Restraint (Mason Family 1)

She peers up at me with a timid look on her face.

“I’m sorry I spewed all of that out like that,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry you held it in for so long.”

She grins. “Thanks for listening.”

“Thanks for trusting me.”

She steps back.

I let her go because I have to, but I hate that I do. I miss her in my arms almost immediately.

We watch each other with a heavy dose of hesitation.

I want to tell her how strong she is and that I’m honored she shared all of that with me. I also want to tell her that I want to take her to bed and kiss her and show her how amazing she is until the sun comes up.

But none of that feels right.

I look over my shoulder at the work I still need to do. It only takes a second to realize it can wait—or it will wait, even if it can’t.

I’ll figure it out tomorrow.

“Come on,” I say, taking her hand and tugging her behind me.

“Where are we going?”

“You said you like pizza, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I have some pizza in the freezer with our name on it.”

She laughs. “This one time in college, we ordered this pizza …”

As we round the corner into the hallway, I mentally check out. I don’t hear her words, just her voice and the way it’s less bogged down. It’s airier and freer … and music to my ears.

Nineteen

Blaire

“I feel like food is your love language,” I say, stretching my toes out in front of me.

Holt sits on a wicker chair across the little round table between us and smiles over the rim of his glass.

“There have been worse things said about me,” he says.

I close my eyes and listen to the crickets chirp all around us.

The screened-in porch off the kitchen feels like a cocoon. A fire burns in the large stone fireplace along the far wall. From our perch, you can see the pool and spa to the left and to the right, a vast field of green that I gazed at while eating my breakfast this morning.

Man, how that feels like more than almost a day ago.

I’m not sure if it was the bourbon or if opening up to Holt relaxed me so much, but something did. I could close my eyes and drift to a peaceful sleep. Instead, I let my eyelids fall, and I remember the safety of his arms as I cried.

It’s been a long time since I felt that—the support. And just that someone gives a damn.

“If you don’t want any more of this, I’m going to take it inside,” Holt says with a yawn.

I open my eyes. “I had two pieces. It’s two in the morning. If I eat any more, I’m going to be sick.”

He chuckles as he gets to his feet. “Then I’ll take it inside.”

“Here, I’ll help you.”

We gather our plates and napkins and the rest of the pizza and head inside.

“So, honest opinion—was that better than Chicago pizza?” he asks.

“Close but no. It’s the crust.” I shrug. “It’s just not the same.”

He holds a paper plate over the recycling container. “You just ate two pieces.”

“What is your point?”

“That you must’ve liked it a little bit.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t. I just said Chicago pizza is better.”

“You’re wrong,” he teases as he deposits the plate in the bin.

I walk behind him and ignore the way my body is pulled in his direction. It’s like a magnet—tugging me toward him no matter where I am.

I’ve noticed it all night. We might start on opposite sides of the kitchen, but we end up side by side. Even when we moved to the porch to eat, our chairs drifted closer and closer.

It’s a weird occurrence, but one I don’t mind.

I don’t think he minds, either.

“At least I don’t have thirty frozen pizzas in my freezer,” I point out as I wipe the counter off. “That’s overkill, don’t you think?”

“Rosie’s granddaughter was selling them for her softball team.”

I shake my head.

“What?” He laughs. “They were ten bucks for a large one-topping. It was a good deal, and it supported a good cause. What’s not to love about that?”

I can’t help but laugh too. It doesn’t take long before it turns into a long, sleepy yawn.

“Tired?” Holt asks.

“Yeah.”

“It’s been a long day. Let’s head to bed.”

“I hope I can sleep,” I say as he flips off the overhead lights.

He nudges my elbow toward the doorway. “I thought you said you were tired.”

“I am. Terribly. But sometimes being this tired makes me toss and turn. It’s counter-intuitive, I know.”

We enter the hallway. It’s lit only by a small light hanging above the artwork I noticed on my first day here. The house is entirely quiet; the floorboards don’t even creak as we transverse the area.

There’s a peace about this house that I feel in my bones. It might be the darkness, and it might be the solitude, but something about being here lets my mind reset. I can think. I work more efficiently. The bubble inside my stomach that always feels like it’s ready to pop and spur a thousand things to come racing my way is less powerful here.