“Do this for us,” Holt says. “Help us get our foot in the door with Bowery Hotels. I know it will be one more thing you don’t have time for. We get that. We understand you don’t want to do this. But …” He takes a deep breath. “If you agree to do this for us, I won’t make you be a groomsman in my wedding.”
I narrow my eyes because he’s playing dirty.
Holt knows me more than I’m willing to admit. There aren’t many things I want less in the world than to be paraded down an aisle in front of fifty million people in an overpriced and unnecessary ceremony like some kind of trained monkey in an expensive suit. The whole idea makes me twitchy.
“First,” I say carefully, lest they get the wrong impression, “you can’t make me do anything.”
Boone chokes on a sunflower seed, earning him a warning glare from Holt.
“Second,” I say after pausing to make sure Boone doesn’t asphyxiate, “do you even know what Curt wants? Can I do this via email? Electronic prints? How big is this project? Are we starting from scratch? Who is the point person? Do they own the property already or is this conceptual?” I groan. “And why can’t they use the architect they work with on a daily basis?”
Holt looks at Oliver. He shrugs.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” Oliver says. “I don’t know. I can forward you the emails he’s sent, but they’re basically inquiring about your availability.”
“Great. It’s settled. Tell him I’m not available.”
“Wade, if the roles were reversed and I was refusing to cooperate,” Boone says, “you’d be the first one up my ass, telling me to think beyond myself.”
I sigh. “If it were you, Boone, you wouldn’t have anything else going on. I have a full schedule right now. See the difference?”
They see the difference. They all see the difference. The problem is, they know I see it too—from both sides.
The reality is, I don’t care how much pull or money Curt Bowery has. It doesn’t matter to me. I have enough work to last me two years and enough money to last me a lifetime. That’s a part of the beauty of being a bachelor.
Unfortunately, my brothers don’t think like me.
They’ve all started to settle down. They want marriages and children and all the domesticated life trappings that make me ill. That means that Mason Limited doesn’t just have to supply them with a solid future. It also has to take care of their families—families that are my family too.
While I’m happy to walk out of here without agreeing to this Bowery Hotels nonsense, the weight of my brothers’ eyes sets firmly on my shoulders. They need me to do this—not just for them but for potential future Mason generations. I know it, and they know I know it. They also know that I’m not completely heartless.
Dammit.
As if he can read my mind, Boone smirks. “I really hope my little Rosie doesn’t need Curt’s help someday, and I’ll have to tell her that her favorite uncle Wade couldn’t make time to—”
“Fine,” I say, shoving my chair backward with more force than necessary. “I’ll meet with whomever, but I’m not guaranteeing that I’ll do it.”
“Great. That’s all we’re asking,” Oliver says hurriedly.
“And Holt—you better take me out of the groomsmen lineup,” I add. “And you are dealing with Mom when she flips out. Not me.”
“Deal,” Holt says, his tone tinged with disbelief.
I’m surprised your proposal worked too.
“This is completely ridiculous,” I mutter as I gather my things.
A discernible tension creeps through the room. It snakes its way across the table, pulling at my brothers and me. They’re looking at each other—I know this without looking at them—but I refuse to make eye contact.
Do not look. You know they’re holding something back.
The collar of my shirt is tight. My jaw sets in place. My heartbeat strums in my chest as the walls of the conference room seem to shrink.
“Oh, and um … You have a meeting with Curt tomorrow at noon in your office,” Boone says.
My hands still over my briefcase, and I look up at Oliver’s cringing face. This motherfucker.
Oliver shrugs sheepishly. “What can I say? We had faith.”
My gaze narrows. His brazenness is absurd. “No, you had a whole lot of stupid. That’s what you had.”
Oliver gets to his feet, relief across his face. “Thank you, Wade. You won’t regret this.”
I pick up my things and level my gaze at my brothers. I let it linger for a few seconds to ensure my displeasure about this entire situation is understood. Once I’m sure my point hits home, I drag my briefcase off the table.
“Famous last words,” I mutter and march out the door.
ONE
WADE
“Eliza? Please remind me at twelve thirty that I’m needed elsewhere.”
I sit back in my chair. Massaging my temple with one hand, I await my assistant’s reply through the speakerphone.
“And where might that be, Mr. Mason?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh.”
I should feel guilty that I’m confusing this poor woman on her third day of work or, at the very least, regretful enough to backtrack.
I do neither. I also don’t feel bad about this decision.
“Actually, make it twelve fifteen,” I say, further complicating Eliza’s confusion.
“Yes, sir. While I have you on the line, I believe your twelve o’clock is walking in right now.”
Fabulous.
I squash back a shot of frustration and stifle an annoyed growl. Do this and get it over with.
That’s the plan. Meet with Curt Bowery and find him and his proposal unreasonable. Then I can tell Oliver I did my due diligence, and now I’m out.
Simple.
“Send him back,” I say before the guilt that I should’ve felt earlier starts to wiggle its way into my conscience. “Thank you, Eliza.”
“Yes. Of course. You’re welcome, Mr. Mason.”
Her voice is full of … happiness. Despite the fact that it’s wholly unrepresentative of Mason Architecture, Holt insists that prospective clients prefer a cheerful person at the front desk. Such an oddity, if you ask me.
The line disconnects and I get busy tidying up my workspace. The office is the only place where controlled chaos reigns in my life. Immersing myself in designs, blueprints, clay models—it makes me feel alive.
It’s what gets me up in the morning. It’s why I work through lunch, and it’s the reason I work late most nights. That and insomnia is a bitch.
A knock raps on the door. I run my hand down my tie and click out of the program on my computer. When I look back up, and—what the hell?
The human being standing in the doorway is not Curt Bowery.
“It is you,” she says, a wide smile stretching across her full pink lips.
What?
I do a quick once-over of the woman stepping into my office—the woman who’s most definitely not my twelve o’clock.
She’s about my age with thick, shiny mahogany-colored hair. Her cheekbones accentuate her eyes. They’re golden brown, the color of a glass of whiskey when the afternoon sun shines through it, and are framed by long, dark lashes.
She exudes a friendliness, a warm and bubbly vibe that drives home the fact I’ve never met this woman in my life. I’m sure of it. I don’t associate with this kind of person. They’re too … people-y.