Resolution (Mason Family 5)

Although he’s shown me several facets of his personality—and I bet that was unintentional—who is this man?

Aloof, moody, a perfectionist, hard, punctual … but there’s a man who can look at me, study me, and envision my home. Is that what he’s focused on now? My future home? Or—

“Donuts, huh?” he says as we round the hood.

I laugh. “Is that what you were thinking about this whole time?”

He opens the door but doesn’t climb in. Instead, he grips the top of the car and looks at me with the automobile between us.

Fitting.

“Would you believe me if I said that it was?” he asks.

“Probably not.”

His lip twitches. “Would you believe me if I said it wasn’t?”

That is what I thought—that he wasn’t thinking about pastries. But the look on his face has me reconsidering that assumption.

“Probably not,” I say again.

“Then what’s it matter?” He wiggles his brows as if he’s just won some kind of game and climbs in the car.

I laugh. Color me surprised by that.

I look around, taking in the scenic beauty and releasing my worries into the breeze, before climbing in beside Wade.

“This is where you need to be.”

Is that true?

I bite my lip and watch a squirrel race across the forest floor.

I do love it here. The water has always soothed my soul, and if I had to pick one place to relocate to, this would be it.

But how did Wade know that? How did he look at me and read me that well after spending so little time with him?

The thought is alarming. And, if I’m being honest, a little exhilarating.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t read all of my thoughts.

I laugh as I climb in the car.

TWELVE

DARA

My favorite donut shop in all of Savannah sits like the legend it is in front of us. Wade climbs out of the car, a heavy splash of suspicion on his face, and meets me on the sidewalk.

“Judy’s?” he asks, giving a nod to the bubble-gum pink lettering spelling out the name.

“Are you judging the establishment based on the sign?”

“No. I’m judging it off the pink door.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll have you know that this is the best-kept secret in the whole city.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

Wade looks down the street toward the hotels and more popular restaurants like Paddy’s. The juxtaposition of the polished, dapper man who looks like he should be having a fancy brunch somewhere standing in front of a window with pink-and-white checkered curtains is fun.

I run back to my car and snag my camera from the back seat. Luckily, Wade isn’t concerned with my doings. His attention is still pegged elsewhere.

Then as if the heavens open and shine down, he slips one hand into his pocket.

My inner photographer springs into action. I lift the camera and shoot.

Close-up. Farther away.

He takes his hand out and lifts his chin.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

Wade gives me a solid minute of unbridled action. But then that action halts.

He looks at me, his brows raising, and holds out a hand. “What the hell are you doing?”

“This is a camera,” I say, holding it out to him. “It takes things called photographs.”

“Don’t be dense, Dara.”

My shoulders slump. “Come on. Let’s at least look at them.”

“I have no interest.”

“Wade.”

He stares at me as if the intensity will make me relent. I hold his gaze just as sharply. Our standoff lasts until a man on a scooter barrels down the sidewalk and forces Wade to move.

I try another angle.

“Why did you want to be an architect?” I ask.

He glances at the camera and then to me with a curious, if not suspicious, expression.

“I designed a log cabin in the fourth grade for a history project,” he says. “Holt helped me build it out of sticks and hot glue.”

“Your mother let you use hot glue in the fourth grade?”

“Well, there are five of us boys. Holt was a little older, and I think we did it when she wasn’t home.” His suspicion melts into amusement. “Coy ended up gluing his finger to Boone’s, so your concern is well placed.”

I laugh. “I can’t imagine living in a house with that many brothers.”

“It will make you or break you in many ways.”

I step onto the sidewalk but keep a few paces away from him, lest he decide to grab my camera and delete the photos I just took.

“What did it do to you? Make you or break you?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer for a long second. “Probably both. Now, about those pictures …”

“Okay, but let’s circle back to the architect thing. I was going somewhere.”

He shakes his head.

“Architecture is your art, right?”

“I suppose.”

“How do you feel when you design something?” I grin. “I mean, if your cold heart feels anything.”

He makes a face.

“I’m serious. How do you feel when you show someone a design you’ve created?”

“We’re here to eat donuts, not to discuss feelings.”