The absolute best part was watching her choose to cede control—to let me have my way. It was a deliberate, calculated decision, and there’s something inherently sexier about it than when a woman just rolls over for me.
Fuck.
“What are you doing today, anyway?” Boone asks.
“Going over Wade’s plans again. You?”
“Not sure. I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do—go watch golf with Oliver and Gramps.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something to waste your time.” I pull the phone away from my face and see an incoming call. “Hey, Boone. I gotta go. I have a call I gotta take.”
“Sure, man. Later.”
“Bye.” I waste no time in clicking over to the other line. “Hello?”
“Hello, Holt.”
My heartbeat quickens at the sound of Blaire’s smooth, sweet voice.
I sink back into my seat. My shoulders soften against the leather as I take a moment and listen to her breathe.
“I was starting to think you weren’t going to call,” I say finally.
“To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t going to.”
A grin plays on my lips. I toss her credit card onto my desk, and it skids into my keyboard before it stops. “May I ask why not?”
“I just thought things would be better if we left things between us in the hotel room.”
At the mention of things being left behind, my hand slides into my pants pocket. The lacy fabric slips between my fingers as I imagine her arching a brow in a quiet challenge.
Challenge accepted.
“Like your panties?” I tease.
She coughs in surprise before recovering quickly. “I was thinking more along the lines of not making our encounter awkward or complicated.”
“We aren’t wild animals, Miss Gibson. We didn’t have an encounter.”
“You know what I mean.”
I lean forward, my forearms resting against the desktop. My cock twitches as memories of our encounter flash before my eyes.
I grin.
“Yes, I do know what you mean. What you mean is that we fucked.”
My breath halts in my chest as I await her reaction. The phrase hangs in the air between us. It’s a quick recap of our night together, but at the same time, it’s an impossible-to-ignore statement that quietly demands a response.
“We did indeed,” she says carefully.
“I don’t know about you,” I say, my gaze focused on the sky outside the window, “but the word awkward isn’t one I would use to describe last night.”
“I’m glad to hear that you have a broad vocabulary, Mr. Mason.”
A grin slips across my lips. “My mother always touted the benefits of a good lexicon.”
“A woman after my heart.”
She takes in a quick breath. The air pulls across the phone, and even though I’m not in the room with her, it feels like I am. I can envision her lips parting, her eyes narrowing with a slight twinkle.
“My mama is the best,” I say. “Hands-down. She raised five boys and most of us are pretty well-behaved.”
“Well, my mother was a gem. She raised me and three boys, and none of us are particularly well-behaved,” she says, ending with a laugh.
“Sounds like we’d get along just fine.”
“I can see you and Lance being friends, actually. He’s a history teacher and wicked smart, but he can drink you under the table. Machlan would poke at you and see if you’d fight—bonus points if you would,” she says. “Walker, though … he’d side-eye you until he decided whether he liked you. And that decision would really have nothing to do with anything you say and just how you respond.”
“Sounds like a fun guy.”
“Walker is probably my favorite. I’d never tell the others that.”
My laughter is easy as I sit back in my chair again. The springs squeal as I tilt it backward. “Yeah, well, I don’t have a favorite because all my brothers are assholes.”
“Ha. Right. I don’t believe that.”
“You should because it’s true.” I shift in my seat and spot the credit card again. “So what are we going to do about your predicament?”
“What? Oh, the card.”
A smile parts my cheeks. “Yes, the card. Did you forget about that already?”
She balks. “No. Hardly. I have an order pending at a deli near here, and a stomach that’s threatening to swallow my intestines.”
“Sounds like a bigger problem than I realized.”
The sound of plastic being crinkled takes up the silence between us. Finally, she sighs.
“I was just calling to thank you for letting me know you have it,” she says. “I’m going to report it lost and have them overnight me a new one.”
My brow furrows. “Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s easier.”
I can’t stop the snort that comes out of my mouth. “That’s absolutely not easier, and you know it. The easier solution would be to meet me for lunch and get your card back.”
“Holt …”
There’s a wariness in her voice. She knows I’m right because she’s an intelligent, rational woman. I know she wants to see me again because I’m a smart, logical man. But how do I convince her to follow through?
If one thing is clear from spending time with Blaire last night, it’s that she likes to call the shots. She needs to be in the driver’s seat. I’m going to have to give her a map, hand over the steering wheel, and hope she picks the right exit.
“I’m going to be very frank with you,” I tell her.
“I hope you will.”
“I enjoyed spending time with you last night—both at Picante and after. And I was a little disappointed to wake up and not see you beside me.”
She doesn’t say a word.
“But I get it. Can’t say it’s ever happened to me before, but I kind of dig it,” I admit. “Like you said, it keeps the morning after very uncomplicated.”
“Until I go and lose my credit card.”
I grin. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been telling myself all day that you lost it because I had charmed you and made you lose your mind.”
“You just keep telling yourself that,” she says, making no effort to suppress her amusement.
“Ouch. Wounded ego alert,” I say as I laugh too.
“I’m sorry. Honestly? You were charming. You are charming. And I enjoyed my night with you as well.”
She takes a breath, and I use the opportunity to jump in.
“Then why did you leave?” I ask. “I’m usually the one doing the leaving, and now I’m curious.”
“Because you have things to do today and so do I—”
“You’re on vacation,” I interject.
“Don’t remind me.”
Despite the huff in her tone, I can hear her smile—which is a weird thing to be able to hear, but I can. Maybe it’s the subtle, quick breath or the way she ended the phrase with a softened lilt, but I can hear it. That makes me smile.
“Last night was a one-night stand,” she says. “They aren’t my favorite encounters—”
“There’s that word again.”
“But I’m not complaining about getting fucked this time.”
Hearing those words come out of her pretty little mouth sends a shot of adrenaline through my body.
“Let’s thank God for that,” I mumble as I adjust myself under my desk.
“As I was saying, they aren’t my favorite situations,” she says, emphasizing the word, “but they do serve a purpose. Lingering around makes it less of a one-night stand and more like a date that went on too long, and now both parties are uncomfortable.”
Fair enough.
“I left,” she continues, “to maintain the integrity of our arrangement.”
“I didn’t know we had a particular arrangement.”
“It wasn’t a signed and sealed contract, by any means. But there was definitely an unspoken agreement between us
. Don’t you think?”
Do I?
Generally, I’d say yes. That sleeping with a woman you just met constitutes something light and simple. All I’m positive about, though, is that I feel like I’m about to get into a contract dispute. And while I’m a great negotiator, I might be out of my depths with her. So I ignore her point and switch gears.
“How long are you in town? Through tomorrow, right?” I ask.
“How did you know that?”
“You told me in the airport.”
I think she smiles.
“By the time your new card arrives, you’ll be leaving,” I tell her. “There’s even a possibility of it not showing up until after you’re gone, and in that case, you’ll have two cards floating out there.”
“This is true,” she admits.
I have an opening. I just have to pick my way through it—and hand over the steering wheel—carefully.
Taking a deep breath, I choose my next words carefully.
“If you have a good two days—a day and a half at this point—left in Savannah, you’re going to need to eat,” I say, stroking her practical side. “Meet me for lunch. Get your card back. Enjoy the rest of your vacation.”
I tip my chair back farther and await her response. I have her considering my suggestion, which was a step I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to make.
But I have. And now I have to stay quiet before I ruin the progress.
After what feels like an eternity, she sighs.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“I’m thinking that I’m not used to men talking logic.”
I laugh. “I hate to break the news to you, but I’m also well-versed in reasoning.”
“Did your mother teach you that too?”
“I think that was actually my father.”
She laughs, her voice blending with mine. “Fine. You’re right. As much as I want to, I cannot come up with a strong argument as to why meeting you and retrieving my card isn’t the easiest answer.”
My seat squeals as I sit upright and put all four wheels on the floor. “What hotel are you staying at?”
“Have you ever been to the restaurant called Hillary’s House?”
“That wasn’t the question, but yes. All the time.”
“Is it good?”
I get to my feet. “Does this mean you’re letting me buy you lunch?”
“This means I might let you sit with me while I eat. And if you happen to order your own sandwich, I can’t stop you.”
I shake my head as I swipe my keys and Blaire’s credit card and put them in my pocket. “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
“See you then.”
Chapter Ten
Blaire
“Welcome to Hillary’s House.” A woman smiles brightly as she closes the cash register drawer. “Grab a seat and I’ll be with you shortly.”
I grab the strap of my purse on my shoulder and take in the little restaurant pegged as a hidden gem in the touristy pamphlets in my hotel room. It’s bright and filled with sunshine. Instrumental music plays so softly that if there were more than a handful of people inside, I doubt you could hear it at all.
The décor is much fancier than I imagined with dark woods and chairs upholstered with printed cloth instead of the pleather I envisioned when the description included the word diner.
I spot an empty table in the back corner. But before I can take a step in that direction, a low, gravelly voice rakes across my skin.
“Good afternoon, Miss Gibson.”
I hear his voice behind me before I hear the door chime or feel the warm breeze of outside air, which is unfortunate. A few seconds’ warning that I’m about to come face-to-face with Holt Mason would’ve been appreciated.
Instead, I pivot instinctively as if the cells of my body are magnetized to his in some invisible way. My gaze finds his as a slow smirk spreads across his lips.
“Hello,” I say.
He’s wearing a pair of dark denim jeans and a crisp white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A pair of sunglasses are tucked into the top of his shirt.
His dark hair looks fresh from a shower, and despite the fact that I know he didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, he appears rested and energized. It’s a look that’s both magazine-worthy and effortlessly sexy. It’s also slightly irritating.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Did you bring my card?”
He pulls his eyes away from mine and scans the room. “Of course. But lunch first.”
I open my mouth to object. In the two seconds it takes to do that, he’s already walking across the room to the little table in the corner that I had my eye on.
The purse strap bites into my shoulder as I follow him across the room. My brain sounds an alarm that I need to ensure he knows he’s not calling the shots. I have to manually override it and remind myself this isn’t a courtroom, and I’m not having lunch with a man who I’ll be going head-to-head with at any point in the future. My inner monologue is still working that out when I reach the table and chair that Holt has pulled out for me.
He lifts a brow.
I sit.
He looks pleased, and I sigh at myself for giving in so easily.
“That went easier than I expected,” he says as he sits across from me.
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know, exactly. You’re confounding.”
It’s my turn to lift a brow as I set my purse on the seat next to me. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I don’t know yet,” he says before narrowing his eyes.
“Let me know when you figure it out.”
The waitress slides up to the table. Her smile is bright until it lands on Holt. It wobbles as she takes in the whole of him—as if he physically knocked her sideways with nothing but a glance—before she mostly recovers.
“I’m Lola,” she says, placing two menus on the table. “What can I get you to drink?”
Holt looks at me expectantly.
“Water with lemon, please,” I say.
“Make that two. We’ll need a few minutes to decide on our meal,” Holt tells Lola.
She nods. “Sounds great. I’ll be right back.” Her gaze lingers on my dining partner for a moment too long before she scurries into the kitchen.
I look at Holt to catch his reaction. He simply places a menu in front of me before taking one for himself and not bothering to react to Lola’s subtle flirtation.
“That happens to you a lot, doesn’t it?” I say, looking over the menu items.
“What?”
“Waitresses barely able to keep themselves vertical when you walk in.”
His chuckle is warm and full. “She was polite.”
“That she was,” I say, deciding on the grilled chicken sandwich. I set my menu down and look up to see Holt watching me with an amused grin on his face. “What?”
“I’ve decided that your confounding qualities are a good thing.”
“Good to know.”
“Yes. Good to know,” he says as Lola appears again.
She places our drinks in front of us and takes our order. She lingers closer to Holt than is necessary. Her laughter at his not-really-even-a-joke is a little much. Still, he never looks her way. Only at me.
My skin heats under his stare. I can’t help but remember the way it felt to have him watching me as I came undone around him.
I shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asks, fighting a smile.
As if the thoughts running through my mind didn’t make me blush enough, his ridiculous smile amps up the heat in my cheeks another few levels. It’s like he knows what I’m thinking.
“Me? I’m fine,” I say as I move my drink to my right. “What are you up to today?”
He shrugs. “What about you?”
“I’m going to head back to the hotel and pull out my briefcase and get lost in paperwork. I go home late tomorrow, and it will feel really good
to be all caught up.”
“You didn’t see any of Savannah at all, did you?”
“Nope. Not a thing. Besides Picante,” I add with a grin.
He grins too. “You know I’m a big fan of work myself, but you should really get out and see some of the city. There’s so much to do here.”
I sit back in my seat and study him. What does someone like him do on the weekends? I can imagine him shirtless on a boat, drinking beer from a bottle. It’s not hard to envision him walking down a cozy street at dusk after seeing a live band and having dinner al fresco. But I can also see him sitting on a balcony overlooking a grassy field with a computer on his lap.
“What is your favorite thing to do on the weekends?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t say that he likes to pick up random women and take them to random hotel rooms.
That would suck.
“I don’t do a lot, but I’m from here,” he says. “so it’s different.”
“Sure, it is,” I tease.
“It is. I’ve done it all.”
“Well, what would you suggest someone do if they were only going to do one thing?”
He taps a finger against his bottom lip. “There are the trolley tours downtown that are fun but kind of touristy. You could kayak or take a riverboat cruise, which would be perfect if you like outdoorsy kinds of things. And you have to see the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. Forsyth Park. Bonaventure Cemetery.”
“A cemetery?” I laugh. “Not that I had kayaking in mind, but definitely not a cemetery.”
“And maybe that’s why you need to go.”
I lift a brow. “So I can tell people I saw a cemetery in Savannah?”
“So you can broaden your horizons.”
“Listen, Mr. Tour Guide—I’ve done more things on this vacation that are out of the ordinary for me than I’ve ever done. I think we can skip the cemetery.”
We exchange an easy grin as Lola walks by. She doesn’t stop to check on us, and I wonder if it’s because neither of us looks her way.
“You know what I would do if I was going to be here a while longer?” I ask.
“Not the cemetery.”
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