Resolution (Mason Family 5)

He clears his throat and wipes any hint of amusement off his face.

“You like her,” I tease him. “Look at that. You smiled.”

“I did not.”

I hum. “I think you did.”

Wade rolls his eyes and redirects his attention to his shirt. He runs a hand over the streaks of mud left by Rusti’s errant pet. Through the gesture, I’m able to see the lines of his abs.

I gulp.

“I got an email from your grandfather last night,” he says as he looks up at me. “He seems to be under the impression that we’re working together.”

My stomach flip-flops. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to him yet.”

“And if you had, what would you have said?”

That he has really good taste.

I search Wade’s eyes to get a hint of what he’s thinking. He definitely has thoughts swimming around those deep jade orbs. It’s too bad he’s locked them away and made them impossible to read.

He waits patiently for my answer as though he’s prepared to stand in the middle of the park all day until I respond.

“I would’ve told him we decided we aren’t a good fit,” I say, even though that’s not necessarily the case.

And it’s not necessarily true.

He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the bench behind him. With his legs stretched out in front of him, his body looks long and hard … and irresistible. I’m not sure which Wade is more delicious—suit-and-tie Wade or relaxed-in-sweats Wade.

Apparently, Cleo agrees and starts trying to climb him.

“Get down,” I say, tugging her leash. She whines, and I really can’t blame her.

“So we’re not a good fit,” he says, repeating what I just said. His lips press together. “Is that what you’ve decided?”

He screwed up. I bet he would be even twitchier if he knew the insight he just gave me without meaning to.

“It’s the conclusion I drew after our meeting,” I say, attempting to come across as nonplussed as possible.

“I see.”

I kneel in front of him and flick the mud off Cleo’s head. “I’ll have to get with my grandfather about it this weekend. I know he was looking forward to working with you.”

The energy between us roars as it tries to find an equilibrium. I don’t dare look at him for fear of tilting the balance of power his way.

My throat goes dry as I wait for him to reply. Cleo’s fur hides the subtle shake of my hand. It’s not a nervous vibration pulsing through my veins, but more of a vigorous surge of adrenaline. An anticipation. The response to a curious suspense.

Where is this going? What will he say? I have no idea, but I’m dying to find out.

“Granddad mentioned before that if things didn’t work out with you that he could just use Moss and Oak—his regular architects,” I say, looking up at him.

“Their business isn’t in home design. It’s in commercial construction.”

I stand and swear I see a wave of relief flash through his eyes.

“There’s a new guy, Johan I think it is, who focuses on homes,” I say. “Granddad said we’d work really well together.”

This is news to Wade. It’s also not what he wants to hear.

A dark shadow passes across his face as his arms drop to his side. He shoves off the bench and stands tall as if he’s just now giving this conversation his undivided attention.

I lick my lips. “I’ve heard Johan has a lot of time to focus on my needs.”

“I bet he does.”

Wade’s voice is tense. His face, though, is passive for the most part. He stares at me like he’s trying to work something out, but I’m not sure if he’s annoyed by my declaration or if he’s bored with the conversation.

I tug on Cleo’s leash. “We should be going.”

“You do realize how personal it can be to design your home with someone, right?” he asks as I turn to go.

I smile before I face him again. Glancing over my shoulder, I lift a brow. “I figured.”

“Your architect needs to know how you’re going to use your space. What you value. The things in life you prioritize.” He stands slightly taller. “They need to know your dreams.”

This feels like a warning. It sounds like he’s projecting that Johan can’t do all of those things.

Is he implying that he can?

But as I stand in front of Wade and feel the weight of his gaze and consider being vulnerable with him—vulnerable enough to work together on this level—every cell in my body misfires.

It’s overwhelming. The mere idea makes me want to run and hide. But, at the same time, a strange sense of excitement, of possibility—of completing this process with Wade Mason—feels like the best solution.

“I guess Johan and I are going to become great friends then,” I say. I throw in a shrug that I hope looks apathetic because, under my clothes, I’m sweating. “Good talk. Thanks for the tips.”