Restraint (Mason Family 1)

“Hey, it’s job security,” I say through a laugh.

He chuckles as the sound of water in the background trickles through the phone. “Anyway, can you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Meet with one of Sienna’s brothers?”

Something about the way he says “brothers” takes me back to the man at the airport today. He was devilishly handsome in his business suit with a Rolex strapped around a thick, muscled wrist. He spoke well and seemed educated, which were bonus points to his light-colored hair and jade eyes.

The problem? I see men like him every day. My office is full of them. That controlled, alpha vibe stops being attractive when you peel off the suit. They’re just like other men—overgrown children who want a woman to fight for them.

And fight for herself.

Because if she doesn’t fight for herself, no one is going to fight for her.

“I’m not sure what my schedule looks like,” I say for the second time today.

“You don’t have a fucking schedule. I made your schedule.”

“I’ll happily refund your money and come home.”

“The hell you will.” He sighs. “It won’t kill you to do her this one favor.”

“For what? So, you can get laid?”

“I’ll get laid regardless …”

“Ew!” I say, getting to my feet. “How did we get here? I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I’ll text you the address, okay?” Walker asks.

Moseying across the sage-colored carpeting, I gaze across the water. Families are holding hands, letting the waves rock against them. I wish I could do that—just throw all caution to the wind and let my guard down. But I can’t. Or if I was like that, I’m not anymore.

“Fine,” I say finally. “But tell Sienna she owes me blueberry muffins when you pick me up from the airport.”

“Will do. Talk to you soon, Blaire.”

“Bye.”

The line goes dead as he shouts at our cousin again.

Tossing the phone to the sofa, I stretch my arms overhead. For once, I don’t feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, don’t have to look over my shoulder for a colleague or client. It’s an odd sensation that somehow makes me feel more guilty about this little getaway.

I glance at my briefcase. There are only two files situated inside the leather case. My boss plucked the rest out of my hands before I left and shoved me out the door.

Two files. I can have them worked over in forty-eight hours. Tops.

My phone dings with Walker’s text, and I wonder how I, Blaire Gibson, got relegated to running my brother’s girlfriend’s errands.

I sink on the couch next to my phone and sigh.

This might be the longest three days of my life.

Three

Holt

“What in the hell took you so long?” Oliver hits the gas, barely giving me enough time to shut the door to his sport utility vehicle.

“Delayed flight.”

My briefcase sails across the floorboard in the back, ramming the door behind my brother, as he takes a tight right turn onto the freeway.

“You know, we could always buy a private jet.” He looks at me like he just proved a point he’s struggled to make for years.

As the president of Mason Ltd., I control the purse strings and major financial decisions. I remind him of this with a simple quirk of a brow.

He scoffs. “We’re going to be late to our meeting with Graham Landry.”

“And what the fuck should I have done about it? Explained to the weather gods in Portland my little brother needed me for a business meeting and the storm should just vanish because I said so?”

He’s not entertained. With a roll of his eyes, he sits back in the leather seat and hits cruise control on the steering wheel.

“And stop fucking calling me every twenty seconds and handle shit like a big boy,” I add for good measure.

“Really, Holt?”

We watch each other, a heated standoff like only brothers who run a multi-million-dollar company together can manage. We’re both type A, intelligent, and damn good at what we do. This causes a few skirmishes, but we are also loyal. To a fault. And that’s what makes our bond stronger than any other in the business and why Mason Ltd. kicks ass.

The ringing of Oliver’s phone through the car breaks our stalemate. Oliver answers. “Oliver Mason.”

“It’s Rosie.”

“How are you, Rosie?” I ask our shared assistant. She’s seventy-five years old and still good at old-fashioned typed things. Neither Oliver nor I can let her go, despite having to hire separate assistants to help pick up the slack. Our brother, Wade, was going to hire her in his architectural office because it’s more low-key, but when Oliver brought it up to her, she looked hurt. So, we pretended there was a big fight over her. She was happy again, and we just made do.

“Is that you, Holton?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’ve made your brother extremely nervous today. I’ve warned the Landrys you’re running late. Told them you had a weather delay.”