The problem? I see men like him every day. My office is full of them. That controlled, alpha vibe stops being attractive when you peel off the suit. They’re just like other men—overgrown children who want a woman to fight for them.
And fight for herself.
Because if she doesn’t fight for herself, no one is going to fight for her.
“I’m not sure what my schedule looks like,” I say for the second time today.
“You don’t have a fucking schedule. I made your schedule.”
“I’ll happily refund your money and come home.”
“The hell you will.” He sighs. “It won’t kill you to do her this one favor.”
“For what? So, you can get laid?”
“I’ll get laid regardless …”
“Ew!” I say, getting to my feet. “How did we get here? I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I’ll text you the address, okay?” Walker asks.
Moseying across the sage-colored carpeting, I gaze across the water. Families are holding hands, letting the waves rock against them. I wish I could do that—just throw all caution to the wind and let my guard down. But I can’t. Or if I was like that, I’m not anymore.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But tell Sienna she owes me blueberry muffins when you pick me up from the airport.”
“Will do. Talk to you soon, Blaire.”
“Bye.”
The line goes dead as he shouts at our cousin again.
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.
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’m about to ask him how far away from the meeting we are when a pedestrian with long, dark hair crosses in front of us.
Unlatching my seat belt, I rise in my seat to get a better look. Oliver’s eyes are on me as I try to ascertain whether this is the girl from the airport, but I ignore him. Instead, I watch the sway of her hips back and forth and determine, without a doubt, it’s not her.
I sink back into the seat just before Oliver slams the gas again.
“Wanna tell me what that was about?” he asks.
“Not really.”
“Does it have anything to do with why you were super fucking late?”
“I wasn’t that late,” I contend. “Just shut the hell up about it.”
“Fine, fine. Just be ready for Landry. He knows how much we stand to make if we purchase this property from him, so he’s not going to give it to us easily.”
I look at Oliver and laugh. “Does he ever?”
“Maybe he’ll be nice and use some lube.”
“Let’s hope he remembers how much Dad donated to the Landry mayoral campaign a few years back. Maybe that’ll help.”
He takes a right off the freeway and heads to the outskirts of Savannah where the Landrys’ estate is located. I’ve been there a few times for random events and meetings, and it’s nice as hell. I keep telling my brothers we need something like that, but our personalities are too different to agree on anything. We just meet in Aspen and go skiing every winter instead.
As the car pulls up to the gate, a man takes Oliver’s information and buzzes us through. We slip by tall rows of trees along the freshly paved path leading to the massive farmhouse nestled back away from the road. Oliver parks the car and looks at me.
“You ready, big guy?” he asks.
“Let’s do this.”
Blaire
A lot of assumptions are made on first appearances, so for that reason, I strive never to be underdressed for an occasion. Yet as I walk up the steps to the large farmhouse at the address given to me by my brother, I feel totally unprepared.