Page 9 of Mason

I exhale hard. “He did? When?”

Her collagen lips curve into a snarky grin. “At eleven, when he checked in.”

I refrain from pointing out how useful the information would have been four hours ago. Somehow I suspect the complaint would fall on ears made deaf by the enormous jewelry dangling from her lobes. “Well then, I suppose I should go back to my seat.”

The phone rings, and she dismisses me with a quick flick of one of those perfectly-painted nails.

I choose a different chair—a different view, another way to pass the time. From this position, I can watch the busy streets below, teeming with suits and skirts, most on their way to meetings, afternoon cocktails, or home for the day.

Their professional attire blurs into a continual stream of the exact same thing, and I start to question the jumper. Should I have worn a more traditional pantsuit? A skirt and blouse combination? Perhaps just dress pants with a thicker shirt.

I imagine myself in one of Renee’s designs and shake my head. The jumper is as risqué as I get. Does that make me boring? I cross and uncross my legs, struggling to find a comfortable position, while questions poke holes in the last of my confidence. I can feel my self-esteem pooling on the floor.

Is this what Mason meant when he said my instincts were off? That I didn’t have “it?”

The seed of doubt takes root in my stomach, sparking another wave of frustration. There’s no guarantee Mason will give me a position anyway, not after I turned him down the first time. I have a feeling Mr. Hot Shot Hedge Fund Manager hasn’t faced much rejection from women. Making me wait is probably payback for bruising his inflated ego.

Which means I’ve gotten under his skin.

Interesting.

That thought—no matter how potentially misguided—inspires new confidence, and I settle in for the long haul. He wants to make me wait? Fine. I’ll read every fucking article in these magazines. I’ll memorize every inch of this office.

I’ll give his receptionist a name.

Christy. Misty. I piece together every bit of intel I’ve gathered in the hours I’ve been stuck with her, and decide on Gertrude.

Yep. Totally a Gertrude.

Another hour passes. Finally, Gertrude stands and brushes off her skirt, like there’s crumbs on it, and starts shoving paperwork into a Coach messenger bag. My curiosity flares up again and I begin a new game. What’s in the bag, Gertrude. And that’s when it dawns on me that she’s packing up. As in, leaving for the day.

Panic nips at my steely resolve.

Am I supposed to wait here? Go home? Reschedule?

I’m working up the nerve to ask when Gertrude slings her bag over her shoulder, walks toward the door—her high heels leaving dents in the carpet—and quips, “Mr. Wood will see you now. He’s in his office.”

My pulse ratchets up and I bite down on my tongue to stop from blurting out something I shouldn’t. For more than six hours I’ve sat in the same damn place, staring at the same damn view, thinking the same damn thoughts—and Mason was in his office all along. Heat crawls up my neck.

Fuck that.

I stand with a huff and stomp to Mason’s office, my teeth grit, utter fury making my blood boil. There are a million things I want to yell at him, but the second I step into the room, every single word escapes.

All but one.

“Hi.”

“I appreciate your patience,” he says, without even looking up from his paperwork. “Please, be seated.”

I shoot daggers into his bowed head, full-on anger simmering just beneath the surface of my practiced calm.

I work my way to the chair and gently pull it away from the desk. My fingers thread together in a ball on my lap. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” I say, stammering a little. Get it together, Liv. “You were right.” At this, he lifts his head a little.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

“I have a lot to learn, and instead of graciously accepting the position you offered, I was rude. Offensive.”

“I’ve got tough skin,” he says, now commanding me with his cool glare once more.