“I—”
“I’m not done.” Lisbeth smiles softly at me. “We subconsciously absorb what we hear our moms say and do. Somehow, because it comes from them, we assume it’s right and true. But in your case, it’s not. You know that.” She makes a face until I smile. “You’re leaving all of that nonsense behind, okay? All of the negativity and blame she placed on you was projection. She was projecting her shortcomings onto you. That has nothing to do with you in all reality. Right?”
Her words hit the soft, vulnerable spot in my heart. I want to hope she’s right. I want to think she’s telling me the truth and not doing best-friend duty and telling me what I want, even need, to hear. But I’m not sure.
“Right,” I say, my voice not as confident as I’d hoped it would be.
“Good. Now, I’ll break it down for you. Take the job.” She brushes her bangs out of her face again. “You need the money. You have the skills. You obviously vibe with this guy. So take the job and get back on your feet. Give yourself a little room to get to know yourself again.” She reaches out and presses her hand against my arm. “This is the break you’ve been praying for.”
For the first time in a long time, a blossom of hope begins to flutter in my belly.
This is the advice I’d give Lisbeth if the roles were reversed. I’d tell her to take the job and I’d mean it.
She dusts her hands off as if she just solved world hunger. “Now that decision has been made, go find your wine bottle opener. We’re going to celebrate your new job.”
I want to backtrack, but I know the conversation with Lisbeth will never end if I argue. I’m also not really sure how I can construct an argument against her.
So, I head toward the drawer for the corkscrew. Might as well give in. And rejoice, because she’s right. This is the break I’ve been praying for.
I hope.
Eight
Oliver
A fire crackles in the fireplace across the room. The flames dance, sending shadows across the walls.
I stretch, my bare feet slipping against the black Egyptian cotton sheets that I love. They make me feel like I’m climbing into a cave at the end of a hard day. And today was definitely a hard one.
I drop my phone next to me. The screen is lit up with the farming game I downloaded by accident and now play when I can’t sleep. Who knew little digital chickens and cows could be so relaxing?
Most nights, anyway.
My muscles ache from the workout I decided to get in just before bed. My head hurts from trying not to lose my shit fifty-eight times at the office. My stomach is sore from twisting itself into a knot every time I thought about Shaye during the past twelve hours.
And that was a lot.
I fling my arms to my sides, smashing the pillows I use to box myself in when I lie in bed. The soft thump is barely audible over the noise in my head.
Feeling like I’m teetering on the verge of losing control is a new and unwanted sensation. I always have my shit locked down. I’m the Mason that keeps my cool, operates on an even keel. I'm even better at it than Wade because he operates without emotion altogether. I know how to balance it.
But, today, my emotions might have gotten the best of me. I might have been impulsive. And the fact that I don’t regret it—despite feeling like I would—is concerning.
I rip the blankets off me. Cool waves of air from the ceiling fan flirt with my skin. It’s not enough of a distraction to take my mind off my problems.
The biggest issue is that I really think she would do a good job. Monroe out-and-out praised her work ethic and efficiency. But is it smart to work with someone who I can’t stop thinking about outside of the office?
Probably fucking not.
“Ugh,” I groan, sitting up on the side of the bed. I bounce my legs as I try to work out what I’m going to do if Shaye accepts the job.
And what I’m going to do if she doesn’t.
“Which would I rather?” I ask myself, my voice slicing through the stillness of the room. “Would you rather have her work for you or sleep with her?”
A small smile slips across my lips.
“Both.”
I punch the rust-colored bedding and stand.
My reflection in the circle-shaped mirror hanging over my dresser is not my best look. A five-o’clock shadow dusts my jaw, and my hair looks like I’ve run my fingers through it all day.
Probably because I have.
I want to blame my brothers for this conundrum. Watching them settle down has to have infected my brain because I don’t do this. I’m not the guy who gets confused about women.