PROLOGUE
Wade
“Will you please cooperate?” Holt sighs, his face muddled with complete exasperation.
My brothers and I sit around a conference room table in their office building. The only one missing is Coy. He was smart enough not to work in the family business. My architectural firm is technically a separate entity for the sake of my sanity, but most of my projects interlace with my brothers’, which is a great setup. Until it’s not.
“Come on, Wade,” Oliver groans.
I sigh, resting my forearms on the table. I was over this ridiculous conversation—a meeting called with the presumption of business—nineteen minutes ago. We’ve been in this room for a total of twenty. I’m no more inclined to indulge their request than I was the first minute because this business meeting is really an adult version of my brothers getting themselves into a situation and pleading for my help.
“And which project would you like me to drop to make room for this one?” I raise my eyebrows, knowing damn well they aren’t about to suggest that I remove one of their projects from my list. “I have four Mason Limited projects for you guys in various stages of development, and I’m working on three homes—one that is taking up a lot of my time right now.”
Holt rolls his eyes.
Oliver sighs too, frustration evident in the harshness of his exhale.
“So, which is it?” I ask as if I’m actually considering this absurd request. “Which job of yours do you want me to cancel? Actually, let’s pick two, and one must be Greyshell.”
Boone, however, leans forward. A smirk settles on his lips. “He’s considering it. Wade is breaking. We’re breaking him.”
I level my gaze on my youngest brother. Before I can put him in his place and tell him that there is no way he can or ever will break me, Oliver steps in.
“For the love of God, Boone, don’t antagonize him,” Oliver says.
I arch a brow at Boone but remain otherwise unaffected—at least on the surface. The truth is, I am affected. I loathe being put in this position. My brothers rarely do this to me, but when they do, they go all in.
Oliver looks at me with resignation. “Let’s just … Let’s back up a little and see this for what it is.”
“I’ve done that,” I tell him. “Do you know what I was doing prior to your text summoning me here?”
Oliver doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.
“I’m sure it wasn’t fun,” Boone says, tossing a sunflower seed in the air and catching it in his mouth. He crunches it, then grins. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Well, considering that this is a workday, that would be pretty evident. Don’t you think?” I ask before smirking. “I apologize. Silly question. You never think.”
Boone’s jaw drops. But before he can reply, Oliver cuts in and saves him.
“Curt Bowery, the hotel magnate responsible for—”
“I know who he is, Oliver,” I deadpan.
“Then you know what a score it would be to make friends with him.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to be friends with anyone.”
“Dammit, Wade,” Oliver says, throwing himself back in his chair.
Holt motions for Oliver to take it easy and then takes his turn trying to convince me to participate in their scheme to befriend one of the wealthiest men in all of Georgia. Via me. The one who doesn’t care. The one who’s too busy. The one who just wants to design things that excite me and be left alone.
I’m choosy about what projects I take on and who I work with. I have a process, and it doesn’t mesh with just anyone. Independence and control over my day are at the top of the list when it comes to things I value. My brothers know this, yet … here we are.
“Listen,” Holt says. “Curt just wants us to design a home for one of his granddaughters. How hard can that be?”
“Who is this us you speak of? Did you suddenly get a degree in architecture this morning?”
Holt looks at the ceiling.
“Curt rattled on about your work at the Landry Gala a few weeks back,” Oliver says. “He keeps calling me.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“This could be really good for business, Wade,” Holt says. “He has worldwide connections and government contacts. He can literally snap his fingers and get anything he wants.”
“He can’t get me.”
Oliver groans. “Curt has already hinted at a possible collaboration on a project in Atlanta. He’s talking about a state-of-the-art hotel, shopping—the whole bit. Just having our name associated with him would be a feather in our cap.”
“Wade, please,” Holt says, cutting in. “We need you to do this for the greater good of the family.”
“I’d do it if I could,” Boone says.
“Boone, you couldn’t trace your hand with a fucking crayon.” It’s my turn to exhale. “Listen, I’ve really enjoyed this little chat, but I need to go. I—”