by Ivy Carter
“More so for me,” I say, breathing out a slow breath. “Something Dad said once didn’t ring true, and my gut told me to investigate.” Mom’s little P.I. “I’m the one who uncovered his double life.”
Mason kisses my fingers and then puts his hand over mine. “That’s a brutal thing to find out.”
“My first instinct was to deny it,” I say, remembering the emotions that crashed over me then, and again through every stage of my parents’ messy and lengthy divorce. Dad wanted the quick and easy route—Mom drew out, hoping he’d come to his senses. She never fully healed. “I wasn’t even going to tell my mom. Just pretend like it didn’t exist. Anything to save her heart.
But then I met Renee, this precious baby girl. The little sister I’d dreamed of having. And I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t let her be in the dark too. Something inside me snapped, and I pushed and pushed until finally, Dad relented. He copped to everything—the affair, Renee, the complicated web of his lies.
I wanted to be jealous of my sister. And I had every right to be, too. Everywhere I saw them, they held hands, shared hot chocolate, did all the father-daughter things Dad never bothered to do with me. My father never bought me a single doll, but Renee has a collection of Barbies.”
Which is part of the reason she got into fashion. When she couldn’t buy clothes for them, she made them. Tiny, perfect outfits that should have been showcased on the runway instead of tucked in a memory box filled with other things from the past.
“But you don’t hate your sister at all, do you?” Mason asks knowingly.
I allow a small smile. “Renee is my best friend. I don’t even think of her as my half-sister, I love her that much. But sometimes being with her is a bad reminder of what pigs men can be.” I drop my gaze. “Present company excluded. Dad didn’t just break Mom’s heart…” Though I’m still picking up the pieces of that emotional mess. “He broke mine too.”
Mason wraps his arm around my and pulls me close. “It will take time,” he says, softly. “But you’ll get whole again. Piece by piece.”
Mason means well, but my gut twists and I know that however much I want to believe what he says, I’m not convinced I’ll ever be fully able to trust another man.
Chapter 19
The drip drip drip of the bathroom tap jogs me out of sleep. For the second morning in a row, I find myself in a strange bed, disoriented. It takes me a second to get my bearings, and then I catch Mason’s scent on the sheets and everything comes rushing back in a delirious wave of content.
I roll over to face the bathroom, watching the shadows that dance on the carpet from the bathroom light, imagining Mason showering, shaving, getting that muscular, lean body ready for the day. A soft purr hums from my throat.
Yeah, I could so get used to this.
The tap twists on full force, stops, and seconds later, Mason emerges from the bathroom, flicking off the light as he steps into the room. I blink, adjusting my eyes to morning’s still hazy natural light.
Mason sets a coffee cup on the dresser and continues getting dressed.
I clear my throat.
It must not be loud enough, because he keeps on as if I’m not in the room. Socks. Dress shirt. Blazer. No tie. I’ve actually never seen Mason wear a tie—not in pictures or in person—which seems ironic for a guy who seems to like tying people up.
My pussy clenches with the memory, still achy and swollen from our late night of passionate lovemaking.
I cough gently, and rustle the sheets for extra noise.
Mason lifts his coffee and takes a sip, finally turning to acknowledge me. His expression is cool, almost nonchalant. I could be a stranger in his bed.
I force a smile. “I hope there’s more coffee where that came from.” I reach up and out of the covers, letting the sheets fall to expose my breasts. Mason barely gives them a second glance. What the hell?
“Full pot in the kitchen.”
His voice is cold enough to give me a chill. Too stunned to speak, I sit upright and tuck my feet under my buttocks, legs folded into a pretzel. Mason checks his reflection in the mirror, adjusts the collar of his black golf shirt, and tightens his belt. The black slacks hug tight to his ass. I inadvertently lick my lips.
“Big meeting today?”
“The partners are back from Hawaii, and we’ll have some catch-up work to do,” he says. I could almost swear there’s a thread of resentment in his voice. “I’ll need the day to get back up to speed.”
I shift on the mattress. “I should come in, then?”
Mason shakes his head. “Take the day off. They’re closed meetings, so I won’t have time to train you on anything else. Go home. Get your bearings. I’ll see you first thing tomorrow morning.”
He doesn’t say it, but I can sense he can’t wait for me to be gone. The rejection stings. I try to push back my emotions, but his seismic attitude shift doesn’t make sense. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Mason hasn’t been on an even keel for one day since we met—from stormy to sensual, from rough to gentle, and all emotions in-between. I’ve ridden roller coasters with less stomach-clenching twists. What if it’s just in his DNA? It’s silly to make it personal, right?
“Tomorrow then?”
Mason blinks, then clears his throat. “Yes. 8 a.m. sharp.” He waves in the direction of the bathroom. “There are fresh towels under the sink. The clothes I bought for the trip are in the suitcase at the foyer. Don’t worry about locking up. I can arm the system from the office. My driver will ensure you get home safely.”
His voice conveys as much enthusiasm as someone reading off a grocery list.
My chest tightens. “Thank you.”
He nods.
And then leaves, without so much as a soft peck on the cheek goodbye.
What. The Hell. Was that?
Mason’s strange behavior haunts me in the long cab ride from his penthouse suite in Upstate New York to my dingy apartment outside of Manhattan. I’d declined a ride with Mason’s driver, choosing instead to forge my independence thanks to the swift refund from the airline after we opted to take the corporate jet. Mason will be annoyed.
Serves him right for the way he sloughed me off this morning. As if he hadn’t spent the night ravaging my body. Every inch of my skin tingles from his touch. When I close my eyes, I see his lean, muscular form poised over me, plunging his rigid cock into my cleft. Even now, my pussy clenches, aching and raw, but still ready for more.
The taxi driver dumps at the curb down the street thanks to a moving van that’s blocking access to the sidewalk in front of my complex. Technically, my community is transient, and my building perhaps the poster child. I am, officially, the longest standing resident. I’m not surprised to see another tenant jumping ship—the biggest mystery will be to determine who’s going first: old man Big George from the third floor, or heavy metal Craig.
But then I see two guys carrying a small love seat in and I try to remember which suite might be vacant. It’s not even end of the month. I side step the moving van and jog up the steps, holding the door open so the movers can get through. The loveseat they carry is pink suede, with large black polka dots. My nose curls up in disgust.
That’s definitely more Renee’s style.
I freeze.
Of course it’s something my sister would buy because it is my sister’s.
I follow the movers up the stairs to my floor, and then wait patiently as they shove the butt-fuck-ugly thing through the narrow opening. Renee has removed the door, leaving everything I own out on public display.
Not like anyone casing the joint would score a big payday, but I’ve seen the movies. Like that girl in Coyote Ugly who stashes her life savings in the freezer. I do not have extra cash lying around, but if I did, I would not hide it in the freezer, or under the mattress, or even in a safe behind an inconspicuous piece of art, a la Oceans 11.
Renee is directing traffic with a spatula when she spots me. Her mouth drops open into
a blood-curdling squee and she tackles me with a hug that would make boa constrictors jealous. My neck feels like it’s about to pop off my head, but it doesn’t matter—I don’t even care that her ridiculous pink polka dot couch is in my apartment—because I am absolutely relieved to have company. Especially this company.
She holds me at shoulder length and searches my face. “No tan.”
“It was two days,” I say, which is technically a lie.
“What kind of a boss makes his employees work through perfectly good tanning hours?” She squints and leans in closer, giving me an up close and personal view of the nose ring threaded through her skin. “Are those bags under your eyes?” She shakes her head, sending a mass of black Medusa-esque curls around her shoulders. “Unacceptable, Liv. It’s a good thing I’m making your favorite for dinner.”
That’s another trait Renee shares with her mom—a natural cooking instinct that would impress Gordon Ramsay. Her famous spaghetti sauce takes all day to simmer, relentlessly teasing unsuspecting victims with the scents of herbs and homemade tomato sauce. I inhale its scent now, and my mouth begins to water.
I side eye the stacks of boxes piled beside the kitchen. “Have you buried the dishes, or should I borrow plates from heavy metal Craig?”
She lifts a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Don’t bother. I banged on his door at midnight because I can only hear Enter Sandman so many times, and I think I interrupted something.”
“Is he cute, at least?”
She scrunches up her small button nose. Everything about Renee is petite, and perfect, even the symmetrical freckles that dot both cheeks. “If you’re into the Muppets. He kind of looks like Animal.”
My laugh is interrupted by one of the movers, who is holding a naked mannequin close to his chest. “Is there somewhere special I should put this?”
Renee points to the closet. “Anne can go there. I’ll make room for the rest.”
“Uh. How many are there?” I ask
“Six.” She shrugs, like carting mannequins around is no big deal. “And no, we can’t kick any of them out, especially not Nancy—she’s the prettiest. Besides, I need them for school.”
I imagine a half-dozen full sized plastic women hiding behind furniture, peering out from the closet, toppling into the hallway, and a shiver runs down my spine. “Like that isn’t going to give me fucking nightmares.”
Spending the day helping Renee unpack, organize, shift, and move takes my mind off Mason, but now, as she starts the finishing preparation of her spaghetti and the sun dips behind the skyscrapers across town, I’m finding it harder to focus.
I inhale the steaming plate of pasta she sets in front of me, wafting the scents of lemon and rosemary under my nose. “God, it’s like you know all of my biggest food weaknesses before I even tell you.”
“Your stomach is an open book,” she says, with a wink. “But you, are not. I’ve been patient Liv, but I know when something’s going on. Spill it.”
I sprinkle freshly-grated parmesan over the heaping noodles and reach for the bottle of red wine my sister obviously bought for the occasion. “First, let’s drink.” I pop the cork and pour us each a generous glass. “Because you’re not going to believe this.”
I begin with my job interview, explaining my elevator faux pas. Renee clinks her glass against mine. “Classy.”
“As fuck,” I say, grinning.
I skip over the part where Mason spanks me in his office, and lead right into our flight to Hawaii, our hotel tryst, and then finally, our romantic evening. Renee has barely touched her meal, her eyes wide with surprise and curiosity.
“You’re having sex with the Mason Wood?”
I absently twirl spaghetti noodles around my fork. “Yep.”
Renee lifts her glass to her lips, but doesn’t sip. She smiles sheepishly. “Is he as good as the tabloids say?”
I study her outfit, the way even her faded yoga pants somehow look runway chic, and my throat goes dry. Renee’s the Carrie Bradshaw in this sisterhood—I’m just an imposter. “Maybe,” I say, biting my lip. My cheeks go flush and I avert my gaze. “Okay, ridiculously.”
And slightly kinky, I think, though that’s not something I’m ready to admit aloud, not even to my sister.
“Tell me more,” she says, a twinkle of mischief in her emerald eyes.
I’m totally blushing, and a little nervous, but after two glasses of wine, my lips are lucid. Suddenly, it’s like I’m a guest star on Sex in the City, and even my sister’s cheeks have gone pink. I never talk about the naughty stuff, not even when I’m fully drunk, but the more I share, the more I miss Mason, and that makes me emotional—and chatty.
It’s more difficult than I expect to describe our unstructured relationship, and with each detail, my sister’s face grows more expressive. As if she’s suddenly wondering who I am. And why wouldn’t she? I hardly recognize myself.
She raises her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Olivia Landers Gone Wild.” We sip, and then she grins. “Take a bow, Liv. A million women would love to be in your shoes—er, or should I say, Mason’s pants…”
My face sets on fire. “I’ll toast to that.”
Renee is too drunk to notice the lilt of self-doubt in my tone. I haven’t told her about how his business partners hate me, or even how indifferent he seemed this morning. Tonight, just this once, I enjoy the way my sister looks at me—part envy, part pride.
By morning the glow will fade, but tonight I plan to let it burn well into the night.
Chapter 20
I step off the elevator, chest high, back straight, ready to tackle my first official day as the personal assistant to Mason Wood. I’m fifteen minutes early and fully caffeinated, though the throb at the back of my skull reminds me that I probably drank too much wine with Renee.
My cheeks flush at the memory of our candid conversation. I absolutely shared too much. Loose lips…
I pull my borrowed messenger bag tighter to my shoulder, and approach the reception desk with a smile. “Gertrude” barely glances up. She hands me a stack of files, the phone number for Mason’s personal driver, and instructions to be at the airstrip within an hour.
Are you fucking kidding me? “Another trip?”
She shrugs. “I just follow orders.”
I blow out a breath. Should I have packed? Would it have killed Mason to text me? “Did he at least leave me a note?”
Gertrude stares at me blankly. “I am the note.”
Right. I stand there, still too confused to speak.
“Would you like me to call the driver?” she prods.
I grasp at the olive branch. “God, yes. Thank you.”
In the elevator, I skim the files, each labeled with the names of various companies that are heavily involved in vigorous stock market trades today. Daylight Holdings has a stake in each of these transactions, which is why we should be glued to the computer, not traipsing across—
Wherever the hell we’re going.
A blast of exhaust fumes hits me as I step out onto the curb, anxiously scanning each of the black Town cars that pass. After ten minutes, I begin to suspect that Gertrude has pulled a fast one on me, and decide to call the driver myself.
“Miss Landers, my apologies,” he says, voice thick with a British accent. “I wasn’t aware you required me today. I’m on the other side of town.”
A scream of frustration inches up my throat. I tamp it back. “No one called you from Mr. Wood’s office this morning?”
“I drove Mr. Wood to the airstrip but there’s been nothing since. Don’t fret,” he says. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”
Across the street, a pedestrian makes a run for it, and a car blares on its horn. There’s an exchange of cuss words, followed by a succession of honks and hollers from the traffic backing up behind the incident.
“Forget it,” I say. “You’ll never make it here in time. I’ll call a cab.”
I do, even though I’d rather stomp up thi
rteen flights of stairs to give Gertrude a piece of my mind. My car arrives within minutes, expertly navigating through rush hour, skirting along the edge of the Hudson River to Mason’s private airstrip, with just under five minutes to spare.
Mason meets me at the car and opens the door. “Where’s Benjamin?” he says, by way of greeting. “I gave instructions for you to call him.”
I force my voice to remain calm, refusing to allow Gertrude to get the best of me on this one. “It’s a long story.” My cheeks burn with humiliation upon realizing I don’t have enough cash to pay for the taxi. “Could you take care of the tab?”
His lips twist into a smirk. “I’ll even apply a generous tip.”
As he does, a loud whirring sound echoes from across the runway, creating a windstorm that whips my hair around my face. When I spot the helicopter winding up for takeoff, my stomach does a summersault. “I am not going up in that.”
Mason scrunches his forehead. “Of course you are.”
“No, seriously,” I say, deadpan. “I don’t think you appreciate my fear of heights.”
“You went in the jet.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. “That was different.” Bigger. Safer. Less roller coaster-like. “This is—” I shake my head. “Not happening.”
He holds out his hand. “Trust me.”
Tentatively, I take it, swallowing hard the lump of fear stuck in my throat. With my free hand, I tuck the files close to my chest, hoping they aren’t blown away as the wind from the propellers grows more intense. If not for Mason’s steady forward motion, I would have long frozen, but I match his steps, willing my courage to return.
You’ve got this, Liv.
Mason guides me into a small bucket seat, and buckles me in. After a quick discussion with the pilot, he climbs in beside me, and hands me a headset. I can feel the color drain from my face. “The doors will close, right?”
Because I’ve seen those movies, the ones where people hang out the side, like they aren’t at risk of falling sixty feet to their death.
