Restraint (Mason Family 1)

“Wow.” Blaire’s eyes go wide. “You meant it when you called her a powerhouse.”

I nod. “She was generous and kind, but make no mistake about it, she wasn’t weak. And when anyone misjudged her, she made them regret it.”

I walk around the sofa to burn some energy that showed up out of nowhere. Blaire watches me but doesn’t move except to pull her legs up under her again.

“What was her name?” she asks.

“Annabelle Hickman. She was my mother’s mother.”

“This room is your ode to Annabelle.”

My heart tugs at the sound of her name. “It is, I guess.”

“May I ask what happened to her?”

“She went in for a routine surgery and died on the table. There was a heart problem that went undetected.” I grip the back of the sofa. “Her husband, my grandfather, died before I was born.”

Blaire grips the armrest. Her lips turn down. “I’m sure she’s very proud of you. You know that, right?”

I give her a shrug in lieu of words because the truth is, I hope she would be proud of me. She always said her grandchildren were her most important contributions to the world. I’d hate to think she’d be disappointed in the life I’ve chosen.

But I don’t say that.

Blaire seems to understand my need not to elaborate beyond the physical gesture.

She takes a long breath. “You still have your dad’s parents, right?”

“We have Gramps. Gramma passed away a few years ago.”

I walk around the sofa and sit down again.

The breeze kicks up and rocks the French doors back and forth. They somehow swing in time with the crackling of the fire.

“What about you?” I ask.

“I just have my nana.”

She shrugs as if it’s no big deal. I’d believe it, too, if there wasn’t a brief shot of pain in her beautiful blue eyes.

“You’ve told me a little about her,” I say. “She sounds like a powerhouse too.”

“Oh, most definitely. She had to be to put up with us like she has—especially Peck and Machlan. She’s practically raised them.”

“Who is Peck?”

“My cousin. His mother is a real gem,” she says in disgust. “But Nana raised Mach too because …” She takes a deep breath and holds it for a long couple of seconds before blowing it out. “Our parents died in a boating accident many years ago. Machlan was still a teenager.”

My heart breaks at the look on her face. Not because it’s sad, but because it’s trying really hard not to be.

I wonder if she’s always this buttoned up about it, or if she allows herself to display the pain she has to be feeling. Losing your parents? Shit. I don’t know how I’d survive. But I do know I’d be unable to hold it together like that.

“I’m sorry, Blaire.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Tell me about them.”

A shadow falls across her face. The vaguest grin touches her lips as she stares out the French doors. “They were amazing,” she says softly. “The backbone of our family. They took care of us—all of us. My brothers and me. Nana. Peck. Any kid we’d drag over to the house who needed a meal or shoes.”

I sit quietly and watch her wrestle with her memories. A softness settles over her face, her posture relaxing too, before she seems to catch herself.

She stands and stretches before bending over to pick up our food containers.

I jump to my feet. “What are you doing?” I take the two white boxes away from her.

“I’m trying to pick up our mess.”

Her eyes plead with me to go along with her redirection. Even though I want to press for more—to see more of her in an unguarded, or less guarded, state—I don’t. But I don’t give her the boxes back either.

“I’ll do that,” I tell her.

“Come on, Holt. Let me help.”

“You’re my guest.”

“It’s not going to hurt to let me pick up my trash, for crying out loud.”

“For crying out loud,” I say, mocking her. “You really have a problem not getting your way, don’t you?”

She starts to object and then stops. A laugh topples past her lips. “Yes. I do.”

“Well, good. That will make this all the more fun.”

I walk a wide berth around her and head to the kitchen. Her feet slap against the hardwood as she chases me through the living room and down the hallway into the kitchen.

“This isn’t how this works,” she says, a laugh in her voice.

I toss the containers into the trash can. “Is it not?”

“No.” She brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “You’re supposed to let me have my way. I’m the guest. That’s how it works.”

“Not here, pretty girl.”

Her cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink as she gazes up at me. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“That I am.” I dip my head toward her as I walk around her again. I’m too close to kissing her already and need to put a bit of distance between us. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”