Reckless (Mason Family 3)

No one at the table speaks. We all just sit quietly, looking at each other.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Can I go home now?”

Everyone starts laughing.

Everyone but me.

“I’m serious,” I tell them. “I helped. I did my part. I actually did more than any of you today, which is historic. Now can I go?”

Wade blows out a breath as he gets to his feet. “You just want to go home to play with the girl next door.”

“So?”

I try to fight the smile creeping on my face but realize it’s pointless.

Jaxi was the focus of my brain most of the night. It was terrible knowing she was alone next door and not being able to go see if she wanted to hang out.

I’d want someone to hang out with me if I was alone in a new place, after all.

But she’s not me. She’s way prettier than me. And she’s not the warm fuzzy kind of person like I am either. She didn’t even invite me in after I was basically a hero without a cape.

The more I thought about her, the more curious I became. Libby wouldn’t give me much information when I texted her off-and-on, prying in the gentlemanly-est way I could. Her responses were short and to the point and left me with more questions than answers.

I’m pretty sure that was by design.

Women, man.

Libby finally stopped answering my texts around midnight. Jaxi’s light went off around one thirty. I went to bed around two and got three hours before Holt called to remind me to be at the office at six.

Oliver shakes his head. “You really just find women in your house? How does that work?”

“It’s hard being me,” I tell him.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “I honestly thought you were making the whole thing up until Coy had Leo come by.”

I roll my eyes back at him.

Wade distracts us when he begins to stack his things into a neat, orderly pile. “I have to say that this doesn’t surprise me either. I’m more surprised that this type of thing doesn’t happen more regularly for you.”

“It’s nice to know you believe in me,” I joke.

He looks up at me but doesn’t stop stacking his stuff. “That’s one way to say it.”

“Wade,” I say, leaning back in my leather seat. “Do you ever just wake up in the morning and think, ‘I’m going to be friendly today’?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Oliver scribbles on a yellow legal pad in front of him. “I have a lunch meeting with Anjelica at Hillary’s House in thirty minutes. Anyone want to join us?”

I make a face. Wade shakes his head. Holt defers.

Oliver picks his briefcase up off the floor and clears his throat. “I need to get going, or I’m going to be late. I’ll see you guys at Mom’s on Sunday.”

“Later,” Holt says.

“I’m leaving too. I have a drawing I need to finish by the end of the day,” Wade says, following Oliver to the door.

“Love you, Wade,” I call after him.

He shakes his head in response.

Once the door is closed, Holt cracks a smile and sits back in his chair. The leather squeaks with the movement.

He watches me closely in a way that only a big brother can.

“What?” I ask him.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Poke at Wade. Instigate Ollie. Play dumb and then blast us all with information that you just happen to have in the oddest of ways.”

I shrug. “Hendershott wanted to go to lunch, so I went. It wasn’t like I was off trying to get information. It just … finds me.”

Holt eyes me curiously for a long minute. I have no idea what he’s thinking, and the longer it goes, the more anxious I become.

“Holt,” I say softly.

“What?”

“Can I go now?” I almost whisper.

He bursts into a fit of laughter, sitting back up in his chair. “Go on. Get out of here. Tell your new girl I said hi.”

I gather my things and get out the door before he can change his mind.

Six

Jaxi

“No! No, no, no, no …”

I reach for the knob on the stove, but I’m too late. The little bubbles of pasta sauce that looked like they were going to simmer and behave instead burst. Bright red liquid splatters all over Libby’s pristine white kitchen tile.

“Shit,” I groan.

I grab the sponge that I just used to clean up the boiled-over pasta water and give the backsplash a quick wipe. Pink smears create a marble-like effect on the wall, and I wonder how often Libby has to contend with crap like this.

“If I ever get to design a kitchen,” I say, tossing the sponge back in the sink, “nothing will be white. And, since this is clearly a fantasy, it will come with a chef so I don’t have to try to be Martha Stewart.”