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.
The door shuts with a click! just before she turns around.
“I know that Wade Mason isn’t a name you come across daily,” she says, moving far too easily through my office. “But I figured that I would get here, and it wouldn’t be you after all. I mean, what are the odds?”
Before I can break down those odds for her—about one in one hundred thousand, give or take—she reaches me.
And reaches for me.
The scent of coconuts hits me before she does. By the time I get ahold of all of these moving parts—Curt’s impending arrival, this random woman in my office, and the encroachment on my personal behind-the-desk space—she wraps her arms around me and pulls me in for a hug.
Oof.
She leans back quickly. Her eyes are sparkling.
“You’re a friendly one, aren’t you?” I ask, taking a step back in case she has a knife. Because what kind of person hugs another unprompted? Psychopaths. That’s who.
Her laughter is light and breezy. “You don’t remember me.”
Fuck.
I hate when women—when people—do this. They think they’re special enough to warrant being memorable against the hundred other faces you see through the course of a week. Somehow, regardless of the number of interactions you’ve had within a certain timeframe, you are the asshole who can’t remember them.
It’s total bullshit.
The woman flips her hair off her narrow shoulder and allows me an even clearer view of her pretty, freckly face. She doesn’t look like a psychopath.
Then again, they never do.
“Should I tell you who I am, or should we make a game out of it?” she says, moving to the other side of my desk.
I exhale, confused about so many things—who she is, why Eliza let her in my office, and where the hell is Curt Bowery when you need him?