Restraint (Mason Family 1)

I park the car just as Holt appears on the porch.

“Dear lord,” I say, turning off the ignition.

He’s wearing the same jeans from this afternoon but has replaced the white button-up with a black T-shirt. And he’s barefooted.

Of course, he is. He knows how to play me like a fiddle.

He hops down the stairs with a spring in his step. “You found it,” he says as he pulls my door open.

“I drove past it five times, it’s so small.”

He makes a face as I climb out of the car.

“That’s something a guy never wants to hear,” he says, shutting the door behind me. He reaches in the back and grabs my bags and briefcase from the back seat. “But I’m glad you made it even if it took you five tries.”

“Six. But it was worth it. I can carry those,” I say.

He silences me with a look. The heat in it makes me shiver. After ensuring his point was made, he starts toward the porch.

“On a serious note, this place is beautiful,” I say as I follow him. “You are now officially never invited to my apartment in Chicago.”

“I didn’t know I was invited before.”

“Well, you weren’t. But you’re really not now.”

He grins as he holds the door open. I try to slip by without tipping him off that his cologne lights me on fire.

I step inside and gasp again. “Oh, my gosh, Holt. This is incredible.”

The foyer is white marble with a subtle yet spectacular chandelier hanging in the center. A few steps farther and the room opens up. Floor-to-ceiling windows with white shutters line the far wall. Pine flooring warms the space that hosts cathedral ceilings. An oversized fireplace constructed from the same marble as the foyer is the centerpiece on one wall, and across from it, nestled against a set of stairs, is a grandfather clock.

I tear my eyes away from the fluffy sofa that begs to be curled up on with a book and look at Holt instead.

He’s leaning against a wall, watching me review his home. The playful look that’s typically written across his features—or is hiding just beneath the surface—is gone. Instead, a seriousness is painted on his handsome face.

“It still needs some work,” he says.

“What are you talking about? This is … this is beautiful.”

He almost smiles. “When I was a little boy, I’d ride my bike up and down this road and look at the houses. It was a slight obsession. My father thought I was going to be an architect because of it.”

“Your one brother is an architect, isn’t he?”

He rewards me with a grin. “Yes. Wade. That’s correct.”

“Did he design this?”

“No. This place was built in the seventies. I’ve been in the process of overhauling it since I bought it.” He cocks his head to the side. “Do you want a drink or something?”

“A drink would be nice.”

“Follow me.”

He shoves off the wall and leads me down a hallway. A large piece of art hangs between two sconces, and I pause to look at the wild, colorful blasts of color.

Holt pauses a few steps ahead of me.

“Is this meaningful to you?” I ask, taking in the vivid stripes of primary colors. “It feels very personal in an abstract kind of way.”

“Oh, it’s personal all right. And it holds a very important meaning. Don’t leave your auction paddle anywhere near Coy.”

I giggle. “Sounds like a story there.”

“A story about me almost killing my brother for bidding an exorbitant amount of money on a piece of art that, while very nice, wasn’t worth the price of a small country’s gross domestic product.”

I bite my lip to hide my amusement as I follow him into the kitchen.

While he makes us a drink, I gaze out the windows. There are no shutters or curtains covering them. It provides a clear, unobstructed view of the pool and, beyond that, what looks like a marsh. It’s hard to tell with only the moon giving off light.

“I hope you like iced tea,” he says.

I turn around as he approaches. He hands me a glass.

“Tea is great,” I say.

“This tea is exceptional. My housekeeper makes it for me. It’s better than my mother’s, but don’t ever tell her that, or I’ll have to kill you.”

I laugh. “I won’t. Promise.”

He takes a drink, watching me over the brim. I, in turn, watch how his bicep ripples as he lifts his glass. I tell myself it’s because attention to detail is what I do best, but in reality, it’s probably because not one thing in the room is more attention-worthy than him.

He sets his glass on the black-and-silver granite countertop.

“I was happy to get your text tonight.” His deep voice rumbles over my skin. “I was sure you were going to wait until tomorrow.”

“I was, but Colic Baby started up again.”