Resolution (Mason Family 5)

The man is a vault. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t recoil, and heaven knows he doesn’t smile. He just watches the road in front of us like I told him I liked pecan pie.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dara.”

“Bullshit, Wade.” I settle back in the leather seat. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“If I did, I would ask.”

He looks at me as he presses the button for his window to roll down. A smirk graces his lips before he pulls his attention to a suited man with a headpiece who jogs up to the door.

“Hey, Wade,” the man says. “You can cut around this way, and then Dominic will let you in at the gate.”

“Thanks, Silas.”

What the hell?

Silas steps back, and Wade pulls the Mercedes into the left lane. He hits the gas, and we fly by a train of cars to the gate. Then just as promised, a gap in the traffic leading into the Bartholomew Gardens is made, and we cut in front of a Lexus waiting patiently.

“How did you …?” I make a face. “Are we friends with Silas?”

“He works for Landry Security. We use them for all of our events.”

All of our events.

“Oh. Okay,” I say, my world starting to spin.

We roll along the asphalt until we’re directed to park next to an Audi. Wade pulls the car into the spot marked Reserved and then cuts the engine.

Car doors open and close around us. People talk, shout, and laugh. But, somehow, it feels like they’re background characters in the story of Wade and me in the car.

He fixes his sleeves and repositions his watch. I pull my clutch onto my lap.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to say or do. We aren’t in his office where I’m a client courtesy of the powerful Curt Bowery. We aren’t in a restaurant or the middle of a forest—both of which are neutral grounds.

We are in a sea of expensive cars, tailored suits, and women carrying bags worth more than I’ll make this year. I might be blind from the diamond’s sparkling on the woman passing in front of the Mercedes.

This isn’t my world. This is one hundred percent Wade’s universe, and I’m aware that I’m not well-versed in navigating it.

Finally, he sits back and looks straightforward for a long moment. Then he turns to me.

His face is sober. It’s not irritated like usual, just serious.

I still, my gaze searching his for something to go on. He’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what it is.

“Wade?”

“There will be a lot of people here tonight,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Don’t drink anything that isn’t given to you by my brothers or me. The security team has solid guys. If you need something and can’t find me, you can go to them. Tell them to find me.”

What?

“Is this unsafe?” I ask, my heart racing for all the wrong reasons.

“I wouldn’t have brought you here if it were unsafe, Dara.”

Okay …

I force a swallow. “So, what’s with the whole security team spiel? Because you’re kind of freaking me out right now. Not gonna lie.”

His eyes flutter close for a second. “Any time you’re going to be with a mass of people who are unfamiliar to you, it behooves you to understand the situation and to know what to do in case something goes wrong.”

That makes sense. My mother always told me various forms of that over the years, and it is common sense. I’ve watched enough movies and the news to know just how badly things can go wrong if you’re oblivious.

“Have fun,” he says. “Just be cognizant of what’s going on around you. Promise me.”

My mouth opens to say something silly—to downplay his seriousness or make a joke to add some levity back into the conversation—but as I start to let whatever I’m about to say roll, I stop.

Something is different. Something has changed. He still has a shield up around him, but it’s … cracked, maybe. There’s a warmth, a slight vulnerability in his beautiful green eyes that softens my heart. It also settles a bit of the butterflies in my stomach.

“I promise,” I say.

He nods and rewards me with a half of a grin. I’ll take it.

“Are you ready then?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He starts to get out of the car when I stop him.

“Wade?”

He looks at me over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

I grin. “Don’t think our conversation is over.”

His forehead mars until he realizes what I’m talking about.

My breathing halts. My heart pounds. My stomach clenches so hard I think I might yelp out in pain.

But when he casts me an oh-so-slow, kill-me-now smirk, I forget about everything except committing that view to memory and not disintegrating into the seat.

“We’ll see about that,” he says and climbs out of the car.