Reckless (The Mason Family Series Book 3)

by Adriana Locke

  “I didn’t think so,” I say, gripping the backpack straps at my shoulders.

  “I didn’t say no.”

  “You didn’t say yes, either. When people are sure of something, they just say yes.”

  His brows pull together. “I have to disagree.”

  “Good for you.”

  I start across the lawn toward Libby’s. I don’t look to see if he’s following me. It’s not necessary. His energy bounces off me from behind.

  “Saying yes to things too quickly is a bad idea,” he says in a rush from what can’t be more than two steps away. “You should listen to a question before you answer. Trust me. If not, you get roped into things like dates and events and favors. And work.”

  I chuckle. “Work?”

  We stop on the sidewalk leading to Libby’s door. He shoves his hands in his pockets and wears a sheepish grin.

  “I didn’t mean work, work,” he says. “That made me sound super lazy, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. It did.”

  “Great,” he says with a groan.

  My cheeks ache from smiling. “Who am I to judge you? You want to be lazy? Fine. What’s it to me?”

  “Exactly. You can’t break into my house and then start throwing around judgment. What kind of person would that make you?” He narrows his eyes. “It would make you a criminal judging me for not being passionate about spreadsheets.”

  I gasp, making him laugh.

  He leans against a pillar on Libby’s porch, one long leg crossed in front of the other. He chuckles to himself while his fingers fly over his phone screen. A shit-eating grin spreads across his cheeks.

  As soon as his eyes lift to mine, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see a text from Libby.

  Libby: YOU BROKE INTO BOONE MASON’S HOUSE? OMG JAXI.

  My gaze snaps up to Boone’s.

  “You told Libby?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” He smiles. “I wanted to make sure she knew you made it.”

  I roll my eyes. “I think you were trying to embarrass me.”

  “I just told her the truth.”

  “Which was …?”

  “That we met.”

  “I bet.”

  A truck pulls up to the curb and honks twice. A big, burly man hops out of the truck. He makes his way to us.

  “Heya, Boone,” he says in a thick accent I can’t quite place. “Heard ya need some help.”

  “Thanks for coming, Leo,” Boone says. “I need a door opened. Can you help?”

  Leo’s laughter is more cackle than anything. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  Boone tries not to laugh as he looks at me. “I guess it does.”

  “You’re damn right it does.” Leo takes a set of long, thin metal pieces with curved ends out of his pocket. “This is all on the up-and-up, right?”

  “That’s what she tells me,” Boone teases, elbowing me in the side.

  “Of course,” I say, firing Boone a warning glare that just entertains him more. “This is my cousin’s house. She forgot to give me the keys.”

  Leo slurps what I think is tobacco spit out of the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

  I’m not sure who they are, nor am I sure how Boone knows Leo. It doesn’t seem like a peas-and-carrots sort of situation. But after the day I’ve had, I’m too tired to really think it through.

  A pop ricochets through the air and, with a twist of the knob, the door springs free. Scents of apples and cinnamon waft through the air.

  “There ya go,” Leo booms. “Piece of cake.”

  “Thank you,” I say, slightly befuddled about how quickly he was able to unlock the door. “That’s, uh, a handy little trick you have there.”

  He slips one thumb through a strap on his bib overalls. “I could teach ya someday, if ya want.”

  Boone laughs. “You better get back to Coy’s, or you’ll have lots of time on your hands quick.”

  Leo laughs right along with him. “I ain’t scared of him. Besides, we’re done for the night. Only have another day or two out there, and the recording studio will be done.”

  Recording studio? I look at Boone curiously, but he ignores me.

  “Coy will be happy about that. He’s getting antsy to start on a new album,” Boone tells Leo. “And, to be honest, I’m tired of his agent up my ass all the time. I’ll be glad to get back to normal.”

  Leo nods. “All right. If that’s all, I’m heading home to get some dinner. Wife made some pork chops and scalloped potatoes, and I’m a-starvin’.”

  “Of course. Go home and eat. Thank you for coming by,” I say. “What do we owe you?”

  Leo pats Boone on the shoulder. “Eh, I’ll add it on my invoice to Coy. He’ll never know the difference.”

  “No. Wait. I—” I begin to protest, but Boone cuts me off.

  “Charge him double. He can afford it,” Boone tells Leo, making him laugh. “I’ll see ya tomorrow, my man.”

  “Later. And it was nice to meet ya, darlin’,” Leo says.

  “You too,” I tell him, my voice drifting off in confusion.

  I want to argue about the payment. I certainly don’t want to owe Boone’s brother—a man I don’t even know. I don’t want Libby feeling like I inconvenienced her neighbor either. But, by the time I get my bearings, Leo is climbing in his truck, and Boone is waving goodbye.

  Shit.

  Boone faces me. His smile begins to slip as he takes in my face.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I’m not going to let your brother pay for this,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “I can’t do that.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “Sure I can’t.”

  His smile falters. “Jaxi, honestly, it’s no big deal. Leo had to go right by here on his way home. Besides, he had fun picking that lock. It probably reminds him of stories we don’t want to know.”

  My eyes go wide. “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he deadpans. “Do you feel a kindred criminal spirit with him?”

  I smack him on the arm. He grabs it and pretends to be in pain. I, on the other hand, pretend not to notice how solid his biceps are.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, gripping my backpack strap again in hopes that my brain will focus on that sensation and not the contact it just made with Boone’s arm. “I don’t want to—”

  “I’m sure. Conversation is over.”

  The air from Libby’s house filters around us, encouraging us to come inside with its sweet scents. The longer Boone and I face each other, the thicker the silence gets between us.

  I want to invite him in. It’s been a very long time since I could talk so easily with someone. While it’s probably just because he and I don’t know each other so nothing that we say matters, it’s still refreshing not to have to choose my words carefully or avoid topics altogether.

  Besides, he’s interesting. His brother apparently has a recording studio and he knows a guy like Leo. People usually know one kind of person or the other.

  Boone waits patiently for me to say something, and I wonder if he’s waiting on me to invite him inside. Would he come inside if I asked? What would he expect? Anything?

  Suddenly, a weight filled with reality seems to drop out of the sky and land on my shoulders.

  I blow out a tired, uneven breath. “I would like to pay you for Leo’s time.”

  “No. Besides, he wouldn’t take money from you if you begged him.”

  My stomach twists.

  “Consider it a gift,” he says, trying to convince me to accept the gesture. When I don’t bend, he shifts his weight and tries again. “Consider it a gift to Libby so you don’t tear up her windowsill.”

  A grin flickers on my lips. My heart skips a beat at his kindness and his insight. I loathe feeling vulnerable.

  “Thank you,” I say, still not sure, but realizing I’m not going to get anywhere with him right now.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  My heartbe
at quickens, and I try not to blush. I step through the threshold before turning around again. Boone is watching me closely as he backs down the steps.

  “If you need anything, just come over,” he says. “Crawl through a window if I don’t answer …”

  “Asshole.”

  He laughs. “I mean it, though.”

  I grip the side of the door. “I know you do. Thanks.”

  He pauses for a long moment as if he anticipates me saying something else. I should, probably. It feels like I should. But I don’t.

  Finally, just as the wind picks up and ruffles his perfectly coiffed hair, he grins. His hand comes up in a semi-wave before he jogs off across the lawn.

  I watch him until he’s nearly at his front porch before I come to my senses and shut the door as quickly as I can.

  Then I lock it too.

  Maybe it’s to be safe.

  Maybe it’s to keep people out.

  Or maybe it’s to keep me in so I don’t go jogging after Boone Mason.

  That man has probably had his fill of Jaxi Thorpe and the chaos that surrounds me for one night.

  Four

  Jaxi

  “How are things going?” Libby asks.

  I snuggle into the oversized, plush sofa in Libby’s living room. A candle flickers on the coffee table, sending a slightly spicy, semi-sweet aroma of baked apple cobbler through the room. I burrow into the softest blanket known to man.

  “Nice house,” I tell her.

  She laughs. “I expected you to say nice neighbor, not nice house.”

  I grin both at her statement and at the thoughts of Boone that roll through my mind.

  “Yeah, well, he’s not bad either,” I admit. “His house, though? He’s a mess, my friend.”

  “That he is. But he’s a bachelor, so isn’t it to be expected?”

  I roll my eyes at her sneaky way of imparting information to our conversation.

  Libby and I are more different than we are alike. I have dark hair, and she has light. I’ve worked my behind off since I got my worker’s permit in high school at fifteen. Libby, on the other hand, has never held an actual job. The biggest difference between us, though, is this: I’m a pragmatic, and she’s a romantic.

  It’s not that I don’t believe in that kind of love, that level of it. I do. I want to. It’s a lovely concept, and I’ve even tried my hand at it a time or two. But it’s hard to buy into an idea—to a way of thinking—when everyone you’ve ever tried to love hasn’t loved you back.

  Some of them haven’t even tried. Others were supposed to love me, like my parents, but if what they demonstrated was love, then that’s not something I want.

  It has occurred to me that maybe I’m the problem. I’m the common denominator in my relationships, after all.

  But any way you cut it, these types of situations don’t work out for me. I’ve not given up on it … but I’ve given up on it. It takes too much effort that will ultimately end in heartbreak to be worth the risk. Besides, I’m good on my own. It’s less stressful to only have to worry about myself.

  “How’s San Diego?” I ask, pulling the blanket tighter around me. I wiggle my right foot out of the side. “Is it all sand and sun and spicy margaritas?”

  Her laugh is hollow and more than a touch sarcastic. “I’m sad to say that I wouldn’t know. You’d have to, you know, go to the beach or to dinner to know that.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Me either.” She sighs. “Ted has been working in San Diego for, what? Five months? Six? And he loves it here. It’s all he talks about. He’s been dying for me to join him so he could show me around. Now I’m here and he working all night and sleeping all day.”

  I shrug. It’s weird to me, for sure. But as soon as I open my mouth to say as much, I rethink it. It’s possible my opinion is tainted by the fact that I’m not on Team Ted. Even if I’m right, it’s not going to help Libby for me to plant seeds in her head. So, I recalculate.

  “Maybe he’s tired,” I say. “He has been working a lot, right?”

  “Yeah. I’ve barely talked to him the last two weeks. But he seemed so excited in a Ted kind of way for me to get here.” She pauses. “Maybe my expectations were too high.”

  “Or maybe he’s finally relaxed because you’re there and his ducks are in a row,” I offer, trying to help her stay positive. “Where are you now?”

  “Sitting by the pool by myself.”

  “At least there’s a pool.”

  “I have a pool in Savannah.”

  “That’s true.” I rest my head against a pillow with buttons sewn on it. I’m fairly certain it’s not for use but rather for decoration, but what Libby doesn’t know won’t hurt her. “Just try to relax and have fun. I mean, I’m here to take care of your plants—”

  “Don’t you dare touch my plants!” she says with a laugh. “I mean it, Jaxi. I don’t want my little succulents to end up like the poinsettia you murdered at Christmas.”

  My laughter rumbles through the air.

  I close my eyes and think of the poor little poinsettia my boss at the hardware store got me for Christmas. It was an adorable sentiment from Mr. Kapowski. Unfortunately, I can barely keep myself alive most days, and that cute little red-petaled plant with weird gold glitter on it died before Christmas even came—much to Libby’s dismay. She forced me to post daily updates on its health on Instagram so she could monitor it. It was hysterical.

  “Keep it up,” I tell her, “and I’ll love your plants to death while you’re gone. They’ll get water every day, baby.”

  She gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  A smile lingers on my face. “You’re right. But only because you’re the only friend I have.”

  She snorts, but she knows it’s true.

  Libby and I lived down the street from each other for a handful of pre-teen years. She is the daughter of my stepdad’s brother, and we bonded quickly and easily over books we found in her grandmother’s attic and the fact that neither of us really fit in at school. It was the best time of my life. We called each other cousins, even though we weren’t genetically related.

  “I’m your only friend by choice,” she says. “It’s not like you really try.”

  “I do too. I mean, I …”

  My voice drifts off as if it refuses to lie on my behalf.

  Libby and I both know that she’s right.

  I tried to make friends when I was younger, but other girls didn’t understand me. That or they didn’t want to.

  In their defense, I am hard to love. I know that. My shield goes up as soon as a voice is raised. Beer cans thrown at your head hurt, but not as bad as the hateful words slurred with a venom emboldened by a vodka bottle. That’s easy pain compared to watching a new acquaintance you just brought home take in the shit show of your stepdad in a midday bender at four in the afternoon.

  That’s a humiliation that never dies. It follows you year to year, in hushed locker room conversations, and in snappy comments made by passersby in the cafeteria.

  Honestly, both of those are nothing compared to the devastation of looking at your mother in the midst of the chaos, silently pleading for her help, and having her tell you that the issue is you.

  You are a burden. You are the problem.

  That’s a lot of crap for a little girl to carry around.

  It’s not a walk in the park for an adult, either.

  “I know what you could do,” Libby says cheekily. “You could make friends with the boy next door.”

  I roll my eyes and try to ignore the way my insides tighten at the thought.

  “It’s kind of fate,” she says. “What are the odds that you broke into his house? It’s kismet, Jaxi.”

  “It’s not fate. I’m just a dumbass. Besides, your whole giddiness right now is starting to make my stomach a little queasy.”

  She scoffs. “That queasiness is probably from the testosterone you absorbed from being around him today.”

  I close my e
yes again. “Where do you come up with this? Have you had too much sun?”

  A bird squawks in the background. “Oh, please. You’re not blind, deaf, or dumb.”

  I shove my elbows into the pillows and sit up. “Nope, I’m not. But I am without a permanent residence, have very little in my savings, and my wound is a little fresh from the roller coaster of the last year.”

  “So?”

  “So, you think now is the time for me to make a play at the guy you’ve made out to be Bachelor of the Year?”

  My face heats as I recall the tidbits of things that Libby has told me about Boone—things that I didn’t even realize I remembered.

  Like how she watched him help an old man get his cat out of a tree. And how he took all of her freezer items and put them in his when their appliance fizzled out last summer and a new one couldn’t be delivered for three days. And how a lady two houses down mentioned to Libby that it was her first birthday alone in sixty years, and when Libby mentioned that to Boone, he insisted they take her to dinner. He went out and bought a cake that was entirely too big and a huge tub of ice cream.

  Libby talked about that for a week.

  “I’m not saying you have to make a play for him,” Libby says. “I’m just saying that you’re going to be lonely for the next week, and he’s home alone next door. That’s all.”

  “That’s all. Right.”

  She blows out an air of frustration. “What are you going to do? Just sit in my house and watch Netflix?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay, well, that doesn’t sound like a terrible plan, actually, but you can’t do that. You have to enjoy things, Jax.”

  I gaze up at the ceiling. “I really enjoy historical sagas on Netflix with handsome leading men.”

  “There’s a handsome leading man next door.”

  “Stop,” I protest. “I deserve to block out the world for a hot minute. I need a minute to get my bearings so when I land in Hawaii, I’m refreshed and ready to hit the pavement—or beach, I guess, running.”

  I wiggle my toes and think about how they’ll be buried in sand in just a couple of days. My pale skin will be sun-kissed, and the stress I’ve endured lately will be behind me.