Relentless (Mason Family 4)

So I did it. I took a risk. And I hope he likes it … or at least isn’t upset over it.

He reaches for my masterpiece. “Did you put this together?”

“It came in after I left, I guess. Prime shipping is magical. Anyway, you were on the phone …” I bite my lip as a cloud rolls over his features. “It took all of ten minutes. You just shove this shaft into this hole and …”

I force a swallow as the cloud swiftly moves from irritation to something else entirely.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Anyway, it was simple.”

“May I?”

“Oh, sure. Of course.” I shove the chair toward him. The sound of the rollers against the floor seems intrusively loud in the small office. “If you hate it, I can send it back.”

He pulls it in front of him and sits.

His tie is gone, the top button of his shirt undone. Knees spread, hair wild, and lips curled into an undeniable smirk paints a picture that will be very hard to forget.

Focus, Shaye.

I gulp. “Do you like it?”

He stretches back and moves around, the chair bending and flexing with him. Quietly.

“It feels nice,” he says. “I just can’t believe you got me a chair.”

“Hey, you pay me to make your day more efficient. There’s nothing worse than working in a crappy chair.” I ponder that for a moment. “There are worse things, actually. But having a bad chair is near the top of the list.”

We watch each other, separated only by the corner of my desk. My office is filled with the presence of this man. I wait for a moment of discomfort—a moment where I feel smaller, somehow. A switch in the scenario that makes me feel less powerful or itchy to get some air.

It doesn’t come.

“Here’s your file,” I say, knocking on the top of the folder with my knuckle. “I’m sorry if it inconvenienced you.”

He toys with his bottom lip thoughtfully.

“I also brought you dinner.” I look over my shoulder at the Tupperware of carbonara I scooped out just before I left my house. “I’m not the best cook in the world. Don’t get your hopes up. But I made way too much and figured that you might not have eaten if you were still here at this hour …”

My voice fades away as my gaze falls on Oliver again. His hand has fallen to the armrest, and his eyes are lit up like a child seeing a gift that they weren’t expecting.

“It’s just carbonara,” I warn him again.

His eyes lift to mine.

I still, the edge of my desk biting into my yoga pants as I relax in his gaze. I find myself blowing out a breath—almost sighing—as my body realizes that we won’t be fighting or flighting anytime soon.

It’s safe here. No need to be ready to defend myself or flee.

“You have single-handedly salvaged my night,” he says, his voice throaty.

I smile. “That’s better than destroying it.”

He smiles too. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees. The movement sends a whiff of his cologne through the air.

“Did you happen to hear any of my conversation before you closed the door?” he asks, his smile faltering a little.

“Not really. It seemed like a very personal call, and that’s none of my business.”

I pick a piece of nonexistent lint off my pants.

In truth, I did hear bits and pieces of Oliver’s conversation but only because his voice was raised. He seemed angry and frustrated. There were notes of sadness, too. Although I know he’s human, it’s hard to imagine Oliver not in control of a situation to the point it affects him that way.

When I look up at him, he hasn’t moved. He’s still watching me. I expect him to say something, to change the subject—to blow off the call as something trivial and march forward with the Jewell file.

But he doesn’t.

And the longer we sit across from each other, the more I feel prompted to say something. To ask.

I shift against my desk. “I want you to know that I’m a really good listener. I’m not prying, and I’m fully aware that your private life is yours. I’m also not being nosy,” I say in a rush, my nervousness getting the best of me. “I just know what it’s like to have something going on and feeling like you have no one to objectively listen to you. I mean—”

“Shaye.” He grins.

I bite my bottom lip.

“Thank you,” he says.

“The chair was no big deal.”

His grin stretches across his cheeks into a full-blown smile. “Yes, thank you for the chair. And for dinner. And for the file. And for …” He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’d say being you, but I haven’t known you long enough to really know who you are in that capacity yet. Right?”