Relentless (Mason Family 4)

It’s almost as if I don’t have a choice. She keeps showing up in my life, and I keep doing things like offering her a job.

I rub my temple.

“You okay?” Holt asks.

“Yeah.”

“Liar. What’s wrong?”

I drop my hand. There’s no sense in lying to him. He can read me like a book.

“Do you know the girl who hit my car yesterday?” I ask.

He nods.

I bite the corner of my lip. “Guess who showed up in the office today?”

A slow, uneasy look sweeps across Holt’s face.

“It’s nothing like that,” I say. “She was answering Toni’s ad for EAs.”

“And you think that’s random?”

I don’t look at him. I can’t. I know when I tell him that I do think it was a coincidence, he’s going to think I’ve lost my marbles.

Hell, maybe I have.

“Shaye seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see her,” I tell him.

He makes a face. “I don’t really like this, Ollie.”

I spin around to face him. “Why?”

He’s taken aback by the gusto in which I fired that question. So am I. But it’s already done. All I can do is ride with it and not overthink it.

He takes a step back. “Easy there, little brother.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean it like that.”

I sigh and look away again. I just don’t like you insinuating that she is setting me up.

He shifts his weight. I hear the pebbles crunch with the movement.

“You know that I trust your judgment more than anyone in the world,” Holt says. “So, if you think this is a random act of kindness by the universe, then I’ll buy it. I’m with you.”

My lips twitch.

“I mean, hell—I met a woman in the airport and then at a business meeting. What are the odds of that?” he asks, bumping my shoulder with his.

“Oh, the woman who won’t marry you?” I tease.

I wait for Holt’s explosion. It takes one-half of a second.

“If Blaire doesn’t give me a date soon, I swear that I’m going to set it my damn self.” Holt blows out an exasperated breath. “My patience is wearing thin.”

I laugh, relieved at the change in topics.

“What would she do if I just organized a wedding?” he asks, his face pink with irritation. “Mom would totally help me. I would just buy her a dress, hire a preacher, reserve a church, send out invitations, and tell her to be there. What would she do then?”

My laughter gets louder. “First of all, I’d go easy on bringing Mom into this. Second … I don’t know. I kind of like it. I mean, I’ve never imagined you as a wedding planner, but I’m game to watch this shit show.”

Holt misses the humor. “I’m serious. I don’t know what she’s dragging her feet about.”

He starts to walk, and I follow for the sake of conversation.

“Maybe she’s not dragging her feet,” I offer. “Maybe she just wants it to be perfect.”

“I’ll give her perfect. I’ll give her anything she fucking wants.”

I smirk. “What if she wants our family to have a private jet?”

Holt tosses me a sharp look, making me laugh.

“On a more serious note—no, I am serious about the jet. We need one,” I say. “But on another note, it might be hard for her to think about planning a wedding. Both of her parents are dead, right?”

He nods.

“And her siblings are where—in Indiana? Illinois? Iowa?” I pause. “Why do all the Midwestern states start with an I, anyway?”

“Illinois, and I see your point.” He chews on his bottom lip. “You know, I’ve always thought we’d get married here by default. But maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m an asshole for not thinking about that.”

He stops walking. I do too.

“It might be something to consider,” I say.

He hums as if he’s in the process of doing just that.

I gaze into the distance, settling my gaze on the top of a grove of trees.

Holt has always been my best friend. We’ve done absolutely everything together. From sports to clubs to college, I followed in his footsteps throughout my life. Now that he has Blaire, our lives aren’t on the same trajectory for the first time.

I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s a natural progression, I know, and I’m happy for him. He loves Blaire. But this is where our trajectory separates. It’s where his best friend is someone else, and sometimes … I feel alone.

I kick at a rock as Holt hums again. As he ponders future wedding locations, I let my mind wander to past engagement proposals—namely, mine.

Kendra Pickler was the only woman I ever considered making Mrs. Oliver Mason. We met in college. She was a business major. She was wickedly intelligent, fun to be with, and had lips made for blow jobs. She hinted for months about getting married around our one-year anniversary—far too soon, by my estimation. There were bridal magazines on the coffee table, only half hidden by Forbes. Her email was left open with ads for jewelry stores. Her best friend even dropped Kendra’s choice in gems—a princess cut diamond, preferably at least two carats—while pretending to be buzzed on mimosas.