Relentless (Mason Family 4)

The confusion on his face seems genuine.

I slink back in my chair. “I mean … I’ve watched crime television. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”

The smile that breaks across his face leaves me speechless. It’s wide and refreshing, and I wonder how anyone can think with him around.

“Don’t you think it’s much more plausible that I work here?” he asks.

“I bet that department doesn’t get much done,” I mutter to myself.

His gaze picks mine up and holds it midair. It causes my stomach to flip-flop.

He grins again. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

He pulls out a chair and sits down, relaxing back into the seat and crossing one ankle over his other knee. It’s like he has all the time in the world.

“Where’s Toni?” I ask, glancing quickly at the door.

He shrugs. “Hopefully doing her job. That’s what I pay her to do.”

“I …”

That’s what I pay her to do.

My mouth closes.

He bites his lip, clearly amused, as I begin to sort through the situation. It’s a clumsy process full of possibilities and disbelief, and by the time I work everything out, Oliver is downright entertained.

Finally, I lean forward against the table. My cheeks are on fire, and my palms are sweaty.

“So, what you’re saying is …” But I can’t get the words out. It still feels too unbelievable.

“I’ll help.” He leans against the table too. I think he’s teasing me by mirroring my posture, but I’m not sure. “Do you remember my name?”

“Oliver Mason.” I’ve only thought about it a dozen times since yesterday.

“Good. Now, did you happen to see the words printed on large, copper-colored letters on the arch above the entrance when you arrived here today?”

I nod. Slowly. “Mason Limited.” I suck in a breath. “So that would make you …”

“CEO.” He considers this. “Co-CEO. My brother Holt and I share the position. But I’m much better at it than he is.”

“Oh, good God.”

He laughs.

I sit back again, needing a bit of space. “You’re telling me that I just happened to show up to a job interview at a company that you own on the day after I hit you with my car?”

He sits back too and shrugs. “Seems like it.”

“How is that possible?”

“Crazier things have happened,” he says, the words slightly defensive.

“Okay. Like what?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but he seems to take it as a challenge. His brows pull together, and a smile ghosts his lips. He looks entirely too comfortable.

“Well, Pepsi had the sixth biggest army in the world for a hot minute,” he says easily as if he has this kind of information poised and ready to go.

“Pepsi? The soda company?”

He nods.

“Huh,” I say, mostly because I didn’t expect him to start giving me examples.

“A woman survived the sinking of the Titanic and both of its sister ships,” he says, the words a breeze. “Think about those odds.”

I don’t think about anything. I just look at him.

“Franz Ferdinand escaped one assassination attempt,” he tells me. “Then his driver took a wrong turn, and they wound up in front of a random assassin who killed him.”

I cock my head to the side and try to orient myself to this conversation. “I … that’s some bad luck.” That’s all I can come up with. I still haven’t gotten past the fact he’s here.

“For all of us. That started World War I.” He watches me closely. “With all that being said, the fact that you showed up today isn’t all that preposterous, is it?”

I frown. He makes it hard to think with his face and his body and apparently his brain now too.

“Toni tells me that you’re highly qualified to be my assistant,” he says and then runs his tongue around the inside of his cheek.

“Your assistant?”

He nods. I wait for him to laugh or chuckle—for someone to pop through the door and yell, “Gotcha!”—but none of that happens. He just strums his fingertips against his knee and watches me like a CEO.

I take a deep breath. Slowly, my heartbeat returns to its natural rhythm. I imagine coming to work and dealing with him all day. True, there are worse ways to spend a solid eight to ten hours a day, but I’m not sure I’m equipped to deal with it—with him.

“Should we talk salary?” he asks.

The room begins to spin—or maybe it’s the walls that seem to close in on us, I’m not sure. I grab the sides of my chair.

I redirect my attention toward a painting to the right of Oliver’s head. It’s some abstract art piece with streaks of paint dotting the canvas as though someone took a paint brush and flicked them in that direction. It’s not nearly as interesting as I make it out to be.

“What kind of position are you looking for?” he asks, changing tactics.

“Something stable.” I gather my courage and let my gaze find his again. I can almost feel my brain cells misfire. “Something challenging.”