Page 38 of Mason

Mason chuckles. “You say the strangest things, Miss Landers.”

He pops open the door and climbs out of the helicopter. I wait for him to come around to my side, and take his hand, stepping out onto the perfect grass. My heels sink into the ground. I slip them off and curl my toes into the field, wondering briefly how many people ever get the chance to do this.

“Walk with me,” Mason says, eyeing my bare feet with twinkling eyes. He’s getting a kick out of this, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m having the most fun of my life. Now that the fear of flight has abated, and even looking forward to the trip back.

We hold hands, circling the perimeter of the field until we reach one of the goal posts. A picnic basket rests between the poles, a green and white blanket draped beside it on the grass. Mason squeezes my hand. “Hungry?”

Speechless, I nod.

Mason lays the blanket down, and opens the wicker basket. A bottle of champagne chills at the center in a bucket of ice wrapped in a checkerboard tablecloth. I sit next to him, tucking my legs to the side. Mason pulls out two glasses, sets them on the ground, and then lifts the bottle for my inspection, turning it slightly so I can read the label. Dom Perignon. “Nothing but the best for you,” he says, smiling.

My stomach flutters. “You arranged all of this?”

“I may have had a little help.” He licks his lips. “There is an assortment of cheeses in here…” He digs in the basket. “My receptionist assured me that you would enjoy this.” He holds out a chunk of what looks like fudge and grimaces. “Chocolate cheese, which sounds strange, but I figured she’d know.”

I clear my throat. “What is your receptionist’s name?”

He tilts his head. “Misty, of course.”

I choke out a half cough-half laugh. “That was one of my guesses.” It’s the perfect chance to out her for this morning’s stunt, but I’m reluctant to ruin the moment. I eye the champagne. “Are we celebrating something?”

Mason pops the cork, pours us each a glass. “It’s a big day on the stock market.”

“It is.”

Instead of elaborating, he lifts his flute as if in salute. We clink glasses, and he takes a sip, then gestures to the field with a head nudge. “So, what do you think?”

I swallow a sip of the bubbling elixir, shivering as it tickles down my throat. “It’s big.”

“Football fields tend to be,” he says, winking. A boyish grin lights up his face, making his eyes twinkle like stars. I could get lost in that constellation. “You think you could become a fan?”

I shove my hand up in the air, my head slightly fuzzy after the exhilarating helicopter ride, coupled with mid-morning champagne. “Hell, yes!”

He leans forward and kisses the tip of my nose. “Very convincing. I suspect you’d fill out a cheerleader uniform very nicely.”

I duck my head, snorting with laughter. “Clearly, you’ve never seen me dance.” I thread my fingers through his. “Seriously though, what’s going on? Is Daylight Holdings buying season tickets?”

I’m not a big football fan, but I can see the allure of watching a game up close. I imagine the bleachers filled with fans, green and white jerseys blowing in the breeze. The popcorn, the beer, the rush of adrenaline. Yeah. I could get into it.

“Not exactly,” he says, grinning. “I’ve purchased the team.”

Chapter 21

Whenever Mason takes a call from one of his partners, his back inevitably stiffens. I don’t know if that’s because of me—or if there’s something deeper going on. I want to dig, investigate, peel through the layers. But it’s really not my place to ask, and I learned long ago that I’m no P.I.

And yet, as I watch his posture now, rigid and unyielding, a perfect picture of self-control, I can’t parse that against the man who set up a picnic in MetLife Stadium last week and gleefully admitted to buying an NFL franchise. Boxes of New York spots merchandise are stacked in the corner of the office, including twelve jerseys, each with Mason’s name stitched across the back. The other night, he made me wear it to bed, and then put me in the role of awkward cheerleader as I stripped it off and left it on the floor.

Turning to my computer, I scroll through transactions on the New York Stock Exchange, trying to distract myself from Mason’s tense conversation. He stands at the window, hands in his pocket, curtly speaking through the Bluetooth. His jaw jerks with increasing frustration.

“Just make the God damn trade, Lucas,” he says. “Why are you questioning it?”

A chill settles deep in my bones. I can’t hear what Lucas is saying, but it doesn’t matter—he’s clearly upset, and I have a feeling my presence is making it worse. I stand, smooth out the wrinkles from my skirt, and scratch a note to Mason on a message page about taking a break. Maybe sharing an office is a mistake. I’m suffocating under his partners’ clear dislike for me.

Mason turns before I make it to his desk, and shakes his head, intercepting my plan. Annoyance flashes through his eyes, pale like ice. Quietly, I scrunch the paper in a ball and toss it into the garbage can, and return to my desk. Anxious energy trips along my spine. I’ve never been good at conflict.

As per company policy, any major deal requires two partners to sign off on it. But lately, Mason’s transactions get more push back than before. I’m pretty sure that’s because of me too.

I tidy my desk, shifting paperwork, dusting the glass surface with the rag I keep tucked in the top drawer. There is nothing personal at my workstation—no pictures or books, no framed awards, not even the box of colored paperclips Renee gave me to “liven up the joint.” I get the impression Mason would view them as childish, and I’m already fighting the stigma of being too young.