Resolution (Mason Family 5)

“I called you a couple of days ago. Did your secretary not give you the message?”

He chuckles. “She might have. What prompted your call?”

I pace my kitchen and hope he can’t hear the panic that rides up my throat.

“Oh, I just wanted to let you know that I’m working with the architect you suggested,” I say, wiping a hand down my jeans. “We’ve been discussing concepts, and we looked at the lake property today.”

“And how did that go? Did he think it was a good location?”

Something in his tone—a curiosity—makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

“I … yes,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “He said if it worked for me, he could work with it.” I pause. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. It’s always interesting to hear what other people think of an idea.”

“Oh.”

“Tyra and I would like you to come to dinner,” he says out of nowhere. “Maybe next weekend? How does that sound? I need to check with Tyra and my assistant, but I’d like to have you over soon.”

What? “I’m sure I could make something work.”

“Splendid. I’ll get with you in the next few days, and we’ll iron out the details. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

“Great.” He sighs. “I need to go. I golf early in the morning and have a few calls to make before I can retire for the evening.” He pauses. “Take care, Dara.”

“I will, Grandfather. You, too. And thank you for calling.”

“Be safe, dear girl. Good night.”

“Good night.”

The call ends abruptly. I’m not sure if he even hears my farewell.

I hold the phone to my chest and close my eyes.

The hole in my heart that gaped open the day my mother died rips a little wider. It always feels like this after I talk to Granddad. It reminds me vividly how I don’t have my mom.

Or my dad.

I acknowledge that I have a biological child, Dara Alden. I choose with a sound mind and in front of the witnesses named below to exempt her from this document.

Tears fill my eyes.

And that hurts.

So much.

FIFTEEN

DARA

“I should’ve held out.”

The statement is a mixture of a whisper and a grumble as I make my way toward Wade’s office. Poor Eliza was extra sweet as I inundated her with my nervous, random-ass questions and comments.

That’s what not hearing from your architect for a week will do to you.

I knock, holding my breath in preparation to hear his voice. I’ve played our conversation from last week until I’ve either committed it to memory or just made up what I wanted it to say. I’m not sure which is the truth at this point … and that is a huge part of the reason my heart is thundering in my chest.

That and he sent me a text that simply read: Can you be here in an hour?

There was no follow-up. No explanation. No reply to my over-enthusiastic Okay!

It’s impossible to know why he hasn’t called before now. I know he has other clients, and I’m probably the least important out of them all. He designs shopping malls, hotels, and mega-mansions for the uber-wealthy.

I know. I looked at his website while contemplating the lack of communication over a bottle of red wine and a box of Teddy Grahams three nights ago.

Wade also just might not have anything to say. I’ve never worked with an architect before, so I don’t know the process. But I thought we had our version of fun together last week, and I thought maybe I’d hear from him.

I didn’t. And now I don’t know what to expect. Will things be serious again? Is he upset with me for pushing him to open up a little?

Was he appalled at the back seat of my car and decided I needed to be handled with care?

I grin. He’d be right.

“Come in,” he says, both before I’m ready and after I’ve already worked myself into a tizzy.

I take a long, deep, shaky breath and open the door.

He’s reclining in his chair, one ankle crossed over the other knee. His pants are black just like his shirt, and I wonder if he’s trying to exude alpha male vibes or if it’s a happy coincidence.

“Hi,” I say, closing the door behind me.

He runs a finger over his bottom lip and doesn’t say a word.

I think I can hear my nerve endings fry as his gaze singes them.

“We aren’t doing this today,” I say, taking a seat across from him.

“May I ask what in the world you’re talking about?”

He doesn’t smile—God forbid he grace me with that overt gesture—but I do pick up on something. I may be hearing what I want to hear, but I think I can distinguish a smile in his voice.

“You may,” I tell him, getting settled in my chair. “But I’m not explaining the obvious.”

I blow out a breath, my body still, and look at him as intensely as he looks at me. It’s a standoff for a long few seconds. My temperature peaks so high that I think my cheeks are going to burst into flames. But I achieve my goal: I outlast the handsome bastard.