Reputation (Mason Family 2)

I feign shock. “Asshole? That’s it. I’m going to have to bump another brother over you on the favorites list.”

“So what you’re saying is that Oliver and Boone are ahead of me, and Wade is last?”

“Well, yeah, basically.”

Holt laughs. “I gotta go. Call me later.”

“Bye.”

“See ya.”

I end the call and slide my phone across the counter. It narrowly misses the splashes of milk dotting the surface around my cereal bowl.

A loud, unnecessary growl rumbles through the air as I stretch my arms overhead. The clock says it’s late in the afternoon, but my brain lobbies to go back to bed. I try to bargain with myself that I got into town late and didn’t get to bed until well into the early morning hours. But truth be told, I wouldn’t have been to bed before three in the morning anyway.

Marching to the cabinet where I think the trash bags are, I open it and look around. I see a broom and a mop and a basket full of batteries. It raises a lot of questions that I force out of my mind.

I’m about to give up anyway when a slight rasp on the door leading to the side yard distracts me.

“Who is that?” I mumble as the faint knocking sounds again.

My family would use the garage door. If any salespeople manage to get by the neighborhood’s gated entry, they’d knock on the front door. The only people who would use the side door would be my dad if he’s coming in from grilling out—so twice a year at best, and this isn’t one of those two occasions.

I run my hands down my jeans—the same ones I slept in last night—and head to the door. There’s an outline of someone shorter than me by a good bit through the thin cream-colored curtain.

“Hang on,” I say, fiddling with the lock.

It takes a few seconds to figure out the fancy new combination lock that wasn’t here the last time I visited. Lucky for me, my parents’ choice of numbers was predictable.

I open the door.

“Hello—fuck!” I shout as something slams into the side of my face.

Hard.

It feels like I was smashed by a large and angry man or attacked by a swarm of bees. My eyes go blurry from the pain radiating through the side of my face.

“Oh, crap,” a familiar voice groans in front of me.

“Did I kill him?” another voice shrieks from farther away.

“No. Just … sit down, Bree. Please. Right over there. Sit down and be still.”

I struggle through the wetness building in my eyes to see. I work my jaw back and forth to try to loosen the stiffness already settling in my face.

Finally, I get my bearings and open my eyes.

Through the blurry haze, I think I see heaven. And a little piece of hell.

Two

Bellamy

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Despite the chaos swirling around me, everything slows down. Way down. It comes to a screeching halt on my neighbor’s doorstep as I stand with an empty Tupperware container in my hand.

Why didn’t I just text his mother first to see if she was home? Better yet, why did I think making no-bake cookies with Bree was a good idea in the first place?

This is why I don’t do domesticity.

I know not to look up at him. I know better.

Yet I do because I must hate myself more than I hate him.

My gaze locks with the golden-eyed, shirtless asshole in front of me, and I try to steady myself with a deep breath.

“Did I break his face?” Bree shouts from behind me, panic tinging her sweet little voice. “Why didn’t you catch the ball, Bellamy? You could’ve caught it!”

I should console her. My job is to give her my full, undivided attention. I should tell her that I got distracted by the sense something was amiss and turned at the exact wrong moment—the moment her throw whizzed right by me … and right into Coy’s face.

Hopefully, the nanny gods will understand my current predicament and give me a pass because my attention is most certainly divided.

I stand eye to eye with Coy Mason, the man I would give up my entire shoe collection to avoid—the man I would forgo Cheez-Its for the rest of eternity for as long as I didn’t have to reencounter him. The man with a face I want to sit on and pummel at the same freaking time.

The man who’s the bane of my existence.

My heart struggles to find an even rhythm as I let myself look at him for the first time in person for over a year. He’s still irritatingly gorgeous with high cheekbones and full, pouty lips. But his skin is sun-kissed thanks to the California sun, and the little lines around his eyes somehow make him even more attractive.

Even though his face is swelling, and his jaw is tinted the color of watered-down grape juice, the bastard dares to smirk. Even though my disdain for this man is a ten-for-ten, my stomach flip flops. It didn’t get the memo.