Relentless (Mason Family 4)

His home is more amazing than I even realized. As the sun came up over the horizon and we untangled ourselves from one another, the beauty of his space became apparent.

Every detail is intentional—from the handcrafted soaking tub in the master bathroom to the imported Italian tile in the kitchen. The colors used throughout the house are calming and cozy, and random pops of color are displayed in what looks like a child’s finger-painting canvas to the untrained—meaning, my—eye.

It works, nonetheless.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help you?” I ask him as he loads the dishwasher. “I feel lazy watching you do all the work.”

“That’s not what you said this morning.”

My cheeks heat. “Well …”

He laughs. “I want you to sit there and look beautiful.”

“Fine.” I pull my legs up beneath the T-shirt I borrowed from Oliver for breakfast. “I guess I can manage.”

He rinses out the pan we used to fry bacon and then wipes up the counter from the English muffins we toasted. The cheese is rewrapped and placed in a zipped baggie. The eggs are returned to the refrigerator.

He does it all in a pair of black boxer shorts.

“Do you cook a lot?” I ask him, trying to keep my focus on things other than the way his abs ripple with each movement. Or the way his ass flexes beneath his shorts. Or how his shoulders bend and flex and how my fingers want to touch them—to touch him.

“Sometimes. Why?”

“I don’t know. You just seem really familiar with the kitchen.”

He sprays off a plate. “Well, I live here. I designed it. Shouldn’t I be familiar with it?”

“I guess so. I just … I thought bachelors ordered a lot of takeout.”

A laugh spills from his lips as he places the plate in the dishwasher. “How very sexist of you.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” I shake my head at myself. “You just surprise me, that’s all.”

He raises the dishwasher door and snaps it in place. Then he plants his hands on the white stone countertop and looks at me.

“I have a very nice lady who comes by once a week and makes sure things are clean,” he admits. “I tidy up after myself just fine, but mopping and cleaning bathrooms—things like that—are hard to get to. I have to let some things go in order to be great at others.”

“That’s a nice luxury you have.”

“What?”

“The choice of letting some things go in order to be great at others.”

He tilts his head to the side and considers this. “I’ve never thought about it like that, but I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

He presses off the counter and dries his hands on a towel. I watch him.

Oliver is so different at home than he is at the office. I don’t know what I expected him to be like here—if I had any expectations at all—but being so casual wasn’t one of them.

I sit in my chair and watch him finish his chores—running the garbage disposal and wiping up a splash of juice that spilled when he grabbed me from behind. It’s … lovely.

It’s lovely because it’s so mind-numbingly normal. A man in his kitchen with a woman, making breakfast and cleaning up. He’s not a powerful CEO here. I’m not his EA or a woman who happened to be brought here after a night out. We’re just two people who chose to spend some time together, and it feels wonderful.

Comfortable.

Safe.

I lay awake long after he fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. I curled up next to him and held on to him, trying to convince myself that he’s real. I’m really here. That this is real.

I prayed that I wouldn’t regret opening myself up to him. I hoped that when I opened my eyes that the way he looked back at me wouldn’t have changed over the night. I pled with the universe to please, somehow, let this situation be an anomaly in my life—let me have made the right choice for once.

Even though nothing about this with Oliver has felt like a choice. It’s felt like the natural course of my life … just heading in a positive direction for once.

“What are you thinking, my lady?” he asks.

I smile at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a Sunday morning like this in my entire life.”

“Really? What are your Sunday mornings usually like?”

He motions for me to get up and follow him, so I do.

We make our way lazily down the hallway. He tucks me under his arm as we enter a bright sitting room off the kitchen. White bookshelves line one wall, and a multitude of plants take up most of the counter that lines the other.

Two white wicker chairs face the windows that overlook an expansive field of grasses and flowers.

“So,” he says after we sit. “Your Sundays?”