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We end up doing this for more than thirty minutes—more like an hour—before hotel security ushers Caleb and Mason inside the hotel.
The air con hits us as soon as we’re in the lush lobby and I’m so grateful to feel it. I want a nice cool shower, silky pyjamas, and a Coke with lots of ice as soon as we get back to Mason’s suite. More ropes and security are inside, and we’re being ushered towards a lift when I hear a man yell Mason’s name.
The second he hears it, he stops in his tracks. His body goes rigid next to mine.
“Mason?” I ask.
His head whips to the right, in the direction of where the sound came from. I turn and follow his gaze. Whilst there are lots of fans held back behind velvet ropes, one stands out in particular.
There’s a man with dark brown hair like Mason’s, although greying at the temples. His eyes are the same colour as Mason’s, but where Mason’s are warm and engaging, this man’s eyes are cold. He’s tall and lean, dressed in a white polo shirt and a pair of khaki slacks. His gaze narrows upon seeing Mason, and his jaw is set.
My stomach bottoms out. Because I know the man I’m looking at is Mason’s father.
“Mason, a minute?” he asks loudly.
I’m going to be sick. His father has actually flown to Singapore to see him. I study the man as I grip Mason’s hand tighter. I look at his face, hoping I misread what I saw the first time. Hoping I see regret, sadness, or any sign of a man reaching out to his son to make things right. To be a better father.
But I don’t. I see the eyes of an angry, bitter man. The eyes of a man who has come to Singapore to destroy his son.
“Mason,” I say quickly, dragging his gaze away from his father and back to me. “You don’t have to see him. You don’t have to talk to him. You don’t.” Panic grips me. His father is going to upend him. He’s going to tear him apart for that phone call in Baku and get in his head.
Right as Mason is about to take on one of the most dangerous circuits in the world.
I have to stop this. I have to protect Mason and his mental state. I can’t let him talk to his father.
“I do,” Mason says, interrupting my panicked thoughts.
“No,” I say firmly. “Set a boundary. You did it by blocking his number, you can do it in person, too.”
“Catherine. I owe him a conversation.”
“No, you don’t,” I say urgently. “You don’t owe him anything. Mason, please. Don’t do this!”
Mason’s dad continues to glare at him. Mason looks at him, then looks back at me. “I have to do this.”
He leads me over to the barrier, where Erik Clark is waiting, his arms folded defensively across his chest.
“Dad, nice of you to make the trip to Singapore,” Mason says. “This is Catherine Collings, my girlfriend. Catherine, this is Erik Clark, my dad.”
Erik’s eyes flick to mine for a brief second. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Clark,” I lie.
“Catherine,” he says briskly. Then he turns his eyes back to Mason. “Your phone seems to be out of order, and apparently this is the only way I talk to you.”
That comment is met with silence from Mason.
“I suggest we go up to your room to catch up,” Erik continues. “Having a conversation behind a rope or in a lobby isn’t the most comfortable.”
No, I’m sure you’d much rather unleash your awful behaviour out of phone range, I think angrily.
“All right,” Mason says. “Give me your room number. I’ll meet you there.”
A triumphant smile curves on Erik’s mouth. “See you in a few minutes.”
My heart is beating out of my chest as Mason and I are ushered by security to a lift. When we step inside, he presses the button for Erik’s floor and then ours.
“Mason, I don’t want you to do this,” I repeat.
He looks at me. “I know you don’t. But I have to do this. I’m going to tell him why I said what I said in Baku. I’m going to tell him how I feel. About everything. I’ve never done that before. Maybe … maybe it will make a difference.”
