Relentless (Mason Family 4)

I brush a strand of hair out of my face and then motion toward a pretend aura of glitter floating around me. “I am sparkling today.”

Lisbeth laughs. “Girl, I know it. I’m so proud of you.”

I’m so proud of you.

I lower my hand to the table slowly.

No one has ever really said that to me. Maybe my mother when I was a tiny girl over something small—I don’t know. I can’t say I recall Luca ever being especially excited about anything I ever did. My father, whomever he was, wasn’t even proud enough to stick around for my birth.

Lisbeth’s words roll around my head and then over my heart. It’s not the first time she’s used those words. She’s been proud of me a few times over our friendship. She uttered that phrase when I told Luca I wasn’t ready for children. She said it again when I filed for divorce. I’m sure she said it when I didn’t curl up in a ball and disintegrate into the carpeting when Luca died, and then my mother basically disowned me. But this is the first time she’s said it—anyone has said it—over something … happy.

There’s a decided difference.

Sometimes making a huge decision can feel like moving mountains. But making a choice to be happy is altogether harder.

And that’s what taking this job was—a choice to be happy. Or, at least, to put myself on the path to find happiness.

“Okay,” Lisbeth says. “I’m going to get off here and convince myself to do something productive.”

“If you need help picking out clothes, FaceTime me.”

She laughs. “I will. But I’m probably going to turn Game of Thrones on for the hundredth time and wish that Jon Snow was my lover.”

“Sounds like a good use of your time to me.”

“Me too.” She pauses, and I know she’s grinning. “Call me if you need me. Or if you think of any details you forgot to mention or decide you want to give me about your day. I don’t wanna pry, but I got very little information on Oliver, so I will expect you to rectify that as soon as you’re comfortable … meaning that you have a week to cough up the goods.”

“There are no goods!” I laugh. “Keep living in your little fictional world, darling.”

“I fully intend on doing just that!” She laughs along with me. “Talk later.”

“Bye.”

“Goodbye, Shaye.”

I end the call and set my phone next to my plate.

I take a deep breath and let it out in a steady stream. The act is soothing, dropping me back in reality with a soft landing. Shoving my plate aside, I pull the stack of folders in front of me and open the first one. Jewell is written on the cover sheet.

The file is thick. Oliver’s notes are scribbled on half-sheets of paper, along the borders of others, and on sticky notes that have fallen off their original locations. I take a bite of my dinner and flip through the pages.

It’s fascinating. There are reports on everything from the soil composition to solar panels production to man-hours required for moving dirt. I flip through each report, every purchase order, sketch by sketch, awed at what this company does.

At what Oliver does.

Each piece of paper has his signature on it, a note somewhere, and a contact name or the price of materials. The care that he’s taken on every single element of this project is inspiring. The CEOs I’ve known in the past have mostly written off this low-level grunt work and passed it along to others. It’s inspiring to see someone pay such time and attention to detail like this. Admirable.

My phone buzzes beside me, and I pick it up without looking at it. “Hello?”

“Hello, Shaye.”

The voice is not Lisbeth’s like I predicted. It’s low and thick and confident. Sexy.

I sit up straight.

“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” Oliver says.

“Me?” I pass a swallow down my throat. “No. Not at all. Is everything all right?”

My brain switches to panic mode, and I sort through my day, trying to figure out what I might’ve forgotten or might’ve said that would justify a call at home after hours.

Shit.

“Yes, everything is fine,” he says. “How did your first day go?”

“It was great. Fine. Thanks.” I pull my brows together. Surely, he’s not calling me to ask about my day. “How was yours?”

It’s a dumb question, but I can’t take it back. I cringe instead.

“Mine was good. Thanks for asking,” he says, his voice kissed with a smile. “I peeked around your desk this evening. I love how organized you are.”

“Thanks,” I say, biting my lip to keep my cheeks from splitting.

“I, however, am not quite as organized. I can’t seem to locate a file called Jewell. Do you happen to know where it might be?”

My face heats as I spring to my feet. My eyes are glued on the folder in front of me.