Page 36 of Mason

Renee lifts her glass to her lips, but doesn’t sip. She smiles sheepishly. “Is he as good as the tabloids say?”

I study her outfit, the way even her faded yoga pants somehow look runway chic, and my throat goes dry. Renee’s the Carrie Bradshaw in this sisterhood—I’m just an imposter. “Maybe,” I say, biting my lip. My cheeks go flush and I avert my gaze. “Okay, ridiculously.”

And slightly kinky, I think, though that’s not something I’m ready to admit aloud, not even to my sister.

“Tell me more,” she says, a twinkle of mischief in her emerald eyes.

I’m totally blushing, and a little nervous, but after two glasses of wine, my lips are lucid. Suddenly, it’s like I’m a guest star on Sex in the City, and even my sister’s cheeks have gone pink. I never talk about the naughty stuff, not even when I’m fully drunk, but the more I share, the more I miss Mason, and that makes me emotional—and chatty.

It’s more difficult than I expect to describe our unstructured relationship, and with each detail, my sister’s face grows more expressive. As if she’s suddenly wondering who I am. And why wouldn’t she? I hardly recognize myself.

She raises her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Olivia Landers Gone Wild.” We sip, and then she grins. “Take a bow, Liv. A million women would love to be in your shoes—er, or should I say, Mason’s pants…”

My face sets on fire. “I’ll toast to that.”

Renee is too drunk to notice the lilt of self-doubt in my tone. I haven’t told her about how his business partners hate me, or even how indifferent he seemed this morning. Tonight, just this once, I enjoy the way my sister looks at me—part envy, part pride.

By morning the glow will fade, but tonight I plan to let it burn well into the night.

Chapter 20

I step off the elevator, chest high, back straight, ready to tackle my first official day as the personal assistant to Mason Wood. I’m fifteen minutes early and fully caffeinated, though the throb at the back of my skull reminds me that I probably drank too much wine with Renee.

My cheeks flush at the memory of our candid conversation. I absolutely shared too much. Loose lips…

I pull my borrowed messenger bag tighter to my shoulder, and approach the reception desk with a smile. “Gertrude” barely glances up. She hands me a stack of files, the phone number for Mason’s personal driver, and instructions to be at the airstrip within an hour.

Are you fucking kidding me? “Another trip?”

She shrugs. “I just follow orders.”

I blow out a breath. Should I have packed? Would it have killed Mason to text me? “Did he at least leave me a note?”

Gertrude stares at me blankly. “I am the note.”

Right. I stand there, still too confused to speak.

“Would you like me to call the driver?” she prods.

I grasp at the olive branch. “God, yes. Thank you.”

In the elevator, I skim the files, each labeled with the names of various companies that are heavily involved in vigorous stock market trades today. Daylight Holdings has a stake in each of these transactions, which is why we should be glued to the computer, not traipsing across—

Wherever the hell we’re going.

A blast of exhaust fumes hits me as I step out onto the curb, anxiously scanning each of the black Town cars that pass. After ten minutes, I begin to suspect that Gertrude has pulled a fast one on me, and decide to call the driver myself.

“Miss Landers, my apologies,” he says, voice thick with a British accent. “I wasn’t aware you required me today. I’m on the other side of town.”

A scream of frustration inches up my throat. I tamp it back. “No one called you from Mr. Wood’s office this morning?”

“I drove Mr. Wood to the airstrip but there’s been nothing since. Don’t fret,” he says. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

Across the street, a pedestrian makes a run for it, and a car blares on its horn. There’s an exchange of cuss words, followed by a succession of honks and hollers from the traffic backing up behind the incident.

“Forget it,” I say. “You’ll never make it here in time. I’ll call a cab.”

I do, even though I’d rather stomp up thirteen flights of stairs to give Gertrude a piece of my mind. My car arrives within minutes, expertly navigating through rush hour, skirting along the edge of the Hudson River to Mason’s private airstrip, with just under five minutes to spare.