Resolution (Mason Family 5)

My chest rises and falls as I wait for him to break the silence.

He takes his card back and finally looks away. He scribbles on the receipt before handing it back to the server. His card is returned to his wallet, and his eyes, finally, are returned to me.

“Nine o’clock?” he asks.

“I’ll be there.”

Standing, he gathers his things. I sit quietly and watch him, both sad he’s leaving and also intrigued by his movements.

How does one person embody so much confidence and give so little away?

He heaves a breath. “I’m sorry for having to cut this short, Dara.”

The way he says my name—like each sound is precious and must be spoken clearly—sends a shiver down my spine.

“I’m sorry you have to leave too,” I say.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

The corner of his lip lifts before he walks away.

And, once again, even though I have no idea how or why, I’m left breathless.

NINE

WADE

“I’m not going to be worth shit tomorrow.”

My reflection stares back at me. Much to my dismay, I look as tired as I feel. My forehead is streaked with a set of deep horizontal lines that are more evident when I’m exhausted. The dark splotches that sit below my eyes are indicative of the hour.

I’m never up at one in the morning. Ever.

I wipe off the sink, soaking up the splashes of water on the marble from brushing my teeth, and then hang up the towel on the hook next to my robe. The light is off with a simple flick of my wrist, and I walk into my bedroom.

Sinatra croons from the surround sound, his voice pairing with the warmth of the fireplace perfectly. It should create a relaxing atmosphere to assist me in winding down from the day … but it doesn’t.

Not tonight.

I sit on the edge of my bed and run a hand through my damp hair.

My inability to relax enough to wind down did result in a wave of productivity. Instead of going to bed at ten, as I do every night, I headed to my office downstairs and caught up on a number of peripheral projects. Hopefully, it’ll help take some pressure off tomorrow.

Because God knows I’ll have my hands full.

A smirk touches my lips as my mind drifts to Dara. I’m not sure what to think about her. She’s captivating with her quick wit and seemingly boundless energy. Her refusal to simply answer a question without spinning it into a conversation about some esoteric topic is also frustrating.

And that body? Fuck my life.

I should’ve called this whole thing off from the get-go. My gut told me to tell Oliver no, to refuse to participate in this time-consuming situation. I definitely knew it was a bad idea when she marched into my office … and hugged me.

“Dammit,” I groan, tugging at the roots of my hair.

If I’m going to do this, and I’m in too far not to do it at this point, I’ll have to figure out how to separate Dara from everything else. Her project will get a set time each day, just like any other project. I’m not giving it any special attention. No matter what happens, her design cannot and will not bleed into the rest of my work.

It’s just another job. She’s just another client.

I flip off the light and quiet Sinatra. I reach for the remote to disable the fireplace but choose to leave it on at the last second. Maybe it’ll help me sleep.

The bed is cool, the sheets crisp, as I slide into my spot. I toss and turn a little until I finally get comfortable. The stress in my body eases as I sink into the soft mattress.

My eyes close. My mind moves away from work, and I use the moment of peace to whisper my prayers. Just as I’m starting to drift off, a buzzing sound rips through the air.

“What the hell?” I reach for my phone and flip it over. When I see Coy’s name, I sit up. “Hello?”

“Hey, Wade.”

Coy’s voice is low, just a few decibels above a whisper.

I can count on one hand how many times Coy has called me in the middle of the night. Once was a butt dial that he never repeated. Another time he was drunk and had a math problem he’d wagered one hundred dollars on and wanted me to give him and his buddies the answer. I did not comply. The third time was for bail money after he visited a bar that I warned him not to visit.

That time, I did help him out.

But this is different. I can hear it in his voice. A ripple of something woven into his tone has my stomach tightening as I listen.

“You busy?” he asks.

I rough a hand over my face. “Well, it’s after one in the morning, so take that for what you will. Why? What’s up?”