise apartments and panoramic views of the bay, where you could drop four hundred dollars a day just to make your life a little more convenient, was different from hers. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t a professional, or didn’t take her job just as seriously as he took his.
Probably more so. He played with money. She dealt with people’s pets. Far more important than money.
“Of course, I won’t take him to the dog park until I’m sure he’ll be safe. You don’t want to risk him hurting another dog—or a person.”
His forehead wrinkled in genuine concern. “Look, I don’t think he’s aggressive, just overly enthusiastic. My sister says he’s really sweet. She just wasn’t able to train him.”
Tess shook her head. Her bag was heavy on her shoulder, but the thought of laying the cheap, ugly canvas down on Mason’s pristine white sofa—or worse, on his gleaming wood table—was terrifying. She had a notion that his table cost far more than her car, and didn’t leather stain? She’d have to bring some blankets or something. Maybe a towel to sit on.
“Don’t worry about it. I have a few other clients with dogs that have behavior issues. I can fix just about anything, but I’ll want to be safe doing it. I’ll leave you instructions for what you’ll need to order for him. For now, I’ve got a training lead I used with a Great Dane. It will do.”
His head was cocked slightly as he studied her. Jesus, those eyes made her feel like he could see right through her. Could he see the words high school dropout written on her forehead, too?
Tess’s strategy when she felt threatened, which had been honed over years of living with a less-than-adequate mother and a series of totally inadequate men, was pretty straightforward: attack. If they fought back, attack again. Shake yourself off. Lick wounds. Repeat as needed.
“So, do you really have to meet with this Connor guy?” she asked. “Or are you just scared to be alone with me?”
A slow smile broke across his face. “You are, of course, utterly terrifying.”
She forced herself to turn away from him and flop down on the couch next to Wick. It was easier to look at the dog than his master. The mastiff’s tail thumped lazily, but he didn’t raise his head when she stroked the wrinkles around his face. She continued to stroke until he sighed and shifted his weight toward her, stretching out his legs in total relaxation. “Looks like someone knows who’s boss already.”
Mason looked back and forth between her and the front door, as if suddenly having second thoughts about leaving her. “Are you sure you can handle him? I can barely get down the block when he’s pulling.”
“You know what they say—it’s not what you’ve got, it’s how you use it.” She dared herself to wink at him, and then immediately regretted it. Something about him seemed to draw out this teasing, almost flirty side of her, and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.
He shook his head. “Again, someone has given you a remarkable amount of bad information.”
The words, not to mention the jaunty shrug, came without thinking. “I’ve managed to survive on it thus far.”
He returned the barb with a cocky grin that made her breath catch in her throat. “There’s a big difference between surviving and thriving. Let me know if you need help getting from one to the other.”
“You’re too kind,” she said sweetly. “But I’m afraid someone along the way might have given you a false sense of your own magnificence. If poor little me does manage to get there, it will be all on my own.”
…
Mason left his apartment with a strange, almost giddy feeling. Was it the grubby urchin he’d left on his sofa, or the fact that it was the first time he been able to leave home in forty-eight hours without worrying about Wick peeing on his bed? Probably a combination of the two.
Still, he couldn’t quite shake the image of her. She had returned wearing a fresh shirt but the same baggy pants and distressingly bad hairdo. He couldn’t see much of her body other than a trim pair of ankles and narrow wrists, yet something about the delicate set of her jaw promised both a fight and naked vulnerability. And when was the last time a woman had sparred with him like that? It wasn’t as if women fawned over him, but lately there had been an uncomfortable sameness to the routine. He smiled. They smiled back. They went out on a date. Had great sex. Went their separate ways.
He shouldn’t complain. He’d learned his lesson about trying to settle down, and that path just wasn’t in the cards. But lately he’d started wonderi
ng what it would be like to feel regret when the women left.
He imagined Tess prowling around his apartment, those full lips pursed in a skeptical bow, and felt a zing of anticipation. It was a sensation he sometimes experienced at a trade show, when he explored a back booth and found someone peddling a weird, half-baked idea that might have promise—or could be a complete dud.
Speaking of which, he had a list of potentials he needed to go over with Connor and Nate, including the one he’d jeopardized by not attending lunch the other day. He forced his mind to work, mentally cataloging the emails he needed to return, a license agreement he needed to review. But the work felt flat and dull, and it wasn’t long before his mind drifted back to Tess.
When they’d first started out, he couldn’t get enough of the work. They’d shared it all, though the three of them had quickly fallen into different roles. Mason had been the one to do recon—he’d find out everything he could about a new company and build a profile of the founders, including their commitment, ethics, and ability to lead their company. Connor would “genius” the tech, finding any possible flaw in the design or execution. Nate would simply scare the shit out of anyone who tried to negotiate against him. Then, they’d looked at all the deals together and weighed in on every decision.
Things were different now. The company was bigger, and they’d needed to split up the work. Their roles had hardened. Or had his narrowed? Lately it seemed all he did was shake hands and do lunches, attend parties, and drink expensive whiskey.
He shook his head. It was just the way things went, he supposed. They managed million dollar funds and he was the face, not the brains, of the company. Or at least that’s what it felt like.
Even though he was already running a few minutes late, Mason decided to take advantage of the lack of rain to walk the mile and a half to Connor’s place and return a few calls and emails he’d missed while babysitting his new, drooling companion. By the time he knocked on the door, he was sweating, thanks to Connor’s insistence on living as close to the top of Nob Hill as he could get, but relieved to have knocked down his to-do list by a few items.
Connor’s place had a different feel from his. Where Mason enjoyed the bustle of downtown and being just a few blocks from the Embarcadero, Connor preferred the charm of Nob Hill, the historic neighborhood perched high atop one of San Francisco’s many hills, with panoramic views of the city and the Bay beyond.
But instead of Connor, Nate answered the door, his usual scowl on his face. “Late,” he snapped.
“Nice to see you, too,” Mason replied with a grin.
Nate stepped back, extending his arm in a mocking gesture of welcome. “I suppose I should have expected it. Come on in.” He was a similar height to Mason, but built more like a linebacker than a quarterback, with a broad frame that could have moved mountains. He was freakishly strong—Mason knew this from lifting with him—and could have been a monster if he had he bothered to play football, which of course he hadn’t, because Nate never bothered with things that didn’t matter.
And to Nate, nothing mattered other than money.
He wore his usual weekend uniform—relaxed gray trousers and a dark button-down shirt. Nate always looked ready to step onto a yacht or head to an expensive cocktail party. He kept his hair perfectly trimmed, paying some ridiculous amount every four weeks to keep it all in line. Mason couldn’t remember ever seeing him wrinkled.
He wondered what Nate would think of his dog walker and his grin widened. They’d probably hate each other, and she seemed inclined to give as good as she got. Would be fun to put them together in a room and see what happened.
Connor waved from behind the kitchen island. He’d probably just come from the gym. He spent a significant portion of his weekends there, either playing basketball or coaching his youth rec league. Connor wasn’t big on socializing, though he was better now than he’d been when they first met in college. Still, he preferred spending his Saturday nights coaching eight-year-olds rather than hitting the bars.
Mason hung his coat on a rack by the door and headed toward the kitchen. Connor’s place wasn’t fancy—just three matching armchairs and his enormous, big-screen LED TV. But he did have a kick-ass kitchen. Because unlike Mason, he actually enjoyed cooking.
He looked up from cutting a hunk of blue-veined cheese, which he was arranging on a plate with crackers and a handful of grapes. “Nice of you to make it.”
His smile held only half-hearted malice; his full attention remained obviously dominated by the food. Connor was like that. When he focused on something, he did so 100 percent. This was why, of course, he’d earned either Fs or As in his classes. Either the class was worthy of his attention or it wasn’t. There were no two ways for Connor.
Mason grabbed a piece of cheese from the tray and popped it into his mouth. He paused as the rich flavor demanded his full attention. “What is this?” He grabbed another piece. “Damn that’s good. You didn’t buy that hundred-dollar stuff again, did you?”
Connor waved his hand in the air in front of him dismissively. “The cheese girl down at Crossroads picked this out for me. It’s from a new creamery in southern France. They’re unknown, but won’t be for long.”
“You mean Hayden?” Mason asked.
Connor’s knife paused mid-cut. “Hayden?”
“We’re talking about the new girl at Crossroads, right? The one with the red hair?”
“Yeah, I guess?” Connor said, quirking a brow. “Long red hair, killer bod under the big white apron?”
“Right, that’s the one. And her name is Hayden.” Mason rolled his eyes heavenward. “Not, the new ‘cheese girl.’”
Connor cleared his throat. “Mase, she just started working there like a week ago. I’ve barely managed to get past, ‘Hey, how are you?’ How in the world do you know her name?”
Mason shrugged. “I stop by Crossroads half the time I come here. Their sandwiches are amazing.”
“Dude, that’s not normal.” Connor looked at Nate for backup. “Am I right? Give her a another week maybe, let her get settled in before you make a move?”
Mason sighed and shook his head. “It’s not all about sex, you asshole. I introduced myself because I wanted to get to know the person cutting my cheese. You can learn delightful things about people if you just pay a little attention. Hayden, you’ll be interested to know, studied at a culinary school in France before she ran out of money. Besides picking incredible cheese, she can also make a mean coq au vin. She’s saving up now so she can go back to France someday.”
Nate wandered over and took a handful of crackers. “Since we’re talking coq au vin and dinner, I assume she hasn’t made it to the fourth date yet?”
Mason frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You never date a woman more than four times. First date is to get to know them, second is to start sleeping together, and by the fourth it’s getting too serious and you’re looking for a way out.”
Connor chuckled and pointed at Mason with his knife. “He’s got you there. You’re like clockwork.”
“The four-date rule,” Nate repeated with a shrug. “It was more of a guideline in college, but there’s been a noticeable hardening in the past few years.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mason scoffed, an uneasy feeling spreading through him.
“I should start a spreadsheet,” Connor mused. “Just to test it.”
“You are not starting a spreadsheet to track my dates.” Mason forced himself to relax and let another piece of cheese seduce his tongue. “Besides being creepy, that would be a little too symbolic of your own lack of action. I promise you, there is no four-date rule.”
Connor grunted at the insult. “Tell me one girl you’ve gone on more than four dates with in the past three years.”
As much as he wanted not to consider it, Mason found himself momentarily replaying his dating calendar to see if he could find an example. When he could not, he couldn’t suppress a surge of irrit
ation. “I will admit that things tend to get messy after four dates, and I like to keep things tidy. And friendly. So it’s possible that the average is around four. But that doesn’t make it a rule.”
“But Hayden’s still on the right side of the line?” Nate grinned.
“I find Hayden and her cheese to be absolutely delightful. That does not mean I want to date them.”
Nate snorted. “Right. Was her extra special Camembert the real reason you were so late, or was it the coq au vin?”
Mason knew Nate was baiting him, but for some reason he couldn’t shrug off the teasing. “I had to get rid of the damn dog, okay? I am not sleeping with Hayden. And look who’s talking,” he gestured toward Nate. “The Dark Knight? The Relationship Angel of Death?” He turned to Connor. “Or the guy who’d rather go to bed with the latest Wired magazine than an actual woman?”
Silence followed his snapped response, and Mason took a deep breath. For some reason, the knowing smile of the dog walker appeared behind his eyes, and he imagined her overhearing this conversation and laughing.
“There are great articles in Wired,” Connor said mildly. “Business and tech.” He filled in the cheese plate with a few more slices, refilled a bowl of nuts, and started carrying everything out to the dining table. “Grab my beer, will you, Nate?”
Nate followed Connor to the table with a bottle in either hand. “The Relationship Angel of Death suggests the existence of a relationship. Still, I like the ring of it. The Dark Knight, too—that’s right on.” A tiny smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Anyway, what did you do with the beast? Euthanize it like I suggested?”
“Jesus, you really are a bastard.” Mason smacked Nate on the back of his head before they sat down. “Of course I didn’t kill my sister’s dog. He’s at my place right now with a dog sitter.”
“That was fast,” Connor observed. He pulled out a yellow pad and looked over some notes as he spoke. “Where did you find someone on such short notice?”
“She walks Chris Rosen’s dogs. I ran into her in the elevator and begged her to take me on.”
