by Ivy Carter
Outside the bathroom, I weave through the crowds gathered in the small airport, passing the limited number of shops without even looking inside them. Even if I could afford a book, I don’t have the attention span to read, and with every magazine, I run the risk of seeing Mason’s smug, ruggedly handsome, sexy-as-hell face.
How pathetic that I can still find him attractive.
I stiffen my spine and lift my chin. Some of my decisions over the past few days could have been better, but there’s nothing to be gained from beating myself up over it. Maybe Mason’s right—I’m not the best fit for Daylight Holdings.
I’m not the best fit for him either.
The logic sounds right, but it doesn’t ease the tight knot of loss that’s lodged in the center of my chest.
I hear my flight being called over the intercom and weave through the kiosks and pull up to the end of the line. The lady in front of me rocks a stroller back and forth in a futile effort to calm her finicky baby. Forget the pillow—I’ll probably spend my last two dollars on headphones. Whatever movie the airline chooses has to be better than listening to a child crying, because hearing it’s sobs will likely ignite my own.
My throat swells, and I duck my head, embarrassed. I’m so not that girl—the kind who judges and complains. Even my most bitter moments are usually reserved for my cheating father. But it’s like my whole world is off balance, and I can’t get back to the city fast enough.
The line inches forward.
“Olivia!”
My spine stiffens at the echo of a familiar voice. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades. I’m obviously hearing things, clinging desperately to some kind of hope because there’s no way Mason is at the airport. Not when his very important retreat is underway back at the hotel.
“Olivia, wait!”
The line moves another foot. I almost trip over the baby stroller in my effort to get through the boarding gate faster, stubbing my toe on the wheel instead. The baby starts crying and the mom turns around to give me a glare that shrinks me to the size of a dashboard bobble head. Fuck.
Don’t turn around.
Just a few more minutes and I’ll be buckled into my seat, preparing for take off. This trip will be nothing more than a dot on a map, a distant memory.
“Miss?” I blink at the stewardess, who holds her hand out in expectation. “Your passport.”
I stare at her like a deer with its eyes caught in headlights.
“Are you boarding?”
“Yes, of course.” I scrounge through my purse, heart pounding like it’s about to take flight. “Sorry, I seem to have misplaced—”
“Don’t get on that plane.”
Slowly, I turn. Mason’s standing there, looking messy but sexy as ever. His dirty blonde hair is tousled and curled against his forehead. The armor around my heart suffers a warning crack.
“Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside if you’re not boarding,” the stewardess says. “There are people waiting to get on the plane.”
Mason holds out his hand, daring me take it. And damn if I’m not tempted. “Why are you here?” I lick my lips. “You don’t fucking have feelings for me. Get out of here. It’s business as usual, right?”
He stares down at his empty palm and then runs it through his hair. His eyes shimmer with emotions I can’t read, but somehow manage to make my heart flutter. Behind me, restless passengers push me aside. The last boarding call warning echoes over the loud speaker. “I have to go…”
“You checked out of the hotel.”
I steel myself against temptation. “My resignation will be on your desk by morning.” I’m trembling so bad I’m sure he can hear my knees knock together. “I assume your partners will rejoice, given how little they think of me.”
His face pales a little, and too late, I realize I’ve tipped my hand. Instead of taking a stand, I’ve basically admitted to running away hurt, like a child.
“You weren’t supposed to hear any of that.”
“Clearly.” I blink back a traitorous tear. “Nevertheless, I did. And you can’t take back what’s been said.” I blow out a breath. “It’s better this way. I’d rather know now before I get more invested in…whatever this was.”
Which wouldn’t take much, since I’m already in way too deep. Leaving now is like ripping off the Band Aid, protecting myself from the permanent scar Mason will surely leave on my heart. Some say we’re drawn to men like our fathers. I guess even I’m not immune.
My mother would be ashamed of me.
Hell, I’m ashamed of myself.
“It’s complicated,” Mason says. He rubs the back of his neck and closes his eyes. “I could have handled things better, but it was easier to just tell them what they wanted to hear.”
“Bullshit.” My blood spikes with anger. “You’re your own man, Mason. You expect me to believe that anyone has that much influence over you? I get it. It meant nothing to you. I’m no different than any other girl you’ve taken to bed.”
The words choke from my throat with sketchy resolve.
Mason steps toward me. “That’s not the case.”
I drop my hands to my sides, leaving myself open and vulnerable. My gaze drops to the floor, but he cups my chin with two fingers and lifts my face so that our eyes meet. I’m trapped beneath them, mesmerized by the intensity of his stare. “You are unlike any woman I have ever known, Liv.”
My hands tremble. “Just stop. I can’t, Mason.”
“Give me a chance to prove that to you.”
The flutter in my stomach inches up my throat. Mason takes my silence as permission, and pulls me close to his chest. His mouth hovers over mine, leaving me breathless, speechless. He kisses me, tender at first, our lips barely touching. And then he carefully pries them apart with his tongue.
I breathe in a gasp, and reach up to grab the nape of his neck. His hand winds through my hair and pulls me close. Impossibly close. I swear I can feel his heart beating against mine, steady.
My belly twists into knots.
His mouth devours mine, and with each passing second, the last of my defenses begin to erode. I’m aware we’re making a scene in the airport, but I don’t care. For these seconds, I pretend it’s just us. The world around fading into the background.
When at last our mouths part, I press my finger to my swollen lips.
“Just give me a chance to prove it,” he says again, whispering. Somehow this time I believe him, cling to the hope that he isn’t just feeding me a line. “I can’t explain it right now, but if you can just try to trust me.” He swallows. “I need some time.”
Time. Such a vague measurement, undefined and abstract. Endless. My mother’s voice niggles at the back of my mind, but the voice of reason is drowned out by desire. I want Mason. And I can’t resist him right now, not when he’s telling me exactly what I’d hoped to hear.
And maybe that’s weak or wrong—but for now, it’s enough.
“Fine,” I say, lifting my head to look up at him through hooded lashes. “I won’t quit my job. And I’ll give you space, time. But I can’t wait forever for this proof.”
His shoulders relax. “Good,” he says, his eyes darkening with desire as he stares at me.
“But I won’t stay here,” I say, forcing myself to stand firm. On this, I’m not willing to budge. “Not after hearing what your partners think of me, the things they said.” I swallow hard against the painful memory. “I won’t allow myself to be treated like that by them.”
Maybe in time I’ll be able to face them.
Not here. Not now. If Mason won’t accept that, I’ll have no choice but to get on that plane.
Mason kisses my cheek. “I agree to those terms. We’ll leave immediately.”
Surprised, I tilt my head. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He takes out his cell phone and quickly dials a number. My stomach clenches as it rings. “Lucas,” he says, his tone curt. “You and Holden will need to finish up meetin
gs without me.” There’s a beat of silence, and then. “Something’s come up. I’ll be going back to the city immediately.”
There’s another long pause—and I can only imagine what’s being said—and then he hangs up. I search his face for regret, but his eyes twinkle with mischief instead. He loops his arm through mine and grins. “Shall we get out of here, Miss Landers?”
I have to laugh, despite or maybe even because of the craziness of it all. “Why, Mr. Wood, I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter 16
I’ve always thought that New York City has one of the most beautiful skylines in the world. Through the small plane windows, the skyscrapers stretch into the sunset-filled sky, tips so high I’m sure they’ll clip our wings.
Mason stretches out on the leather sofa, calm even as we begin our sharp descent. “Come to my place tonight,” he says.
My stomach does a slow flip. Somewhere in the middle of those buildings below, my sister is making herself at home in my apartment. “I should…”
He cuts me off with a lazy grin that almost stops my heart. “Your sister can wait another day.” He lifts an eyebrow. “You did tell her you were on a business trip, right?”
Actually, I’ve left most of the details about this retreat to myself, still unsure how to explain it. No matter how I phrase the words, Renee will read the subtext, and she will be relentless in her pursuit of the truth. But he’s right—she isn’t expecting me home yet. “I guess I could stay one night…”
Mason’s grin widens. “I’m glad you have the strength to suffer a few more hours in my presence.”
“The sacrifices I’m willing to make for this company.”
While he made good on his promise to leave the island, he spent most of the long flight home on his laptop or phone, texting, emailing, researching.
“Do you plan to make me work all night?” I ask eventually.
Mason’s eyes glaze over with instant longing, and I blush, not realizing until too late the sexual undertone of my words. My stomach flutters.
“I thought I’d at least make you dinner,” he says, winking. “Hungry?”
My grin is so wide it makes my cheeks ache. “Famished.”
Mason’s penthouse suite in Upstate New York is more than double the size of my childhood home. Long and narrow, the walls and windows stretch impossibly far in both directions, the length of the open concept space broken up by expensive looking furniture and a curved brick pony wall peppered with exotic flowers and an impressive waterfall that flows into a small pool.
“Whoa,” I say. And then again when a splash cuts through the silence. “What the hell was that?”
“Koi,” Mason says. He drapes his jacket over a bar stool and plucks a can of fish food from a cabinet near the pond. “Would you like to see them feed?”
I slip off my shoes, walk barefoot across the hardwood and peer into the swirling depths of water. An orange and red fish surfaces, as though in greeting, and then dips back under the water, winding through a maze of rocks and plant life. A second koi follows close behind, flipping its fins in beautiful display.
Mason sprinkles food into the water and several more fish peck at the pellets until the water froths from the feeding frenzy.
“How many fish do you have?” I say, losing count at half a dozen.
Mason shrugs. “Eight—maybe nine. I rescue them from pet stores.”
I tilt my head. “Rescue?”
He sprinkles more food into the water. “People buy koi not realizing how big they get. Or they put them in outdoor ponds, then don’t know what to do with them in the colder months. They trade them in for smaller fish.”
“That’s so sad,” I say, surprised, but also touched by his obvious care. “I didn’t realize that was even a thing.”
Mason’s lips form a crooked smile. “It’s definitely a thing.” He brushes off his hands and walks over to a glass coffee table where mail is stacked in three neat piles. A polished silver statue of the machine from the Terminator movie acts a centerpiece, gleaming under the natural light that filters in through the oversized windows.
Most of the available wall space is bare, sans a couple of abstract pieces of art and a framed Chuck Norris poster that also looks signed. Bile creeps up my throat—my father practically worships that man.
“You’re quite the movie buff,” I say.
“Memorabilia mostly,” he says. He sets down his mail, unopened, and holds out his hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”
He leads me to the far end of his suite, winding through the gourmet kitchen that morphs into the dining room with a chandelier so large and impressive it might have been ripped from the set of Phantom of the Opera. The dining area transforms into another seating area, and behind it, an actual room that is the master suite.
My jaw drops. The room is crimson and cream, with plush carpets and lush bedding. A four poster, king-sized bed takes up at least half of the space, an intentional focal point that does something to my insides. My throat goes dry as my thoughts veer off course, reimagining our night of passion in Hawaii. I cross one leg in front in a futile attempt to lessen the dull ache of yearning, but I’m tingling with desire.
A door at the back of the room is padlocked shut.
Mason tugs me toward it. “This way.”
Unease pricks at the back of my neck. “You’re not a murderer, are you?” I say, not fully teasing. It occurs to me how easily I seem to follow Mason—out of the city, out of my comfort zone—and the first inkling of nervous anticipation tightens my chest.
Mason shoots me a devilish look. “Only on Wednesdays. Sundays are for prayer and stuff.”
“And stuff?” I say, broadening my smile. It’s so easy to be with this version of Mason, the intense but genuinely interesting guy that he becomes outside the office and away from his partners.
He unlocks the padlock and eases open the door. I blink into the dim light, and then widen my gaze with awe. At the back of the space, a giant flat screen drops down from a rounded ceiling that is painted black and dotted with glowing dots that form constellations and stars. But the virtual galaxy isn’t what makes my breath catch. A giant dragon curls around a thick pole, massive jaw open and pointed to the rows of couch seating below.
“Check this out,” Mason says. He flicks a switch and an overhead blue light shines down on the dragon, highlighting its purple and red complexion. An eerie melody filters through the surround sound speakers. My skin prickles with anticipation.
Seconds later, the dragon’s head sways from side to side, his impressive jaw opening and then snapping shut. I’m transfixed, mesmerized by the music, the lights, the animation. The creature opens its maw once more and a burst of flame erupts from his mouth. Sudden heat splashes over my face and I gasp. “Holy shit.”
Mason bobs his head with excitement. “I know, right? Some theatre in Canada was selling the thing, and I actually flew there to make a bid on this guy.”
“He’s amazing,” I say, still staring at the gigantic beast. It must cost Mason thousands of dollars to keep the dragon working, but talk about making an impression! Dragging my eyes from the ceiling, I survey the rest of the room. More movie props, some I recognize, many that I don’t. On the opposite wall from the flat screen, a bank of pinball machines, as well as the fortuneteller from the movie BIG, flank an antique popcorn maker that even empty emits a buttery scent.
“If I looked in your garage, would I find a DeLorean?”
He rocks back on his heels. “You would. As well as a 1967 Shelby GT 500.”
“Eleanor,” I say, with reverence. “I know the movie.”
“Impressive,” he says. “Come, let’s make you something to eat. I know you’re hungry.”
I suspect the flutter in my stomach has little to do with food, but I slip out of the theatre room and back into the master suite, and then follow Mason to the kitchen. He gestures to the stools on the other side of the breakfast nook. “Relax. I’ll see what I�
��ve got in the fridge. I can’t promise anything gourmet.”
“I’m not picky,” I say, which is true. Dad was a better chef than Mom, and after he left, we lived on Mac and Cheese and pizza, more out of survival in the beginning, and then because it had become normal. Mom never inspired a love of cooking, and when I moved into my apartment, food became more of a luxury than necessity. I could happily live on bagels and Cheeze Whiz. “But I am thirsty.”
Mason reaches up to grab a bottle of red wine from a built-in rack above the toaster, and sets it on the counter. “One step ahead of you.”
I study the label while he pulls out the corkscrew and two glasses.
“If you’d prefer a different variety, I’m sure I’ve got something in the wine room. Champagne?”
I dip my head shyly. “This is perfect.”
It’s certainly more expensive than any wine I’ve bought, and I commit the label to memory in case I ever have a chance to share it with Renee.
Mason holds up a carton of eggs. “Hope you like cheese omelets, because that’s about all I have.”
“Delicious.”
Mason hands me a grater and a brick of marble cheese. As I get to work, I’m surprised at how comfortable it seems—a surreal normalcy in a situation that is anything but. Mason’s apartment boasts of extreme wealth, but watching him scramble eggs and pour them into a sizzling frying pan reminds me that he’s just a guy.
An incredibly hot, sexy guy.
And very complex.
Busting through his barriers won’t be easy, but if this—whatever this is—is going to work, I need to try. I deserve to be happy.
“Did your mom cook?”
Mason scoffs. “Mom took off when I was just a kid. And Dad never remarried. A couple of his lady friends could pull off a decent grilled cheese sandwich, but they were more beauty than brains.” He lifts the pan off the element and tosses the omelet in the air. It flips, and lands with perfect execution.
“Whoa,” I say, genuinely impressed. “Those skills don’t come naturally.”
