“Is that a yes?”
My head falls back to the headrest, and I close my eyes. “Yes. Fine. But it’s going to be short. I don’t have a lot to say.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Good.” I lift my head. “Now get the hell out of here so I can figure out what just happened.”
“Will do.”
He turns toward the door.
“And Holt?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time—knock.”
He grins before escaping.
As soon as he’s gone, the room feels smaller. Eerily quiet. The energy is definitely stained with the events of the last hour.
I growl, getting to my feet as if I have somewhere to go. But I don’t.
Every cell in my body wants to move, to do—to fix some of the mess I’ve found myself in.
But I don’t know how to fix it.
Dara Alden is a slippery slope. I knew that the day she walked in here spouting off about relational intimacy and giving hugs like they’re free.
Still, I saw her again.
She drove home the potential hurricane my life would become with her in it the day I saw her at the park.
Still, I saw her again.
It was crystal clear at Hillary’s House and even more apparent at the property with the lake.
Still, I saw her again.
I saw her again because she’s embedded herself in the back of my brain like some kind of parasite that I can’t shake. I’m not sure what it is about her that makes me think of her on and off all day.
She’s beautiful. Her smile is infectious. She’s smart and clever and creative.
Everything about her frustrates me. She frustrates me. And now she’s my date to Holt’s wedding.
I run my hands through my hair and tug on the roots.
“I’ll be with her for hours,” I say out loud, trying to work through the situation. “There will be pictures. Dancing.” I tense as the thought of having her in my arms on a dance floor barrels through my brain. “Fuck.”
I’m stopped in my tracks by the sound of the phone buzzing.
“Mr. Mason? Sir?”
“Yes, Eliza,” I say, my tone tense.
“Mr. Correra is on the line for you, sir.”
My body stills as I hear Eliza—maybe for the first time. I hear the caution in her voice, the heavy hesitation. She doesn’t ramble on like her predecessor and doesn’t fumble around for the information she failed to prepare.
Dara is right. Eliza isn’t comfortable, and while I don’t particularly want her that comfortable—comfortable people don’t do their job to the best of their abilities—I also have no interest in her being anxious.
“Eliza?”
“Yes, sir.”
“First of all, please, for the last time, do not call me sir.”
“I’m sorry.”
I sigh and squeeze my temples. “Also …” I grimace. “Thank you for being so efficient.”
The words come out in a rush as if I’m spitting them out to get it over with. Maybe I am. But the fact is that I said them, I meant them, and now she knows.
Even if it was cheesy and ridiculous that I have to be so … whatever that was.
“Wow. Um, thank you, si—Mr. Mason.”
I roll my eyes again. “Can you send the call to my voicemail, please?”
“Absolutely. And, Mr. Mason?”
“Yes, Eliza?”
She pauses, the line crackling. “Thank you for saying that. It really means a lot.”
A brief shot of warmth shoots through my veins, and I try to shake it off. But as I war with the feeling, another one sparks through me too.
Dara is the one who pointed out Eliza’s discomfort.
“Maybe … compliment her occasionally.”
This second sensation is a chill that puts out the heat of the first.
“Your refusal to make your employee feel seen is a reflection of your apparent disregard for intimacy in relationships.”
Whether she was reaching or speaking from a place of understanding, Dara was right. I do have a disregard for intimacy in relationships. The main point being—I don’t want it.
Never again.
But what did Dara mean by that? Was her focus on Eliza as an employee or Eliza as a potential recipient of a relationship with me that would include intimacy?
“Surely not …”
I pace around my office, going back and forth in front of the windows. No matter how I look at it, I can’t conclude anything that I feel good about.
But what if Dara thinks I’m interested in Eliza? What if she thinks I keep Eliza at arm’s length because I’m attracted to her?
The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. And the more it makes sense, the less suffocated I feel about accompanying Dara to Holt’s wedding.
I collapse in my chair. Relief comes in small waves. If Dara thinks I’m into Eliza, then maybe this won’t be as bad as I fear.
I need to think about it more, but this is a start.
My cell phone rings, and I look down to see Boone’s name flashing on the screen.
“What?” I ask in lieu of a formal greeting.
“We are brothers, after all.”
I sigh, the sound filled with exasperation. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m proud of you, Wade. I really am.”
“Boone, I don’t have time for your bullshit today.”
“Imagine my surprise when I heard from a little birdie that you have a smokin’ hot date to Holt’s wedding. I almost couldn’t believe it. But, do you know something? I’ve always suspected that you were a pimp beneath those dorky glasses—”
I hang up the phone.
Then I look at the ceiling and wish for the day to end too.
SEVENTEEN
DARA
“If you don’t buy that dress, you’re out of your mind.” Rusti shrugs, slurping her iced coffee. “It’s absolute perfection.”
I spin in a slow circle, watching my reflection in the changing room mirrors to get the full effect.
The dress fits me like a glove. The champagne color offers a rosy hue to my skin. I can move and breathe easily in the cotton and polyester blend fabric. Somehow the band at the waist gives me a deep curve while holding everything in place.
It’s basically magic.
And it makes me feel magical.
“You can pull the sleeves up for the wedding and cover your shoulders,” Rusti says. “And then you can do a little off-the-shoulder, sexier vibe for the reception. It’s really two looks in one.”
“What shoes do I wear with this?” I turn side to side, wondering if the slit is too high. “Heels, of course, but what color?”
“Something nude. Oh! What about that pair you wore when we went to that comedy show in Atlanta last year? I think there’s a strap at the ankle and one over the toe? Maybe?”
The longer I wear the dress, the more excitement begins to spread through my body.
“Those would work,” I say.
“No. Those would be perfect.”
I smile. “Okay. I think this one is it.”
“That is definitely it. You’re going to be Catnip’s catnip Saturday night.”
I bite my lip and try to keep a level head.