Reckless (The Mason Family Series Book 3)

by Adriana Locke

  I thought about saying that I’m just a pretty face, but even I have to admit that our faces are a little too similar to isolate my own. I’m more debonair, though.

  I should’ve led with that.

  Holt’s eyes light up like a Christmas tree. This—my knowledge about land acquisition, not my debonair looks—is speaking his language. I halfway wonder if his girlfriend, Blaire, has to talk business to him in bed to get him turned on.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Wade says, grinning. “You do know how to work.”

  “I never said I didn’t know how. I just said I don’t like it,” I say.

  Oliver smiles. I can tell it pains him. “You do realize it makes it that much more asinine that you refuse to cooperate on anything when you come in here and actually contribute on this level.”

  “I realize,” I deadpan.

  Holt laughs as he picks up his pen. “I like this, Boone. I’ll have legal get started on finding out who controls Greyshell, and we’ll go from there.”

  No one at the table speaks. We all just sit quietly, looking at each other.

  Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Can I go home now?”

  Everyone starts laughing.

  Everyone but me.

  “I’m serious,” I tell them. “I helped. I did my part. I actually did more than any of you today, which is historic. Now can I go?”

  Wade blows out a breath as he gets to his feet. “You just want to go home to play with the girl next door.”

  “So?”

  I try to fight the smile creeping on my face but realize it’s pointless.

  Jaxi was the focus of my brain most of the night. It was terrible knowing she was alone next door and not being able to go see if she wanted to hang out.

  I’d want someone to hang out with me if I was alone in a new place, after all.

  But she’s not me. She’s way prettier than me. And she’s not the warm fuzzy kind of person like I am either. She didn’t even invite me in after I was basically a hero without a cape.

  The more I thought about her, the more curious I became. Libby wouldn’t give me much information when I texted her off-and-on, prying in the gentlemanly-est way I could. Her responses were short and to the point and left me with more questions than answers.

  I’m pretty sure that was by design.

  Women, man.

  Libby finally stopped answering my texts around midnight. Jaxi’s light went off around one thirty. I went to bed around two and got three hours before Holt called to remind me to be at the office at six.

  Oliver shakes his head. “You really just find women in your house? How does that work?”

  “It’s hard being me,” I tell him.

  Oliver rolls his eyes. “I honestly thought you were making the whole thing up until Coy had Leo come by.”

  I roll my eyes back at him.

  Wade distracts us when he begins to stack his things into a neat, orderly pile. “I have to say that this doesn’t surprise me either. I’m more surprised that this type of thing doesn’t happen more regularly for you.”

  “It’s nice to know you believe in me,” I joke.

  He looks up at me but doesn’t stop stacking his stuff. “That’s one way to say it.”

  “Wade,” I say, leaning back in my leather seat. “Do you ever just wake up in the morning and think, ‘I’m going to be friendly today’?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Oliver scribbles on a yellow legal pad in front of him. “I have a lunch meeting with Anjelica at Hillary’s House in thirty minutes. Anyone want to join us?”

  I make a face. Wade shakes his head. Holt defers.

  Oliver picks his briefcase up off the floor and clears his throat. “I need to get going, or I’m going to be late. I’ll see you guys at Mom’s on Sunday.”

  “Later,” Holt says.

  “I’m leaving too. I have a drawing I need to finish by the end of the day,” Wade says, following Oliver to the door.

  “Love you, Wade,” I call after him.

  He shakes his head in response.

  Once the door is closed, Holt cracks a smile and sits back in his chair. The leather squeaks with the movement.

  He watches me closely in a way that only a big brother can.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Poke at Wade. Instigate Ollie. Play dumb and then blast us all with information that you just happen to have in the oddest of ways.”

  I shrug. “Hendershott wanted to go to lunch, so I went. It wasn’t like I was off trying to get information. It just … finds me.”

  Holt eyes me curiously for a long minute. I have no idea what he’s thinking, and the longer it goes, the more anxious I become.

  “Holt,” I say softly.

  “What?”

  “Can I go now?” I almost whisper.

  He bursts into a fit of laughter, sitting back up in his chair. “Go on. Get out of here. Tell your new girl I said hi.”

  I gather my things and get out the door before he can change his mind.

  Six

  Jaxi

  “No! No, no, no, no …”

  I reach for the knob on the stove, but I’m too late. The little bubbles of pasta sauce that looked like they were going to simmer and behave instead burst. Bright red liquid splatters all over Libby’s pristine white kitchen tile.

  “Shit,” I groan.

  I grab the sponge that I just used to clean up the boiled-over pasta water and give the backsplash a quick wipe. Pink smears create a marble-like effect on the wall, and I wonder how often Libby has to contend with crap like this.

  “If I ever get to design a kitchen,” I say, tossing the sponge back in the sink, “nothing will be white. And, since this is clearly a fantasy, it will come with a chef so I don’t have to try to be Martha Stewart.”

  Looking at the mess I’ve made, I wish I would’ve thought out my plan a little better.

  A little more realistically.

  The tile is still smudged and rings of water mar the stovetop. Onion peels and garlic bits are strewn across the counter along with an empty spaghetti box and the sauce jar.

  Kitchen chaos gets under my skin. I always feel like everything in my life is a disaster if the kitchen is a war zone. I don't understand why, but it's always been the case. But this level of chaos coupled with the fact that I didn’t get much, if any, sleep has me on the verge of saying screw it and going back to bed.

  But then knowing the mess was still here and that I’d have to clean it as soon as I get up would prevent me from sleeping. So, I stick it out.

  I spy a Tupperware container in the top cabinet above the cups. I grab it just as my phone rings. I find it buried under a heap of paper towels that I used to dry the counter after I spilled the water earlier.

  “Hey, Libby,” I say as I run the screen down my shirt to rid it of any dampness from the towels.

  “Why do you sound so nervous? And sketchy?”

  “I was drying my phone,” I tell her.

  “Do I want to know?”

  I look around the kitchen. “Let’s just say that your kitchen has seen better days.”

  “What did you do?” she asks, her voice teetering on panic.

  “Just … making some spaghetti.”

  It sounds easy enough, and I sell the idea well that it’s just a normal person in the kitchen making a simple dish. Any random person overhearing this conversation wouldn’t think anything of it. Except Libby isn’t a random person. She knows me. Well.

  “Tell me you aren’t trying to make some fancy recipe with a hundred ingredients again,” she moans. “And that you aren’t doing it in my beautiful, clean, spotless kitchen.”

  “Yeah, well, just keep that image in your head.”

  She fakes a wail, and it makes me laugh.

  I put her on speakerphone and sit the phone by the spatu
la. I locate the strainer I saw earlier and plop it into the sink.

  “I promise you’ll never know I was here when you get home,” I say. “I’ll have this place spic-and-span.”

  “You better.”

  The pasta is heavy as I lug it to the sink. Steam rolls off the drained spaghetti and coats my face in starchy water droplets.

  “May I ask what possessed you to make yourself dinner?” she asks coyly. “Don’t you usually just make toast?”

  I give the strainer a little shake.

  She doesn’t need me to tell her. She’s figured it out on her own. I’m sure that in her little romantic world, she’s already shipped her neighbor and me together in some Disney-esque storyline.

  Poor girl.

  “Well, I was thinking,” I say as I dump the pasta in the sauce, “that if I can’t pay Boone back with money, I have to do something. And spaghetti is classy … and cheap.”

  The words come out nonchalantly as if this is a normal course of events—like I’m the girl who makes an apple pie for a bake sale. But, truth be told, I’m not Holly Homemaker. I can throw something together and usually better than this, but it’s not going to be gourmet.

  But what else do you do for a guy like Boone Mason?

  I did a little research on Google last night. While Libby has talked about Boone off and on, she left out a few details—like they’re ridiculously wealthy and very connected.

  The entire family, based on my “research,” is beautiful. They’re filthy rich, and they seem to use their photogenic qualities and large bank accounts to benefit a ton of charities in the state.

  It’s overwhelming … and a little humiliating when I remember why, exactly, I know of them.

  Libby laughs. “Just make sure you cook the meat all the way through. You don’t want to kill him as a thank you.”

  “Don’t jinx me.”

  The oven timer blares its warning for me to get the garlic bread before it burns. I grab a pot holder and take the pan out. Scents of garlic and oregano fill the air as I set the bread down on the counter.

  The center of the little toasts looks a little white. I poke at it with the tip of my finger to try to tell whether it’s Parmesan or ice. It’s not cold but not actually hot either.

  Crap.

  “It can’t be ice,” I mutter, pressing into the soft bread again.

  “What can’t be ice?”

  I sigh. “I had the garlic bread in for seventeen minutes, which was exactly halfway in the suggested cooking time. It feels warm-ish but …” I poke it again. “It has to be done, right? Seventeen minutes is plenty of time.”

  Libby giggles. “Did you put it in during or after you preheated the oven?”

  “Um …”

  “Why didn’t you just buy dinner somewhere and put it in dishes and pretend you made it?”

  I gasp. “You’re a freaking genius. A little too late with that wisdom, though, since I’m already elbow deep in spaghetti sauce.” I look down at my arm to see a streak of red going from my wrist and up my forearm. “Literally.”

  “I would pay money—big money, to see you like this.”

  I turn back to the stove again. “Keep in mind that I’m in your kitchen.”

  “Yeah, good point. I don’t want to see any of this.”

  “Didn’t think so.” I grab a slotted spoon and stir the sauce around. The pan is sizzling, so I turn the heat down. “On a good note, I talked to Caroline Kapowski this morning.”

  “Who is she?”

  “The woman I’m going to work for in Hawaii. She’s so sweet, Lib. I love her already. She was signing up her two girls for surfing lessons once school is out and wanted to know if I wanted to take them too. Isn’t that nice?”

  “So nice. You do know that I’ll be visiting you as much as possible, right?”

  “You better.”

  My face lights up as I think about the Kapowskis. Mr. K ushered me into his office where his wife works, doing paperwork and reading old romance novels during the day. They told me that they loved having me work for them but knew Kapowski Hardware wasn’t my end goal. And, as Mrs. Kapowski noted, they suspected my personal life was a bit difficult.

  God love them.

  Their daughter had mentioned needing a nanny, and they thought of me. Would I be interested? It took everything I had not to cry in the middle of their office.

  I grin as I stir the pasta again. “I still can’t believe this happened to me. This whole thing was just dropped in my lap. What are the odds?”

  “Good things happen to good people. And you’re a good person.”

  “I think we need to temper that confidence,” I say as I head to the refrigerator. “Start talking like that, you might believe it.”

  “I do believe it.”

  “Well, I hope that works out for you.”

  She laughs. “You’re going to be fine.”

  Let’s hope.

  “So, did your husband take you out last night or what?” I ask.

  “He did, and it was wonderful. We went to this seafood place on the water and had the best pinot grigio and mussels. And then we even danced a little to live music by the marina.”

  My hand falls from the refrigerator door, and I lean against the counter instead.

  She recounts the night with her husband, her voice softening as she loses herself in the details of how he held her hand as they walked down the street like he did when they first started dating. She looked into his eyes and saw a tenderness that she hasn’t seen in a long time. She fell in love with him again under the moonlight.

  I listen to her reminisce and, while I’m happy for her, I bite my tongue. I also try not to gag because … Ted.

  I wish I wasn’t this way.

  My go-to response when things are going exceptionally better than the norm is to ask questions. My brain doesn’t relish in the sunniness of a situation; it pulls back the layers to find the darkness. If something seems too good to be true, it always is.

  But as Libby’s voice sing-songs about the way Ted kissed her, I make a concerted attempt at overriding my default reaction. I close my mouth so I don’t suggest she guard her heart or tell her to be careful and, instead, coo like I’m falling in love right along with her.

  Because that’s what friends do.

  “I’m so happy for you guys,” I say as I shove away from the counter. “That sounds like the perfect night.”

  “It was. I’m so happy for us too.”

  I can hear her smile. It makes me happy. Not saying that Libby has had a hard life—she definitely had the better brother between my stepdad and her father—but she’s been married for four years, doesn’t have to work, and lives in this gorgeous mansion in an even prettier town.

  It’s idyllic, really. She’s got it all together.

  And not that I want this exact life, because I don’t. I want a job—a real career, someday. I want to get up in the morning and do something that requires wearing heels, which is random but true. I’d love to have kids, and if I get married, I want it to be a partnership with love and respect. So, while my idea of perfection isn’t exactly what Libby has, I hope to start getting my life put together too.

  Even if it took me a lot longer to do.

  “I’ll be out of here before you guys get back,” I say, grabbing the bottle of green-lidded cheese from the refrigerator. “My flight leaves next Saturday morning, and you guys get home Sunday. Right?”

  “Yes. I hate that I’ll miss you.”

  “I know,” I say, putting the cheese down. “But the flight I got was ridiculously cheaper and, besides, I don’t want Ted to come back and have me here and ruin your little re-romance. You’ll come home to a perfectly clean kitchen.”

  She laughs. “I don’t need it perfect. Just … perfect.”

  “One thing is for sure. This spaghetti is not perfect.”

  I lift a scoop of it up in the air. The bottom is a bit dark at first glance. But if I turn it in the light just right, it
doesn’t look half bad. I shrug because there’s nothing else I can do and fill a large Tupperware container.

  “I’m shocked,” she jokes. “You sounded like you had the whole chef thing under control.”

  “I …”

  My voice trails off as a doorbell sounds through the house. It’s such a Libby sort of doorbell—very light and melodic. Almost chirpy.

  “Do I hear the doorbell?” she asks.

  “You hear the doorbell. Expecting anyone?”

  “No. Maybe it’s Boone coming to check on you.”

  My heart begins to patter at the sound of his name and thought that he might—could possibly, although not likely—be here. To see me.

  Ding-dong.

  “Shit,” I say, wiping my hands off on an eggshell-blue towel that probably isn’t for wiping hands on. “I … gotta go. I also owe you a decorative towel.”

  “Oh, Jaxi.”

  “Sorry,” I eek out.

  “Don’t worry about the towel now. Just check your face in the mirror before you open the door.” She sucks in a breath. “I’ve seen you cook. And check your teeth!”

  “Okay. Check face. Check teeth. Got it,” I say, blowing out a breath. “Bye, friend.”

  “Bye, Jaxi.”

  I push the red button on the phone before spinning around and heading for the door.

  My body is awash with excitement even though it’s likely not Boone at the door. It’s probably a salesman with a brochure in his hand.

  I pause at the mirror as instructed. My hair is wild, and my face is a little sweaty. I fix myself up as quickly as I can, say a prayer that if it is Boone, I can manage not to act as ridiculous as yesterday, and then tug the door open.

  A zip of energy bolts through my system as my eyes land in a sea of green.