Relentless (Mason Family 4)

Oliver reaches out, his eyes glued to mine, and brushes it away.

“My father is currently fucked up,” he tells me. “I don’t know why. I know it’s nothing that my family has done to him. But when you watch us and think we have it all together, just know that isn’t true. We’re all the same at the end of the day. We’re all just people trying to do their best.”

My heart squeezes in my chest. I wish I could wrap my arms around him and bury my head in his chest.

But I can’t.

“Thank you,” I say instead. “Honestly. That means a lot to me.”

He nods. “Of course.”

I clear my throat. “I better go. My boss wants me back here tomorrow morning at eight.”

He grins, taking a step back and giving me room to turn. I open my car door and climb in.

“Thank you again for the file and food and chair,” he says, gripping the top of the doorframe. “I really appreciate everything.”

I search his eyes. I should drive off and give him a little wave and get back into the role of his EA. But when I see the openness, the vulnerability staring back at me, I don’t.

“Thank you for saying all the things you did,” I tell him. “I think we’re going to be good friends.”

His lips twist at the words. “Yeah.” He dips his head in the car and surveys the interior.

“Don’t make a comment about the straw wrappers, okay?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” He grins. “It just looks like you collect little white strips of paper.”

I laugh. “Why is it never, ‘Oh, you don’t litter! What a nice person!’”

He laughs too, his attention landing back on me. Moment by moment, the laughter stops, and something else takes its place. It’s thick and hot and almost dizzying.

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

“I better go now,” I whisper, starting the car.

I reach for the seat belt. As I turn to grab it, my hand touches his shoulder. The connection of our bodies is the spark that’s been missing.

His eyes zap to mine, the pupils wide. I open my mouth to apologize or make a joke, but neither thing happens.

Instead, Oliver leans in—almost as if he’s unable to stop himself—and cups my cheek in his hand. His palm is warm and smooth. I lean into it, my body already in overdrive.

Something inside me screams to stop—that he’s my boss and I can’t screw this up—but it’s overridden with the pounding of my heart and the desire pooling in my belly.

Oliver’s lips touch mine for a lingering, a touch-too-long but a touch-not-long-enough moment.

My eyes flutter shut. The contact isn’t enough to quell the surge of need rolling through me, but it’s enough to rocket me back to the present.

Oh, shit.

“Oliver …” I stumble around for words.

He hangs his head. “Fuck.”

“Look, that probably just—”

“Complicated things,” he says, cutting me off. His eyes shine with sincerity. “But I’m not sorry. I’ve wanted to do that since the day I met you.”

I half-laugh in a response riddled with shock. “Really?”

“Really.” He touches his mouth where my lips just graced. “I hope it doesn’t make things weird for you. If it does, I take full responsibility.”

I sit back in my seat and try not to burst at the seams with … happiness? Excitement? Lust?

“I just hope it doesn’t affect my job,” I tell him. “I really need this job.”

“I assure you that this won’t affect your job.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

I reach for the door handle. “I better go. You have work to do.”

He steps back. “Good night, Shaye.”

“Good night, Oliver.”

With a final grin, I tug the door shut.

I reverse carefully, ensuring not to hit anything in my haste to leave. It’s difficult, but I don’t look back as I pull away.

It’s even harder not to let my brain get the best of me.

Did I want that kiss? Absolutely.

Would I do it again? For sure.

Is it in my best interest?

Abso-freaking-lutely not.

Fifteen

Oliver

“You’re early.” My mother sticks out her cheek for a kiss. “To what do I owe this change of habit?”

I hold my tie down with one hand and place a quick kiss to her cheek. Then I sit at the table across from her.

The dining room of Hilary’s House, my mother’s favorite restaurant in Savannah, is bustling. It’s the typical weekday crowd. Women coming from private tennis lessons, men hashing out contracts over lunch, and a handful of tourist couples lured in by the heavy local traffic fill the tables at the small establishment.

“Sometimes you just have to get out of the office,” I say with a tight grin.

I’m saved from my mother’s curious look by the waitress.

“What can I get for you today, Mr. Mason?” Lola asks.

“Grilled chicken breast with asparagus, if you have it. If not, I’ll take broccoli. Iced water with lemon. Thank you.”