Resolution (Mason Family 5)

“I don’t have a lot to tell,” I say. “I’m working with him on a house that my grandfather thinks will solve all of my misfortunes in life.”

Lola frowns.

“Obviously, that’s not going to happen but I’m not mad about working with Wade Mason for a while to prove it.” I watch Lola’s face transform into a knowing smirk. “What?”

“Wade Mason, you say?” she asks.

“Yeah. And …”

Her shoulders sag as she pretends that her knees are wobbling. “I can confirm with every ounce of estrogen in my body that Wade Mason is, in fact, inside. He’s sitting in the back right corner wearing black pants, a denim button-up with a gray Polo sweater over it. The sun is shining on his face—making that dimpled chin look bitable.”

My laughter catches the attention of the older couple making their way to their car.

“I don’t know him—not in a friendly or Biblical way, sadly,” Lola says. “But he’s at some of the events we cater. I’ve watched him from afar many nights as he sips his cognac or handles a cigar in a way that makes me all hot and bothered.”

I giggle. “Like you are now?”

She smacks my shoulder, blushing.

“I’m not judging you,” I promise. “I was close to telling Granddad that I didn’t want to design a house at all. I took a chance last minute and showed up for the appointment and, voila—Wade Mason. So, here I am.”

“Here I’d be too.” She walks backward. “You better get in there and I better get home and wash off the olive juice I just practically bathed in.”

“Have fun with that.”

She grins. “I think you’re about to have a hell of a lot more fun than me.”

We wave goodbye and go our separate ways. My heart thumps wildly in my chest as I head for the building. Chimes ring when I pull the door open and step inside.

Scents of cinnamon and coffee envelop me as I stand just inside the doorway and scan the room. It takes half a second to locate Wade. He’s right where Lola said he’d be.

Damn.

The first thing I notice is something Lola forgot to mention—he’s wearing his uber-sexy, nearly pornographic black-rimmed glasses.

My feet falter as I take him in. Why is that so hot?

Wade is pouring over a stack of papers in his hands. A cup of coffee and a glass of ice water sit in front of him. Just as I approach, he looks up.

My heart skips a beat as a look of surprise flashes across his eyes. Then just as quickly, a studiousness takes its place.

“Hi,” I say, sitting before he can get to his feet. This isn’t a date. I don’t know if he would try to pull my chair out for me or what, but it would be awkward either way. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

He drags his glasses to the tip of his nose and looks over the top of them. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or bored.

“That’s it?” he asks, catching me off guard.

I sit my purse on the chair next to me. “That it? I don’t know what you mean.”

He takes his glasses off and sets them next to his phone. A slight, barely there smile graces his lips. “I just expected something a little … more when you arrived. You never come quietly.”

“Interesting observation so early in our relationship.”

His lips twist together. His eyes narrow. A smile or a smirk or a frown—what’s to come? I don’t know. But the anticipation that I think he’s intentionally building has me shifting in my seat.

I try to play it cool by brushing a strand of hair away from my face when, in reality, a bolt of adrenaline makes it almost impossible to sit still. I lift a brow and grin.

“I’d hate to disappoint,” I say, even though I know I’m potentially playing with fire. “If you’d like me to reach over and give you a big hug, I’d be more than happy to.”

He fights against his smile growing wider.

It’s a challenge I accept.

“But I am not, under any circumstances, jumping into your arms or humping your leg,” I tease. “I have standards.”

“Let’s be glad for that.” He clears his throat, the hint of levity in his eyes now gone. “I was about to leave. I thought you’d forgotten.”

“Wade. I was ten minutes late. Relax.”

He scoffs and picks up his papers again. “I’m sorry. How much time does someone wait for another person in your world?”

“Depends on who it is and what’s going on.” I pause to order a glass of water and to take a menu from the server. “How long does someone take in your world?”

“No more than ten. And ten warrants a call.”

I wrinkle my nose and peruse the offerings. “On another note, are we eating or just designing?”

“That would depend on, I suppose, if you’re hungry.”