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He’s pissed off because I made him worry. And Mason Carpenter doesn’t worry.
He places both hands on the counter on either side of me, caging me in. My heart stutters in my chest at his proximity. I don’t know if it’s the grease on his arms, the way he smells, or the dark timbre of his voice, but my body reacts in ways I know I should feel ashamed about, but I don’t.
Heat pools in my core at his closeness, my clit vibrating with every second that passes.
Maybe I just like it when he gets all dark and dangerous on me. Maybe it’s just him.
“What part of you almost died last night didn’t you understand?”
Okay, valid.
“You said it yourself. There’s security up and down this block. I was okay.”
“You put your faith in those men? They get paid to watch you. You really think they’re willing to take a bullet for you if something happens?”
“And you are?” I challenge. When he doesn’t say anything, my heart skips a beat. He’s absolutely crazy if that’s the case. He’s said it himself a million times. He can’t stand me.
After a beat, I have to do something. So, I reach up and smooth down the collar of his shirt, only for him to catch my fingers in a flash. He steps forward, even closer, his body pressing against mine and I can feel his hardness digging into my stomach.
Holding my gaze, his other hand lifts my chin to inspect the marks on my neck, his gaze caustic while he looks them over.
Finally, he removes his hand and leans forward. His nose runs up the side of my face, and my skin tingles from his breath. My nipples tighten, pressing into his chest and the irrational thought that I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me, right here, for anyone to see, startles me.
God, who am I?
From prude to exhibitionist. Missy would be proud.
“The next time you leave this office without me, I’ll spank your ass,” he murmurs in my ear. “And I’ll make you beg for it.”
And finally, he steps away, grabbing his slushie and the two for the guys and shooting me a look before the garage door shuts behind him.
I clean the office because I don’t know what else to do. The guys have been busy for most of the afternoon, though both Ian and Puke stepped inside to thank me for their drinks and to debate if it was hotter in the garage or the office.
Mason says he’s got errands to run and warns me not to leave the building in that growly voice of his before disappearing out the back door.
Even the phone barely rings.
I debate on clearing out a spot in Mason’s mini-fridge to hide in, but it’s too small. Instead, I settle on looking into private security, which I’m surprised is a whole buttload of money I don’t really have.
I’m not struggling. Mom still sends money to my account every month, but I refuse to touch it because doing so would be accepting everything she did and turning a blind eye. I’ve got plenty saved up and I’m only adding to it working for Mason, but I certainly don’t have thirty grand a month for a single guard.
So, I settle and look at guns, instead. Maybe if I ask really nicely, I can get Mason to teach me. If not, I’ll wing it like everything else.
By four, I’m so bored I’ve reverted back to thinking about last night. About Missy and the crazy man and what it all means. Mom’s involvement and . . . surprisingly, my father’s death.
Missy and I were so young when he died. Around seven or eight. I don’t remember much except for how the house just seemed empty after he passed. Mom cried a lot. Missy and I took to being quiet because she’d get headaches.
Then, one day, like nothing had happened, she was better.
And we never spoke about my father again.
Seems so long ago now.
Dad was a good man. At least I thought he was. Mom said he'd had a heart attack, but he was only in his thirties. Mom seemed better with him around. She was a young woman in politics—no easy feat in Virginia at the time. It’s why she moved us to California. She swore it was a more progressive state that would accept her as a leader.
I guess, looking back, she wasn’t wrong, though I don’t really think it has anything to do with the state of California. I think she’s just a good liar and that sweet southern accent sure doesn’t hurt.
Finally, when the clock strikes a quarter to five and Mason’s still not back, I’m about to start cleaning up for the day when the door chimes and a familiar face steps in.
