Page 14 of Mason

Today, I will not think of Mason’s hands on my ass. I won’t fantasize about his tongue between my thighs. I will be a sponge, soaking up whatever I can learn from one of the most reputable hedge fund managers in the industry.

Clutching my coffee like a security blanket, I push through the gold-plated revolving door and into the quiet lobby. My heels echo on the tile floor as I make my way to the elevator. Once inside, I press the button for the thirteenth floor, and draw in a deep, calming breath. I practice what I’ll say to Mason, to Gertrude. Jesus. I can’t keep calling her Gertrude.

But I’ve barely stepped outside the elevator when Gertrude hands me a stack of folders, an itinerary, and the phone number for Mason’s car service. “Mr. Wood expects you at the airport within the hour.” She glances up at the clock, and then smiles thinly. “With traffic, you’ll barely make it. I suggest you call the driver.”

My eyebrows inch together. “JFK? La Guardia?”

Gertrude laughs without humor. “The private airstrip. You’ll be taking the jet.” She waves her fingers at me. “I wouldn’t recommend being late.”

* * *

I doubt there’s much Gertrude would be willing to recommend to me, I think, as I hurriedly slide into the back seat of Mason’s private car. My legs brush against the leather seat, cool against my bare thighs.

“There’s coffee in the thermos,” the driver says. The corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement. “Mr. Wood asked me to tell you that he’s out of IVs.”

My cheeks go flush. A wry joke about my caffeine addiction is the only personal touch listed on my resume. Is it possible Mason read it after all? I use the thermos to refill my empty cup, and breathe in the scent of roasted hazelnuts. My mouth begins to water before I take my first sip. The hot liquid glides down my throat, smooth and rich. Sweet Jesus. It’s practically nectar from the gods themselves.

I settle into the seat and study the unmarked folders on my lap. Am I supposed to look at them? I flip open the top file and skim through the paperwork. I recognize a more recent series of trades that earned Daylight Holdings close to fifty million dollars and a front-page story in the New York Times. I squint at the notes scrawled on a slip of paper, trying to decipher the messy penmanship. I’ve only made out a couple of words when the driver announces that we are approaching the airstrip.

We taxi up the long runway to a small jet, where Mason waits at the base of a three-step staircase that leads into the plane. A heavy wind whips his tousled hair in front of his face, but I don’t need a view of his whole face to ascertain his mood. He stands rigid, stoic, a pillar of professionalism—and annoyance.

Anxiety nips at the nape of my neck. Will he come to the car to retrieve the files, or should I run them over to him?

He glances at his watch and I catch the flicker of impatience in his eyes. Okay. Take the folders to him it is. The jet plane’s engine roars at me in welcome as I step out of the car. My heels bite at the asphalt, still wet from the overnight dew. I balance the folders in my arms and focus on walking, on not tripping, on not making a fool of myself. Anything to not further cement his harsh opinion of me—to think of me as something more than a klutz. That wasn’t on my resume.

“You’re late,” he says, by way of greeting.

A snarky response crawls up my throat but I tamp it back. “My apologies, Mr. Wood. I wasn’t aware you were going out of town. I got here as fast as I could.”

His jaw tenses. “If you had been early, you’d have seen my note.”

Again, I squelch my inner voice. I had arrived early, and Gertrude didn’t even give me the option of setting my things down in an office before handing me my orders. What else was on Mason’s note?

His Adam’s apple bobs. “Based on your lack of luggage, I can assume you haven’t packed adequate clothing.”

My throat closes in. “Luggage?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you plan on wearing the same skirt for the next three days,” he says. A mischievous grin curls his lip up. “I already know you don’t require underwear.”

That was a one time thing!

My whole face goes hot with shame, and in an instant, my resolve to keep things professional begins to erode. Damn him. I open my mouth to protest—I can’t be gone three days. Renee will be at my apartment tonight and I haven’t even taken down the picture of me and Mom—but he cuts me off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “A bag has been packed for you. I’m sure you’ll find it more than adequate.”

Despite my surprise, a thrill runs up my spine. “How can you be sure the clothes will fit?”

Mason’s gaze runs up and down my body, devouring me with a hungry stare that serves as a stark reminder of yesterday’s encounter. My ass clenches as if replaying the scene, and the tingle between my thighs is instant. “Your first lesson today, Miss Landers—don’t ever question me.”

My teeth sink into my bottom lip. I nod, precariously close to shrinking under the weight of his stare. He gestures toward the staircase and I tentatively climb aboard the small plane.

Five years after my father abandoned us, Mom dated a firefighter. He wasn’t particularly good looking, and he certainly didn’t model the stereotypical characteristics of the position, but I liked him well enough. One day, he took Mom and I in his small water bomber. The interior was just a shell—four seats, a smattering of equipment tucked into a small closet, a few odds and ends of safety equipment.

Mason’s plane is not that plane.

A massive leather sofa curves around a fireplace. To the left, four stools line up in front of a bar. Soft lights pulse against the mirrored backsplash, where my pale face reflects back at me. I twirl a strand of wind-tousled hair around my finger. “Jesus,” I whisper. “Is that a gas fireplace?”

“It’s just an illusion. The fire isn’t real but you can still turn up the heat with a remote control.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling naïve for thinking the fireplace wasn’t some sort of optical trick.