Relentless (Mason Family 4)

“I haven’t really opened up to him. The thought of talking about Luca makes me nauseous.” I slip a hand out of hers and place it on my stomach. “I don’t think I can share any more than the very little I’ve said already.”

She smiles sadly. “Then you don’t, girlfriend. It’s simple. You only tell your story to people who you find worthy. And Luca? He was never worthy. Oliver might be, but that’s your choice to make. And that doesn’t have to be tonight. Tonight is about enjoying being the belle of the ball.”

Her words comfort me, massaging some of the tension out of my heart. Some—but not all.

“You’ll still love me if I get fired, right? Or if this little game of risk I’m playing doesn’t pan out, and I end up not able to make rent and have to hide from my mom and the creditors?”

She laughs. “I will love you no matter what.”

“Okay.” I force a swallow. “Cool.”

“Cool.” She laughs. “And, for the record, I’m proud of you. The you from the last few years would’ve shut down way before now. You’re making progress, my friend.”

“Yeah. Maybe I am.”

I hope I am.

Lisbeth gives my hand a shake and then releases it. She steps back and takes me in once again.

“You’re going to knock him off his feet, you know that?” she asks.

I just smile at her.

“Let’s get you a spritz of perfume and make sure you have all the essentials.” She picks up a bottle of Tom Ford’s Black Orchid perfume and pumps two sprays in the air. “Walk through the haze.”

I lift my chin like a model walking the catwalk and hold my breath. The mist lands gracefully across me as I strut to the other side of my bedroom.

It makes Lisbeth laugh.

“Black clutch or nude?” She holds two purses up in the air. “I prefer the black with the gold chain, but that’s me.”

“Definitely black.”

She tosses the nude one on the bed and busies herself adding a compact, toothpaste tabs, and God knows what else to the black one.

“When he gets here,” she says, adding a tube of the vixen red lipstick she used on me, “I’ll hide in the bathroom.”

“You don’t have to do that!”

She makes a face at me. “Yes, I do. You’ll answer the door and, once you leave, I’ll lock up and go home.”

“I …”

My protest is diluted by the sound of the doorbell.

All at once, my body stiffens, my heart races, and my stomach pools with a downright uncomfortable heat. The dress is too tight, the shoes too high. The powder—or concealer or whatever Lisbeth put on my nose—makes my face itch.

“Don’t. Panic,” Lisbeth says, stepping in front of me. “Breathe.”

I inhale and exhale, following the directions of her hands like some kind of mime.

“Again,” she says, filling her lungs slowly while staring at me.

I start to do as I’m told, and then I remember that Oliver freaking Mason is standing on my porch. I blow the breath out so hard I cough.

“Don’t die on me.” Lisbeth pats my back.

I swat her hand away, swaying on the heels. “You are terrible in an emergency,” I say, struggling to get an easy lungful of air down my now-raw throat.

“You were the one who called me in a panic.”

I turn away and grab the clutch from my dresser. “Well, I’m still panicking. He’s standing out there waiting on me.”

As if in agreement, the doorbell rings again.

Lisbeth looks at me. “It’s ready. You are ready. Go knock him dead—no! No dying. Just … turn him on and dizzy the crap out of him.”

Note to self: Lis is terrible when things get crazy.

I give myself one final look in the mirror before blowing Lisbeth a kiss. Then I head into the hallway.

My heels click against the hardwood as I make my way toward the door. With each step—each click!—my heart beats harder.

The knob feels cool in my hand as I wrap my palm around it. I take one final breath, ensuring I don’t choke this time, and tug open the door.

And I realize instantaneously that I’m not ready.

Bright, blue-green eyes. Freshly shaven skin. Perfectly coiffed hair and a suit tailored to perfection.

Oliver is downright edible.

I grip the side of the door so I don’t make a fool out of myself.

His gaze licks me up and down like a flame, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

“Oh, wow,” he says, his jaw hanging open. “You look … beautiful.”

“Thank you.” I try not to let my cheeks split with the force of my smile. “You look dashing.”

“Dashing?” He lifts a brow. “I was going for handsome, but I’ll take dashing.”

I laugh. As I release the door, I notice a single pink rose in his hand.

“For you, my lady,” he says, handing the stem to me.