Resolution (Mason Family 5)

I stuff down a wave of thoughts that always float just under the surface. Now isn’t the time to get into all of that.

“This is going to be a process,” I say firmly. “The closer we get to making it happen, the more nervous I get. And I don’t need to be dealing with some guy who I know, for a fact, is difficult to work with—”

“And who you’re attracted to.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes. That too. Because every guy who fits the bill of my catnip, as you call it, always does what?”

Her face sobers. “Breaks your heart.”

“Bingo.” I roll my head around my shoulders. “I’m not saying he’d even be into me. Maybe we could just forge an antiseptic working relationship. But the odds are stacked against this, Russell.”

Rusti glares at me for using the nickname I created for her.

“Too many things could already go wrong here without adding in a potential issue with the architect,” I say, continuing.

I hadn’t thought this out. But now that it’s all laid out in front of me … it makes sense. It’s logical.

It’s the right answer.

I know it in my heart. I can feel it in my soul.

“My focus needs to be on me,” I say.

“You’ve had a hell of a year. When you put it like that, I agree with you one hundred percent. You have to follow your gut, Dara, and if it’s telling you that this isn’t the right answer—listen to it.” She digs into her pocket and retrieves her phone. “Speaking of listening to it, can you hold Cleo’s leash for a minute so I can listen to work tell me that I need to come in early and they can listen to me tell them to eff off?”

I swear that Cleo looks over her shoulder and laughs at me.

“Fine. Sure. Give her to me,” I say.

Rusti hands me the leash before walking off into the grass.

“I know you don’t like me,” I tell Cleo. “I don’t like you either. So let’s just keep this friendly, okay?”

She leads me down another path that heads toward a marshy area. It’s one of my favorite spots in the park.

“Good choice,” I tell the dog as we get farther away from Rusti.

Moss sways in the breeze, draping over the heavy branches overhead. The rhythmic movement sweeps the negative thoughts from my mind. Before I know it, I’m mentally designing holiday backdrops for a family photo session.

It’s almost as though the universe teamed up with Cleo to conspire against me because just as I let my shoulders fall, the dog springs into action.

“Cleo!” I shout, my voice tinged with panic as the Jack Russell terrier jerks to my right.

I try to move the leash to my other hand, but the transfer fails. The end of the leash slips through my fingers, and Cleo makes a break for it.

“Shit.”

Sprinting as fast as a nearly thirty-year-old woman who hasn’t run since high school, I travel across the lawn in pursuit of the dog. Her silly pink rhinestone-encrusted collar catches the sunlight, and I swear it gives her another five miles per hour.

“Cleo!” I call out, already panting. “Cleo, please stop!”

She doesn’t stop.

A bead of sweat breaks out across my forehead as I chase her through the trees. I should’ve worn a sports bra, I think as I clutch a hand to my bouncing chest.

I hate this dog. I hate this dog so much.

Thankfully, like a gift from the heavens, she stops running at the edge of the marsh. She looks at me with her tongue wagging out of the side of her mouth.

I get to her as quickly as I can in my state of mid-cardiac arrest. But just before I can reach her leash, she dives into the muddy water and races through it.

“Dammit,” I say, looking behind me in hopes that Rusti will be right there.

She’s not.

“Cleo!”

My shout isn’t as loud as before, and my steps aren’t as quick—not that they were ever quick to start with. But Cleo’s seem to slow too as she approaches a large oak tree.

I sense my opening. I find my Supercharger, courtesy of a Red Bull I downed just before I got here, and bolt after the dog. But as soon as I clear the trunk, my feet stumble.

As I catch myself against the rough tree and the bark scratches my palms, I watch in horror as the now-brown dog leaps into the air—mud flying off her fur—like a circus-trained professional, vaults onto a picnic table, and then launches herself into the arms of an unsuspecting man leaning against a bench.

“Hold her!” I scream.

His hands close gingerly around the filthy animal. Just as I reach the two of them, she puts her dirty little paws on his chest–on his crisp white T-shirt—and licks his face.

My insides shrivel as I jog the rest of the way.