Page 16 of Mason

Mason leans back in his chair. “A business retreat,” he says. “My partners and I take a three-day working vacation each year at this time.”

I knew that, of course, from my research. But he’s got me thrown off my game and my thoughts are totally scattered. I glance around the plane, expecting to find Lucas and Holden sprawled out on one of the leather couches. Rumor has it that Holden’s a pilot—could the two of them be in the cockpit?

A tremor of nervous energy shakes through me. For three days, I’ll be stranded with the three savvy businessmen responsible for the groundbreaking success of Daylight Holdings. A company forged in friendship, and bonded by tragedy.

Be the sponge, Olivia.

Mason pours another shot of whiskey and slugs it back. He points to the bottle with question, and I shake my head. My stomach is already twisted in knots. Adding alcohol is a sure-fire way to induce vomit, and retching all over my new boss won’t earn me any additional points in professionalism.

“What would you like me to do for you these next few days?” I ask. And then to clarify further, I say, “Once I memorize all of the information you’ve given me, that is.”

Mason stares at me a long beat, expression unreadable. He leans forward and taps the stack of folders piled neatly on the table between us. “This is a year’s worth of transactions,” he says. “Read them very carefully.” He takes another pull of whiskey. “By morning, you’ll be expected to provide a broad overview of the company’s performance over the past twelve months.”

My chest tightens. “What specifically am I looking for?”

“Anything. And everything,” Mason says, his blue eyes turning to ice. “Market patterns. Indicators we may have missed that gave our competitors an advantage, however subtle.”

My lips part. “But that kind of analysis could take forever.”

Mason glances at his watch. “You’ve got seven hours.”

It’s not enough time. My eyes flit to the stack of folders, at least a foot high, and the hair on the back of my neck prickles. There must be a thousand pages of paper or more. “You’ve asked the impossible.”

Annoyance flashes in Mason’s eyes and I recoil. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, then.”

I bite my lip.

“You demanded an opportunity to prove to me that you have what it takes to make it as a day trader,” he says. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable under pressure. “Memorize the files, Miss Landers.” He leans in close, his breath warm across my cheek. “Impress me.”

Chapter 9

With the gauntlet now thrown, I forge my plan. First, I will arrange the folders by date, creating a visual timeline. I like structure. Organization.

Mason’s files are anything but organized.

On a separate note pad, I jot down terms with which I’m not familiar. On another piece of paper, I write questions, the bulk of which I hope to answer by reading the files rather than asking Mason for help or waiting for access to Wi-Fi.

I glance up and find Mason engrossed in the latest issue of the Wall Street Journal. He peeks over the top of the newspaper and lifts an eyebrow. Quickly, I look down. It’s been like this for the past hour, a frustrating game of cat and mouse. I’ll feel the weight of his stare on me, but when I try to meet his gaze, he pretends not to be paying attention.

It’s getting harder to pretend to ignore him, though.

I set my working file on the coffee table and stand, stretching my arms up over my head to ease the ball of tension knotted behind my shoulder blades. My blouse untucks and slides up my stomach to reveal my belly button. Mason’s eyes lock on it.

“Are you hungry?” I say, prepared to launch into my role as personal assistant. No time like the present.

His lips twist into a smirk. “Famished.” His eyes seem to be devouring me.

My knees buckle a little, and I’m grateful to be sitting. Rattled, I turn away to mask how the effect of his voice and that one gloriously sexy word.

“Can I get you anything?”

“My chef has prepared a light lunch,” he says. “You’ll find it in the fridge.”

In the three-hour flight so far, I haven’t caught so much as a glimpse of another human. If not for the clouds floating past the windows, it would be easy to forget that we’re even on a plane. It strikes me that I’ve already become too comfortable here, the novelty of a private jet fading under the expectation of my monumental task.

A generous spread of meats, bit-sized sandwiches, and various cheeses layers a platter tucked in the back of a full-size stainless steel fridge. I remove it, along with a bowl of fruit salad, and carry them back to a gleaming table, along with two small plates, napkins, and cutlery.

Mason plucks a grape out of the bowl and pops it into his mouth. I’m strangely mesmerized by the way he chews, watching, breathless, as it slides down his throat. A half-day worth of stubble peppers his neck and chin, giving him a ruggedness that wars with the crisp business persona portrayed in the magazines and newspapers.