by Natasha Deen
“Don’t cry. What good is family if we don’t try to help each other meet our dreams—or protect each other when one of us gets to close to the cliff’s edge?”
“I feel terrible. My stupidity could have made us homeless—I made all these dumb decisions.”
“Hush now. Could have and should have never did much to a body, other than torment and torture. We’re okay. We’ll go back to Wolf Point, find a new home and pick up where we left off. With the buyout, you can actually afford to start up your glass blowing again.”
“Right. The buyout.” Guilt and anger mixed with regret and shame. She tried to get breath into her too-tight lungs. Her body didn’t know what to do—revel in the memory of their night together, weep at the futility of her and Nate—Mason—having a future. Aya closed her eyes, opened them. “I have to go and see Mason. Sign the contract. Apologize.”
“It’ll be fine.”
Financially, yes. But the thought of facing him, knowing that he hadn’t made any effort to contact her...
If he’d cared for her at all, she was too late.
And if he’d never cared, then the most precious moments in her life were nothing more than a fairytale and a lie.
Chapter Twelve
The cab stopped in front of the gold and glass doors of Mason’s downtown office. Trepidation and anxiety made Aya’s hands shake as she handed the cabbie the fare and stepped on to the sidewalk. She hadn’t thought that a body could quake, but hers did. It quaked, shook, and trembled in her worn-out cowboy boots as she went through the doors, asked for Mason’s office, and followed the guard’s instructions.
His secretary, looking the epitome of efficiency and competence in a pin-striped, gray suit, sat at the desk, typing on the computer.
“Excuse me.”
The man looked up, a quick flash of comprehension lighting his eyes. “Ms. Michaels?”
“Yes.”
“They’re expecting you. If you would follow me, please.”
She did, though she hung back a couple of steps to cast a quick glance at the mirrored walls that flanked the hallway. Though logic told her of the uselessness of her efforts, she’d left her hair loose. It was a small, trivial effort, but she hoped if he saw her like this, he would remember the good times, and maybe they could work through the deeper issues that had ripped them apart.
Aya scurried to catch up to his assistant. He opened the door, and she followed him into a vast boardroom. Sunlight streamed through the windows and made the walnut conference table glow. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the increased light. Four men stood in the room—not one of them was Mason.
“Ms. Michaels. My name is Arun Singh. I’ll help you through the contract and signing. Would you like something to drink before we begin?”
She shook her head, moving to take the chair he offered. Arun nodded to the secretary and he left, closing the door behind him.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Mas—Mr. St. John?”
“He didn’t feel it was necessary to be here. It’s just a simple contract signing.”
Disappointment speared her with a sharp, pointed tip. A sheen of tears coated her eyes, the reaction so quick, it left her breathless. She blinked them away, but saw Arun’s gaze sharpen on her. She shoved her emotions to the side, gave him a tight smile. “Of course. A simple signing.”
No more second chances, no talking. No future.
Her hopes crumbled to dust and fell to join the shard pieces of her heart.
She cleared her throat; the hurt of Mason’s absence left it raw and aching. “Why are there so many of you?”
“Donald and Ron, to your left, are the witnesses.” They nodded at her. “And Leroy is another lawyer—if you want a second opinion.”
“That won’t be necessary. Just tell me where to sign.”
Arun pulled a small sheaf of papers from his black briefcase. “It’s important you understand what you’re signing, Ms. Michaels. This contract says that you agree to sell your land and farm for the price we last offered.”
“Right.” She nodded, though her mind screamed for the man to get on with it, let her sign and flee.
“This item here, says that when Mr. Keith St. John passes, your family will get the first opportunity to buy the land and the farm, at the price you currently owe for the mortgage.”
“Wait.” Her mind reeled with the implications of Arun’s words. “Are you telling me that when Mason’s dad dies, my family gets first dibs on the farm? At the price of our mortgage?”
“Yes.”
Her brain couldn’t fathom the connection. “He’s buying the farm for three times what it’s worth, but I can get it back for the price owed on my mortgage?” She was babbling, repeating herself, but she didn’t care. She needed the explicit words.
“Yes.”
“What if the farm becomes a success? What if it’s worth four times the price I’m selling it?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s buying the farm as a gift to his father, but he has no interest in keeping it should his father pre-decease him or your family.”
The generosity of his terms, the volumes it spoke about him, underscored the truth of the past few months. She, not Mason, had been the cruel, callous one.
“May I speak to him?”
Arun shifted in his chair, his movements speaking his discomfort. “If there’s a problem with the contract, we can negotiate.”
She shook her head. “There’s no problem. I just need to speak to him.” She glanced at the other men. “Alone, please.”
He shuffled the papers, the silence stretching painfully. Then he nodded. “I’ll go and get him.”
They all left, and she picked up the pen to sign the contract, then remembered she needed witnesses, and put it down.
The door opened and Nate—Mason—stepped through. Her heart pounded, slammed, and threw itself against her chest with enough force to break her sternum.
With his designer suit and silk tie, his hair tamed and unruffled by the wind, Mason knew he wasn’t the man Aya had come to know. But then—his lips twisted—he’d never been the man she thought she knew. But Aya. God, she was as beautiful as he’d remembered, and it took all his strength to stay immobile, to not rush to her side and beg her forgiveness.
She rose on shaking feet. “Thank you for coming.”
He gave her a brief, humorless smile. “That should be my line.” He glanced down at his watch, anything to keep his eyes off her face and the pain he was responsible for putting in her gaze. “Did you need me for something?”
“Yes—I caught you at a bad time?”
“No, it’s fine.” He remained by the door. Tension corded his muscles into knots, left his breathing as shallow as their conversation. “What is it that I can do for you?”
“Nothing. I-I wanted to—”
He glanced once more at the door.
“For God’s sakes, Nate,” she snapped. “At least look at me.”
Even as pain sliced through him, at the reminder of his lies to her, his gaze locked onto her. “Mason.”
She straightened. “You know what I meant.” Aya took a breath, ran her hand along her forehead. “Can we please have a reasonable conversation?”
He crossed to the table and took a seat opposite from her, the table separating them. “Better?”
“Yes.”
“You look—” The polite lie died on her lips and she gave him a smile. “—tired.”
“You don’t.”
She laughed self-consciously and ran a hand through her hair.
God. Her hair. He missed its smell, the feel of it in his fingers.
“It’s been...an intense time.”
He heard the sadness, the confusion, and wanted to reach out to her. “How are you doing? How’s Pops—Jim?”
“Fine. His prognosis is good and with...” A shadow crossed her face. “With the farm sold, we’re in a comfortable position. He won’t have to hurry his recovery.”
“You’ll
be here, in the city?” Aya, walking the streets. So close. So far away.
She nodded. Her voice low, she said, “We’re looking for a place.” She cast a furtive glance at him. “We’ll probably be here for a while.”
His chest tightened.
“Spencer can spend time with Jessica and—” She took a breath. “And there are some classes I can take.”
“You’re going to pursue your art?”
She shook her head. “Business classes.” Aya met his gaze. “If I’m going to make a go of my art, then I need to be smart about it. Take some accounting classes.”
“Good. I’m proud of you.”
The words slipped out before he could stop himself. She flinched and he regretted his stupidity.
“I-I didn’t come to talk about me,” she said.
Mason didn’t trust himself to speak. He folded his hands on the wood and waited.
Silence filled the room, then, “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”
He jerked back. “What?”
“I’m...” Tears and emotion clogged her throat. “I’m so desperately sorry for everything I did. God, I’m so sorry for all the pain and time I cost you.”
His eyes widened, wariness and confusion clouded his thinking. “I don’t understand.”
“Spencer.”
A spasm of pain contracted his heart. “Is he okay?”
“In perfect form. He asked for glass blowing lessons so he could live out my dream in case I died on him.” She smiled. “It brought home my own idiocy with the farm.”
For the first time since he’d come into the room, a real, genuine smile lit her face and stole his breath. “He’s quite the kid.”
“He misses you.”
Another spasm of pain fissured his heart.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No.” His voice sounded rough. “It’s fine. Tell him...that I miss him, as well.”
“If you like—keep in touch. Your friendship with him won’t impact me.” She uttered the words with conviction, but her wounded expression betrayed her.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I’d like to stay in touch. He’s an amazing kid—” He glanced at her, then looked away. “He’ll be a good man.”
She nodded. “Thank you...I am sorry, Mason, and I can’t begin to tell you how badly I feel for what I did to you.”
“You fought for your family.” The words came out harsh. “Don’t apologize for it.”
“I was wrong, and I will admit it.”
He watched her, his chest tight from tension, his lungs burning from a lack of oxygen. “Was there anything else?”
“The offer for us to buy the farm back—that’s very generous of you.”
“It’s a gift for my father. I don’t want it. When he’s gone, it will have to be disposed of. Considering your link to the land, it seems only right to offer it to you, first.”
“But at that price? Mason, that’s too generous.”
“I deceived you, Aya, never forget that. It’s the only way I can think of to right my wrong.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, as well, for the pain I caused you.” His voice softened. “Terribly sorry.”
She nodded. “I hope your father stays healthy for a long time.”
A small smile lit his mouth. “Me, too.” He rose from the chair. “If there’s nothing else...”
She shook her head.
“Good luck, Aya, with everything.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He stood for a moment, unable to speak the words in his heart, too afraid the truth of their past had completely broken any soft feelings she held for him. He strode to the door, his hand on the knob.
“Mason.”
Forcing himself to close his emotions from the hurt in her voice, he turned. Shame and regret speared him as he watched her.
“Was it all pretend? Just a lie?” she asked.
The high voltage of emotion, of words kept silent sent a shockwave through him. “What do you mean?”
“Us. The night spent together—the things you said. Was it just part of your plan, or did you mean the things you told me?”
His ears pricked at the pleading in her voice; his gaze took in the fear that made her body tight and rigid, begged for him to say that he’d meant it all.
“What do you want me to tell you, Aya?”
She held her shoulders back, her body straight. “The truth.”
A blink and he’d closed the distance between them. He cupped her face in his hands, and leaning in until they were inches apart, he said, “I meant everything.” His eyes searched hers, and her trembling fingers closed over his. The memory of her touch flooded his body in a welcome torrent. “Every word, gesture, kiss. Everything, Aya.” His hands dropped from her, the light and power in him fading like a burned out spotlight. “It’s easy enough to follow your heart, but what do you do when your heart wants two things? I love you—”
Her mouth went slack, wary hope filled her eyes.
“I love my father. He’s my past, you were my future. I couldn’t deny either of you.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “And my dad won because he might be dying. Three months, ninety days of loving you—wanting to help you, needing to help myself...” He shook his head, turned away, unable to maintain eye contact. “That day at the hospital, when the doctor told you who I really was, and I saw the look on your face...” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “Part of me died. You will never know how much I regret the pain I caused you, how I hate myself for hurting you.”
Tentatively, she reached out and placed her hand on his. He jerked at her touch, then quieted.
“You deferred to Pops.”
A curl of disgust scarred his lips. “A man has a responsibility to himself. I knew the first day that it was a mistake. I should have left—but even then, I couldn’t tear myself from your presence. I lied, I deceived, and the punishment I pay will be your contempt.”
“You can’t be contemptuous of someone you love.”
He froze. “Loved.”
She reached up, touched his lips. Her fingers burned a brand on his mouth, searing the memories of the previous weeks in his mind and heart.
“Love. Present tense.”
“You can’t possibly love me, not after what I did—I took your land, your farm—and I deceived you.”
His fingers, greedy for the feel of her, stroked the smooth planes of her cheeks, and curled around her hair.
She met his gaze and smiled. “When Spencer was about three, Daniel showed up at the farm. It was late and he’d been drinking. He wanted to see Spencer, take him for a ride. I wouldn’t let him, and Spencer freaked. He was crying and screaming—he didn’t understand that I did it for his benefit.” Her eyes tracked the movements of her fingers as they trailed along his jawline, bumped along his Adam’s apple. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that night, how a parent has to occasionally step in, protect the child she loves—hell, sometimes a person has to step in and take care of the one she can’t stand. I took Daniel’s keys that night, made him sleep in the car. He hated me for it, but at least he was safe. I can’t say I’m a hundred percent comfortable with what happened between you and me—the lunatic plan you and Pops concocted; I’m still working through it. But Mason...” She raised her eyes to his. “I love you. I want you in my life. Please, tell me we can work this through.”
He stared at her. The sincerity of her words filled her gaze, but he didn’t—couldn’t—believe he’d heard correctly. Breath wouldn’t come and his chest felt like it would explode from the contained, wary hope. “I expected your hatred, wished for your eventual forgiveness, but this, your love—” His voice broke. “I never dared even fantasize about it.”
“It’s not a fantasy. I’m hurt and wounded, but more than anything, I love you. I love you with everything that’s in me to love.” Tears made her eyes glitter. “You tried to protect me, to show me the truth of—everything—�
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He dragged a breath into his aching lungs, the muscles loosening as he saw the sincerity in her gaze. Lifting his hand, he wiped the tracks the tears left on her cheeks. “But I took your land—your dreams.”
“I can dream a new one, and as for the land...” She took a deep breath. “If you stayed with me, maybe one day married me, it wouldn’t be your land or my land. It would be ours.”
He cocked his head as if to catch and hold the precious word she’d uttered...married.
“Not right away.” She held up her hand. “I—we—need to work through everything, but—” She grinned. “You’re my rose by another name.”
He didn’t know why she was comparing him to vegetation, but he didn’t care. “Aya, God.” His voice was raw. “Don’t tease me. You would marry me?” His hands gripped her arms. “One day?”
Joy made her face glow. “Yes, yes!”
He pulled her into him, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of her, laughing and muttering. “I love you. I’ll love you, forever.”
“Kiss me. Please, touch me.”
His lips, hungry and ravenous, found hers. Love mingled with tears. He wrapped her in his embrace. “Oh, Aya, my Aya. I thought I’d lost you forever. Stay with me, always.”
She pressed herself against the hard wall of his body. “Always.”
A word about the author...
Award-winning author Natasha Deen has written everything from fantasy to comedy, inspirational to creative non-fiction, and she was the 2013 Regional Writer in Residence for the Metro Edmonton Library Federation.
When not working on her manuscripts, she inhales disgusting amounts of chocolate and wrestles her furry children for possession of the warm spot on the couch.
Visit her at:
www.natashadeen.com.
Thank you for purchasing
this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.