Restraint (Mason Family 1)

My reflection in the glass shows just how big my smile grows.

“I think that’s great,” I say.

“Do you? Because I can always get a hotel room in Chicago. I don’t want to be a charity case. I’ve considered that maybe—”

“Blaire?”

“Yes?”

“You’re rambling,” I tease.

She laughs. “I’m sorry. I just … I don’t know what to say right now, to be honest. I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

I lean against the window. The tension in the back of my neck is gone, as is the ache in my jaw that developed when Wade walked in the door earlier. I feel like I could go for a run or turn on the television—both things I never feel energized enough for or peaceful enough to do, depending.

“How about you just say that you need my address?” I offer.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

She sighs. “Okay. Holt, I need your address so that I can come tomorrow after check-out. So probably around noon-ish.”

I shove off the glass. “Why don’t you just come now?”

“Because I just told you I’d come by tomorrow.”

I hear the edge in her voice—the one that serves as a warning not to push her. The strength and fearlessness in her tone makes me fucking hard. It also makes me want to push.

“Fair enough,” I throw back. “Stay in the room with the crying baby instead of coming to my house where I’ll be working in pure silence while ordering takeout. That makes total sense.”

I hold my breath as she analyzes my point. It’s a good one. I’m sure of it. The only way she won’t take me up on it is if she’s proving some other point to herself. Or if she pushes back just because I pushed first.

Which could happen.

“How about this?” I ask, rethinking my tactics. “I’ll text you my address. You are welcome to come at any time. If you get driven crazy by the colic kid tonight, come on by. Or wait until tomorrow. That’s cool too. Totally up to you.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says matter-of-factly.

I want to ask her another question just to keep her on the line, but Wade’s drawings taunt me from across the room, and I feel like maybe I can concentrate on them now.

“I’ll text you in just a minute,” I say.

“Thank you, Holt.”

“No problem. See you soon.”

“Goodbye.”

There’s a hesitation in her tone that makes me think she didn’t expect to get off the phone either. But for both of our goods, I press the red button anyway.

Thirteen

Blaire

“Vacations are so good for you,” I say in my best Sienna impression as I pilot my car down Cobblestone Way. “I just read a study that says you work harder and smarter when you’ve had a chance to relax. And Holt is so cute.”

I blow out a breath and try to relax back into the driver’s seat.

“This is all that screaming baby’s fault. Not mine,” I tell myself. “I could’ve held on until morning. I know I could’ve.”

The street is lined with giant oak trees. Their curved, drooping branches hang with picturesque Spanish moss flowing nearly to the ground. Houses are tucked back from the road, encompassed by large lots and obscured by the vegetation. With the final rays of daylight streaming through the foliage, it’s almost as though I’m driving through a movie set.

In this particular movie, however, the heroine isn’t a fashion designer coming home to get divorced or a bride-to-be heading to the beauty shop with her mother. This time, the leading lady is a displaced attorney heading to the house of a man she met a whole two days ago—and slept with once—as though it’s a good idea.

Because that’s what people do who graduated J.D. summa cum laude in law school. I’m really putting all my intelligence to good work these days.

As though the universe can sense my wobble, the numbers 1942 appear out of thin air. The numbers are black and pop against the brick mailbox that sits next to a wide driveway. A lamp sits on either side.

I turn toward the house.

My headlights flicker on as I slip beneath a row of moss-heavy trees. I travel around a little bend before I see the house itself.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

Sitting in front of me is not just a house but an estate. Tall, white columns stand on the porch and frame a massive wooden door. The roof is slate gray, and the house itself is a warm, almost yellow paint that nearly glows in the sunset.

The driveway, a stamped concrete that makes it feel like you’re driving on stone, forms a y at the front steps. The right arm wraps around the side of the house; the left leads to an oversized four-car garage with doors the same gray as the roof.

It’s immaculate and incredible, and the landscaping adds to the secret garden, magical ambiance.