Restraint (Mason Family 1)

The reprieve doesn’t last long. It just changes topics.

Blaire arrived a few minutes after me. I made us a drink while she went upstairs and retrieved her briefcase. Then we sat in the living room—her with her briefcase and me with a book.

It wasn’t as awkward as I thought it might be, but I do think I pissed her off. She shied away from making eye contact and pulled away when I reached across her to take her empty glass. It wasn’t our usual flirty interaction. It wasn’t nearly as easy either.

And I hate it.

It’s because I walked away from her on the street. I know that. But I had to.

It was clear she didn’t want to talk. Even though I was curious and wanted her to open up, I was exhausted. I’d pushed all day. I’ve pushed people and things and schedules for weeks. I don’t want to have to push with Blaire, too.

My stomach tightened as she snapped her briefcase shut and announced she was going to bed. I absorbed her grin and little wave good night—neither cold, exactly, but also not filled with the warmth I’ve come to expect—and told her good night. But after a quick workout, a long shower, and too much time to think, I ended up in my office. The place I should’ve been for longer today anyway.

What makes this woman tick?

The question has rolled around my mind all damn night. Hell, since the moment I met her I’ve wondered this very thing. But the more time I spend with her, the more I should know about her and the less I do.

I’m getting tripped up. I’m caring. I’m giving a fuck on a plethora of levels.

Her refusal to open up to me is irritating. The fact that I want her to is downright infuriating. Me pushing her makes me a dick, but if I don’t, that feels wrong too.

How did I get myself into this position?

I bend my neck side to side to relieve some of the tension before turning back to Wade’s plans. I pick up my pencil when I hear something behind me.

Looking over my shoulder, I see her. Blaire is standing in the doorway in an oversized T-shirt. Her hair is messy, spilling all over her shoulders, and her eyes are heavy yet clear.

“Everything all right?” I ask.

She walks across the room and stops a few feet away from my desk. Her features are sober.

I turn in my chair to face her.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice just above a whisper.

It’s soft and delicate and void of the confidence she usually oozes into everything. While it’s beautiful to see her stripped of the mask she wears, it’s painful too. Because I’m convinced this isn’t easy for her.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “What are you sorry for?”

I want to reach for her, but I don’t. After tonight, I’m not sure what she’ll do.

I wish she’d fall into my arms and bury her head in my chest. My hands want to squeeze her body and reassure her of my presence and my ability to protect her from whatever is troubling her.

Because I can. I can help her with anything. But I’m not sure she’ll let me.

She’s a strong, gorgeous woman on an island by herself by her own choice.

But why?

She lifts her chin. “You’ve been so kind to me. You’ve opened your home and given me your time, and I’ve … I’ve not reciprocated any of that.”

“You don’t have to reciprocate anything. I offer what I want to offer you. It’s not predicated on anything else.”

Her nod is subtle.

She blows out a deep, haggard breath. “I know. But—”

“But do you? Because it’s important to me that you know that.”

The chair squeaks as I move to the edge. It’s the only sound besides her wispy breaths that gives away how nervous she is.

I hold up a hand when she starts to speak again.

“I’m sorry if I pressed today. I just want to get to know you. You’re smart and funny and observant. It feels natural to want to learn more about what makes a woman like you tick. But maybe I shouldn’t. I …”

I don’t know. If she doesn’t want to go there with me, then that’s her choice. It’s one that I will, without a doubt, honor.

But it doesn’t feel wrong to want to get to know her more deeply. And that’s what’s worrisome.

She forces a swallow. “This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.”

I stay quiet. I can see a hundred different things sitting on her tongue and how hard it is for her to choose which thing to say.

“You aren’t wrong to ask questions, Holt. It’s a nice thing to want to get to know someone.”

“I’d love it if you wanted to get to know me.”