Reckless (The Mason Family Series Book 3)

by Adriana Locke

  Seven

  Boone

  Wow.

  My lips are parted. The words—some dumb line I prepped on the walk over to Libby’s—are on the tip of my tongue. Nothing comes out, though.

  My gaze falls on Jaxi as she stands at the threshold of the door, and the line I’d prepped so carefully fizzles away.

  She’s a mess. Dots of liquid and a plethora of crumbs decorate her shirt. There’s a dark stain on the thigh of her right leg, and on the left side of her face near her ear, a glob of red has taken up shop.

  Yesterday, Jaxi was calm and collected. Today, she’s a hot mess—emphasis on the hot.

  There’s something about her like this—something approachable and a little vulnerable—that appeals to me on a level I feel deep inside my bones.

  “Looks like you’ve been busy,” I say, running a hand through my hair and reminding myself to play it cool.

  She cracks a grin that makes her eyes sparkle. “What brings you by this fine evening? Did you happen to smell the wonderful aroma of spaghetti with meat sauce that I have bubbling away in the kitchen?”

  “Spaghetti? That makes sense.”

  She wrinkles her forehead. “So, you smelled it?”

  “No.” I point to the spot of red next to her ear. “I was going back and forth between ketchup and hot sauce. But spaghetti makes more sense.”

  Her eyes go wide as she places a palm to the side of her head. When she pulls it back, it’s streaked with pureed tomatoes.

  “I’m glad you didn’t decide to cook at my house yesterday,” I tease.

  Jaxi’s lips twist into a pursed pout. “Keep it up, and I’ll break in on Monday while you’re at work and make a six-course meal.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to lock all of my windows.”

  She laughs. The sound drifts through the air and lifts the corners of my mouth toward the sky.

  In an instant, I’m glad I came over. I almost didn’t. I nearly went to Gramps’ to watch golf instead because my cousin Larissa told me that Jaxi might want to be alone—especially since she didn’t invite me in last night.

  It’s lucky I followed my gut because I think Jaxi’s happy to see me.

  She takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “So …”

  “So …”

  “So, I made you dinner. I was going to bring it by in a little while. It’s just spaghetti, so it’s not a big deal at all,” she says in a rush, brushing a hand through the air.

  She made me dinner?

  “I—”

  “It’s just a silly way for me to say thank you for helping me out yesterday,” she says, her words running right on top of mine. “I’m not a great cook, though, so it’s not some gourmet thing that you should get excited about. Keep your expectations low. Quite frankly, you might still have to order takeout but—”

  “Breathe,” I tell her, laughing. “How can you say that many words in a row and not take a breath? It’s impressive, but I’m worried you’re going to pass out.”

  Her cheeks flush. “My mom always said that she knew when I was nervous because I would start talking really fast.”

  Nervous?

  I reach with a hesitant touch and wipe the remaining smear of sauce off her face. She stills, her skin warm beneath mine, as my thumb grazes her cheek. It’s an impulsive move. I don’t realize I’m doing it until it’s done.

  My stomach twists once my hand is back to my side. What if I just overstepped my bounds? But, as I search her eyes, I think I’m okay.

  “Now,” I say, watching the pupils of her eyes steady, “let’s start over. Did you say you made me food?”

  I don’t think she notices that she touches the spot my hand just occupied.

  “Tried,” she says, smiling. “I said that I tried to make you food. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  I grin. “You didn’t have to do anything. Food is definitely my love language, though—”

  “Love language? I’m not speaking to you in love languages.” She shakes a finger at me. “It was a goodwill gesture. That is all.”

  “Calm down.” I chuckle. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  As soon as I say the words, I want to recant them. What if I did mean it like that? I mean, I didn’t. I’m not totally sure what a love language even means. But what would be so terrible about wanting to speak to me in one?

  I’m lovable, dammit.

  I cross my arms over my chest.

  She does the same. “What?”

  “I’m love language-able.”

  She bursts into a fit of laughter.

  “I am,” I insist.

  “Are your feelings hurt that I’m not talking to you in a love language?”

  I think about this. “Yes.”

  “You know,” she says, resting her head on the door. “You’re more offended about this than the fact that I broke into your house yesterday.”

  “Because this is more personal.”

  “More personal than your personal space?”

  I nod. “Yes. My personal space is space. My love language is my person. Or about my person. You know what I mean. It cuts deep that you refuse to consider that you’d talk to me in a love language.”

  “Well, genius, I don’t love you. Speaking to you like that wouldn’t be necessary, now would it?”

  Good point.

  She laughs and pulls the door open. “Do you want to come in and get this food or not?”

  “I would love to.” I lift my chin and walk inside. “Because I’m not afraid of love things.”

  She snorts but otherwise ignores my poke at her.

  We move through the foyer and into Libby’s kitchen.

  “What the hell happened in here?” I ask, taking in the destruction in front of me.

  The kitchen looks nothing short of a culinary war zone. The counter on either side of the stove is covered in debris. There are pots and knives in the sink and spaghetti sauce sticking an empty box of garlic bread to the kitchen island. A bundle of carrots leans untouched against a bag of onions, and all I can think of is that I hope she has a Janey.

  “I told you,” she says. “I cooked.”

  “No, I think you said you tried to cook, and now I understand why you chose those specific words.”

  She scoffs as she grabs a lid off the counter. “Fine. Then I’ll keep my house … warming? Breaking? Gift to myself.”

  I join her at the stove. “Let me get this straight. You made me dinner as a house-breaking gift?”

  She snaps the lid on a giant bowl of pasta. “I did.”

  I look around once again. It must’ve taken her a while to make such a mess. And, although it’s a giant disaster, a lot of thought had to have gone into this.

  For me.

  And that’s pretty damn sweet.

  “That was awfully nice of you,” I say, leaning against the counter.

  She looks down. A strand of hair falls into her face. She doesn’t look up, but I can tell she appreciates the comment.

  “It might not be fit to eat,” she says. “I’m not the greatest cook.”

  “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

  “Right.”

  She takes a plastic bag out of a drawer. I move to get a better view of what she’s doing when my back suddenly feels damp. I pull away from the counter and notice that I’ve leaned against something wet.

  “Here.” She tosses me a kitchen towel.

  I grab it out of the air and press it against the spot on the small of my back. “You didn’t have to do all of this, you know.”

  “I know.” She sits the bag down by the garlic bread. “But when someone does something nice for you, you should do something nice back.”

  “Or you could just accept it and be happy.”

  She looks at me like I’m joking. “Yeah.”

  I furrow my brow and wonder what that look was about. There’s something to unpack there. But, if I poke around too much, I run the risk of making he
r wish she hadn’t made me dinner. I don’t want to do that.

  “Let this bread cool down another second, and I’ll put it in here for you,” she says, laying her hand on the bag.

  I toss the towel next to the sink. “Or, since I’m already here, we could just grab some plates and not bother with packing it all up to take to my house.”

  “I was taking this to you. For you. Not … us.”

  She says it like she never considered that I might assume she cooked for me and her. How could that be possible?

  “Do you have plans or something?” I ask.

  “Well … no.”

  “Have you eaten dinner?”

  She hems and haws around before finally admitting the truth. “No.”

  “So, why are we not eating together?”

  She almost smiles. That’s what gives her away. It’s such a subtle gesture that most people would miss it. Being the youngest sibling out of five means I don’t miss anything.

  I give her an out. Just in case I’m wrong.

  “Do you think Libby will mind if I eat here with you?” I ask. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with Teddy.”

  “Ted can screw off.” She rolls her eyes. “I'm pretty sure that Libby would be over the moon if she knew we were having dinner together, regardless of where it was happening.”

  It’s not so much what she says but how she says it—with a bashful yet hopeful lilt to her tone—that seals the deal.

  She wants me here. She just doesn’t want to admit it.

  “Libby’s a smart girl,” I say, turning toward the cabinet and finding the plates. I take out two. “When is she coming back?”

  “Next weekend.”

  I offer her a plate. She pauses before she reaches for it. I toss her a wink that gets an eye roll as a response.

  “I leave Saturday, and she comes in on Sunday,” she says, giving in to the fact that we’re having dinner together. “We’ll barely miss each other.”

  “You don’t want to stay and see her?”

  I take the lid off the spaghetti. Jaxi hands me a pair of tongs.

  “I do, but I couldn’t change my ticket without a fee, and I don’t want to pay that. I’m cheap,” she says. “Besides, she and Ted are on some kind of second honeymoon, and I don’t want to ruin their vibe.”

  We put piles of pasta on our plates. I add a piece of garlic bread to mine and then add one to hers. She presses her lips together in a subdued grin.

  “A second honeymoon sounds fun,” I say, trying to keep the ambience light. “Maybe Ted will be so sexed out that he wouldn’t mind having a houseguest.”

  Jaxi makes a face. “I’d rather not think about Ted and sex, if you don’t mind.”

  “What? He’s not your type?”

  She snorts. “Not if he was the last man on Earth.”

  No surprise there. He shot way above his pay grade with Libby.

  I take both of our plates to the table. Jaxi retrieves two glasses from the dishwasher.

  “What would be your type then?” I ask. “Are you more of an Aquaman kind of girl?”

  “No. Well, I’m not saying I’d tell Jason Momoa no …” She laughs. “But I don’t think I have a type, to be honest.”

  I take a seat at the table and try to ignore the idea of her with Jason Momoa.

  “I think everyone has a type,” I tell her, trying to distract myself. “Or at least a type that they’re most attracted to.”

  She sets a glass of ice water in front of me and then takes the seat across the table.

  “That’s probably true, I guess,” she says. “I’ve always associated the idea of someone being my type with compatibility. Maybe if I associate it with attraction, it would work out better.”

  “Are you saying you’re not compatible with the men you’re attracted to?”

  She makes a face. “Honestly? I’m not sure that I’m compatible with anyone, attraction aside.”

  “Oh, please.”

  She gets situated in her chair and refuses to make eye contact. “What kind of a woman are you attracted to?”

  Right now? You.

  As if she knows what’s going through my brain, she looks up. My gaze is pinned on her. Her head tilts to the side, almost as a warning, before she picks up her fork and refocuses on her plate.

  I pick up my fork too. “I’m usually attracted to women who have a great smile, can laugh at themselves, and are inherently kind.”

  Her fork stalls in the air.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That’s a load of bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.”

  I laugh. “No, it’s not.”

  “It is too.” She sets her fork down on the edge of her plate. “You’re trying to tell me that you aren’t attracted to women based on their physical appearance first?”

  “Fine. Great smile, great laugh, kindness, and a nice ass. Better?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know if it’s better, but at least it’s more honest.”

  “Actually, that’s not more honest,” I contend, spiraling some spaghetti onto my fork. “I’m attracted to women I think are beautiful. But there’s no hard and fast rule as to what that means.”

  “Of course there is.”

  “No, there’s not.” I pause to figure out how to explain this to her. “Let’s take my brother Holt’s girlfriend, Blaire. She’s beautiful. She has long, dark hair and an air of sophistication about her that makes her seem exotic or untouchable. It’s hot.”

  Jaxi nods. “That’s an interesting way to talk about your brother’s girlfriend, but okay. Got you.”

  “He’d expect as much.” I wink. “Now, as a comparison, let’s take you.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Oh, no. Let’s not.”

  “Let’s do.” I lean forward. “You may not be tall or have dark hair or have that icy vibe that Blaire has going on that works so well for her, but …”

  My voice trails off as she covers her face.

  “Do we have to do this?” she grumbles.

  “You don’t take compliments well, huh?”

  She shakes her head. The little bun thing on top sways back and forth.

  I chuckle. “You have something different that’s equally as attractive.”

  “Great.”

  “You have the brightest eyes and a laugh that makes it impossible to be in a bad mood around you.”

  She parts her fingers and looks through them at me.

  “You are funny and approachable.” I suck in a breath and go for it. “And have a curve at your hip that’s hot as hell.”

  She closes her fingers again. “That’s enough. We can be done now.”

  I laugh at her reaction.

  Just as I’m about to put a forkful of spaghetti into my mouth, my phone rings in my pocket. It provides a nice diversion.

  “Why don’t you get that?” she says.

  “It can wait.”

  “Just … get it,” she says, fanning her face. “It’ll be a good distraction.”

  “Fine.” I pull the phone from my pocket and see Wade’s number. “Shit. I actually should answer this. Wade never calls me.”

  “By all means …”

  I hit the green button, a rumble of nerves balling up in my gut. “What’s up, Wade?”

  “Can you come by my office?”

  Jaxi pretends to be interested in her dinner, but I can tell she’s listening.

  I shift in my seat. “I guess. When?”

  “Now would be good.”

  I cringe. Why in the world does Wade want me in his office and, even worse, want me there now? He never wants my help. With anything.

  “Now? So, not tomorrow sometime?” I ask, hoping he takes my lead.

  “Now means not tomorrow.”

  I sigh. “What’s going on? Is everything all right? Are you throwing me a surprise party?”

  “If I was throwing you a surprise party, I wouldn’t tell you that because then, it wouldn’t be a surprise, dumbass.”

&
nbsp; “Good point.”

  “Do you remember the property we bought from the Landrys?” he asks, getting me back on track.

  “Yes.”

  “I have a mock-up ready to go, but I want your opinion before I send it out to the engineer.”

  Jaxi takes a bite of her spaghetti and proceeds to make a face like she bit into a lemon. It’s adorable. She grabs her glass, avoiding eye contact.

  “What do you want my opinion about?” I ask, watching Jaxi’s antics across from me. “I agree with whatever Holt said.”

  “I would too but it’s not that easy this time,” he says, his voice slightly agitated. “Holt thinks the second tier needs to be open to the first. Oliver vehemently disagrees. I’m caught in the middle because I see the usefulness of two solid floors, but the ambience would admittedly be better with Holt’s suggestion.”

  “Definitely go with Holt,” I say, wanting to get back to Jaxi. “Glad I could help.”

  He sighs. Frustration is thick in his tone. “I want you to look at it. It’s more complicated than it sounds, and this is a big deal. It has to be right. It could cost us a lot of fucking money if I choose the wrong layout.”

  Jaxi gets to her feet and moves into the kitchen. My gaze follows her.

  “Bring it to Mom’s on Sunday,” I volunteer. “I’ll look at whatever you want me to there.”

  “Boone, I need you to look at this now. If we change to Oliver’s vision, it’ll take me all fucking weekend, and I might have to delay the meeting next week. That’s fine if it’s necessary, but I’m not sure it is.”

  He stops and waits as if he expects me to give in. When I don’t, he growls.

  “Look, if you’re not busy with something that won’t wait a couple of hours, swing by here. Please.” He pauses. “See? I said please.”

  I look at the ceiling and scowl.

  Wade never asks shit of me. If he’s still working at seven in the evening and is desperate enough to call me for help, I have to go. I know that. And he knows I know that.

  Dammit.

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t take forever.” He hangs up the phone.

  The sound of running water comes from my left, but I don’t look at it to see what Jaxi is doing. I have to figure out how to play this first.

  I don’t want to leave, but I can’t let Wade down—not when he practically begged for my help. On the other hand, I don’t want Jaxi to think I’m not appreciative of this meal—one I haven’t even tried yet.