Tossing the phone to the sofa, I stretch my arms overhead. For once, I don’t feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, don’t have to look over my shoulder for a colleague or client. It’s an odd sensation that somehow makes me feel more guilty about this little getaway.
I glance at my briefcase. There are only two files situated inside the leather case. My boss plucked the rest out of my hands before I left and shoved me out the door.
Two files. I can have them worked over in forty-eight hours. Tops.
My phone dings with Walker’s text, and I wonder how I, Blaire Gibson, got relegated to running my brother’s girlfriend’s errands.
I sink on the couch next to my phone and sigh.
This might be the longest three days of my life.
Chapter Three
Holt
“What in the hell took you so long?” Oliver hits the gas, barely giving me enough time to shut the door to his sport utility vehicle.
“Delayed flight.”
My briefcase sails across the floorboard in the back, ramming the door behind my brother, as he takes a tight right turn onto the freeway.
“You know, we could always buy a private jet.” He looks at me like he just proved a point he’s struggled to make for years.
As the president of Mason Ltd., I control the purse strings and major financial decisions. I remind him of this with a simple quirk of a brow.
He scoffs. “We’re going to be late to our meeting with Graham Landry.”
“And what the fuck should I have done about it? Explained to the weather gods in Portland my little brother needed me for a business meeting and the storm should just vanish because I said so?”
He’s not entertained. With a roll of his eyes, he sits back in the leather seat and hits cruise control on the steering wheel.
“And stop fucking calling me every twenty seconds and handle shit like a big boy,” I add for good measure.
“Really, Holt?”
We watch each other, a heated standoff like only brothers who run a multi-million-dollar company together can manage. We’re both type A, intelligent, and damn good at what we do. This causes a few skirmishes, but we are also loyal. To a fault. And that’s what makes our bond stronger than any other in the business and why Mason Ltd. kicks ass.
The ringing of Oliver’s phone through the car breaks our stalemate. Oliver answers. “Oliver Mason.”
“It’s Rosie.”
“How are you, Rosie?” I ask our shared assistant. She’s seventy-five years old and still good at old-fashioned typed things. Neither Oliver nor I can let her go, despite having to hire separate assistants to help pick up the slack. Our brother, Wade, was going to hire her in his architectural office because it’s more low-key, but when Oliver brought it up to her, she looked hurt. So, we pretended there was a big fight over her. She was happy again, and we just made do.
“Is that you, Holton?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’ve made your brother extremely nervous today. I’ve warned the Landrys you’re running late. Told them you had a weather delay.”
I grin at Oliver as he shakes his head. “You’re right. It was the weather.”
“Of course, it was, dear. I shall ignore any strange credit card charges from the past couple of hours when your bill hits my desk.”
“That would be awfully kind of you, Rosie.”
Oliver butts in, going over a few things with her while I gaze out the window and try to quiet my head. Meeting with Graham Landry is no joke. The man is a powerhouse all on his own—quick-witted, smart as hell, and cutthroat. If you aren’t on top of your game, you’re out of play.
We pause at a traffic light and wait as the cars in the opposite lanes barrel across the intersection. Oliver ends the call with Rosie. I’mabout to ask him how far away from the meeting we are when a pedestrian with long, dark hair crosses in front of us.
