Page 7 of Mason

My voice sobers. “My apartment isn’t the Ritz, Renee.”

“But it has you,” she says. “And that’s what matters.”

“Well, I can’t have you living on the street,” I say, trying to keep the conversation light. But the truth is, it’s hard to act like everything is okay when I feel like the rug’s been pulled out from under me. The stack of bills on the edge of the coffee table pulses like a lighthouse beacon, a red siren of warning. I’m in trouble.

“And I guess you’re not bad company,” I say, masking my despair with a light chuckle.

Personal drama aside, I’m looking forward to having someone else around. My last real relationship ended abruptly after nine months of me pining for a stability that naively included an eventual fairytale Happily Ever After, complete with white picket fence. Add to the mix the fact that Dad and I aren’t speaking except through cryptic, often sarcastic, messages via Renee. And Mom, well, she hates driving and public transport—no way she’d make the trip from the Jersey suburbs. Not like I want her to see my dire apartment anyway.

“When should I expect you?”

Renee giggles. “Tomorrow?”

There’s a flutter of happiness in my belly, and then a genuine smile stretches across my cheeks. “Why am I not surprised?”

Chapter 5

My fingers hover over the weathered keys of my old Smartphone, hesitating before I dial the number for Daylight Holdings. I squeeze my eyes shut and the last of my dream lingers in my subconscious. I’m fifty years old, unemployed, living like a spinster with five cats and a parrot that squawks its disappointment on a continual loop: Shoulda taken the job Mason offered. Squawk. Squawk. Shoulda taken the job.

Pride is a luxury I can’t afford right now.

I inhale a sharp breath and finish keying in the number, practicing my spiel as the phone rings on the other end of the line. I’m still practicing my groveling and sniveling when the receptionist answers. I’m sure it’s the same girl—she sounds blonde, and cool, like Mason’s ice-blue eyes.

“I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Wood,” I say.

“May I ask what this is concerning?”

Pin pricks of hesitation tap between my shoulder blades. “I was in yesterday for a job interview.” My heart flutters like a trapped bird in a cage. “Olivia. My name is Olivia Landers.”

“Right,” she says, voice clipped. “Just a moment.” I can almost see her lips form a tsk of annoyance, and the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.

There’s a click and for a brief moment, I’m certain she’s just hung up on me. But a few seconds later, she comes back on the line, sounding no more friendly. “Mr. Wood will see you at 11 a.m.”

My pulse spikes. “This 11 a.m.?”

Now there’s no mistaking the disdain in her tone. “Unless there’s another appointment option you’d prefer…perhaps next month?”

I get it, Mason’s busy. Time is money, as the old business adage goes. I glance at my clock and my stomach goes all fluttery. I have less than two hours to get ready, and get my ass down to the Financial District. No sweat. “Today is great. I’ll be there.”

But when I glance at my reflection, my confidence takes a sharp nosedive. The bags under my eyes foretell of a long, sleepless night, and the wild mass of my hair would be the envy of Medusa herself. I look desperate, unhinged. I wouldn’t blame Mason if he retracted the offer and then called in the white coats to take me away. Hell, maybe I belong in a straitjacket, because going back to Daylight Holdings to grovel for a job might be the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

With no time to shower, I run my fingers through my hair, using a dry shampoo to lessen the oil and grit that comes from sleeping on my old mattress, and pull it back into a professional up-do. I tug a few strands down on either side of my cheek to soften the school-secretary look, and apply foundation, blush, mascara, and a light pink gloss. It’s far from glamorous but it’s not like I’m trying to seduce him—I just need to pull it together enough to ask for—accept—a position at his firm. Even if it means lowering myself to the role of personal assistant.

I can learn from him and the money is good, I think, as I root through my closet.

Slim pickings on the professional attire, but I opt for nylons and a one-piece jumper that zips up the front and hugs my curves a little too close for comfort. I’ve never considered myself on the cusp of trendy, but I’m not horrified by the me that stares back from the cracked mirror either.

I gather my purse, gaze lingering on the folder of research strewn across the dining room table. It takes all of my willpower to leave it behind, but that’s one lesson Mason Wood has taught me loud and clear. I won’t make the same mistake twice.

My bus comes early and I arrive at the office half an hour ahead of schedule. As I stare up at the glass façade of a building that towers over me, my skin starts to tingle. Letting my pride get the best of me yesterday was an error in judgment. Shortsighted. Unprofessional. I’ve dreamed of working at Daylight Holdings for as long as I can remember. So what if it isn’t the position I applied for? It’s a step.

Some people would kill for this—a chance to work alongside a man who, despite his personality shortcomings, is considered one of the top hedge funders in the world. Training with him—closely—can only be a benefit, and it certainly doesn’t hurt that the man is some serious eye candy.

My brain wanders back to the sight of his fine ass, and my thighs tingle.

I shake my head of inappropriate thoughts, take in a deep breath, and step into the elevator. This time I don’t second-guess my appearance in the mirror. My hands don’t shake, my nerves aren’t shot. I don’t worry what will happen if Mason Wood gets in the elevator with me, because I can’t fuck up any worse than yesterday’s demonstration of absolute unprofessionalism.

In fact, when I reach the thirteenth floor, alone with my thoughts for the entire ride, I’m almost disappointed Mason isn’t in the elevator—as though I somehow missed out an opportunity for a real do-over.