Resolution (Mason Family 5)

I might meet a new client. Maybe I’ll book a job for landscape photography or be introduced to someone who has contacts in that world. And maybe all I’ll get out of it is a good time with Wade Mason.

I’d be happy with any of that.

I finish my hot dog and toss the paper in the trash.

EIGHTEEN

WADE

The amber-colored liquid burns as it slides down my throat.

I eye my phone and twirl the remainder of the liquid in the glass.

I’ve sat at my kitchen table for far too long—long enough for the leftover potatoes in front of me to grow ice cold. Much to my dismay, time hasn’t delivered an answer to my problem.

Do I reach out to Dara or not?

If I do, does it send the wrong message? It would be communication that’s not related to the house design. Would she get the wrong idea?

But if I don’t, is that rude? Moreover, will it make the task of picking her up tomorrow even more cumbersome?

I growl into the air.

My entire day was spent with half of my brain where it was supposed to be—on work. The other half was mulling over what to do about Dara and this stupid fucking wedding that I don’t want to go to anyway.

It shouldn’t—there’s not a reason in the world for it to—but this feels like a date.

I look at the chandelier and flex my jaw.

The stress of the day—the pressure of the impending … doom, and the fact that I have no resolution and may not until I pick her up eats at me.

I can’t take it anymore.

Before I can overthink it, I reach for my phone. My fingers fly across the screen. When the send button has been pressed, I drop the phone like it’s hot.

Me: I’ll pick you up at four.

Dara responds almost immediately.

Dara: Sounds good.

I stare at the words. That’s it? Sounds good?

I chew on my bottom lip and wonder if she’s even in possession of her phone. She doesn’t sound like that.

Me: Do you have any questions?

I grimace after I’ve hit the button to send the message to her. It was a stupid question to send, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.

Almost immediately, her response appears on my screen.

Dara: I’ve been to weddings before, Wade. I think I understand how it works.

It’s her.

A grin slides across my mouth thanks to the whiskey. I get up and head for the shower, needing a little relief from the day … and in preparation for seeing her tomorrow.

Dara in a dress?

Lord, help me.

NINETEEN

DARA

“I’m not going to overthink this,” I singsong for the thousandth time in the last hour.

A flutter of impatience flies through my stomach as I fasten a gold hoop in my right earlobe. It’s the final touch.

I run my hands down my sides and take in my reflection.

My dress fits like a glove.

Curls gently spiral over my shoulders, the ends of them brushing against the middle of my back. Somehow, I located the nude heels Rusti suggested from the dredges of my closet and accessorized my look with gold bangles and hoops in a way that I can never manage alone.

I twist side to side.

“Not bad,” I say, wishing Rusti was here to bolster my confidence. While things may have come together in a slightly easier-than-normal way, I could still use my best friend for moral support.

As I turn away, the flutter in my belly turns into an all-out wave of not just impatience—but of apprehension.

What if this is totally underdressed? I cringe. What if they all wear dark colors, or what if there’s some dress code to the gardens that Holt assumed I’d know because everyone knows … except me?

“I have no business going to this wedding,” I say. “None at all.”

The doorbell rings before I can talk myself into the flu. My entire body jumps, air hiccupping from my body as though I wasn’t expecting anyone.

My palms sweat. I have to pee. I rethink taking a shawl in case it gets chilly because of course I forgot to ask if this is an indoor event or outdoor.

Ding dong!

“You can do this,” I say, breathing in a haggard breath. “It’s just a wedding. You’ve been to a hundred of them.”

Have other guests ever been this unsure and nervous? Have I ever captured that behind the lens?

I adjust my posture, pick up my clutch from the bench in the hallway, and head toward the door.

My heels tap against the hardwood as I make my way through the house.

“Breathe, Dara.” I take my advice and inhale. Then I blow it out. “Breathe.”

I twist the knob and tug the door toward me.

Oh!

My heart skips a beat, then two, as my eyes settle on Wade Mason.

He’s standing on the edge of my porch and is turned toward the street. I catch his side profile—the sharpness of his jaw, the heaviness of his browbone—and the glimmer of his Rolex before I see his face.