“Yeah, so there were lots of mouths to feed and not much money to go around. My dad worked two jobs, and so did his brother. My mom worked long hours. Anyway, we didn’t go on fancy holidays unless it was for something big like a milestone birthday or something everyone had saved their pennies for. Camping was our way to get everyone together on a budget. So, the tin cans would be in these massive clear plastic tubs that the boys would carry in. We had a rotating roster for meal preparation, and the tins were a feature. You picked up a tin can and another and another, and once you opened them and worked out what the hell was in there, you had to come up with a meal to feed everyone using the contents of the cans. That was tin can potluck.”
“Cans have stamped writing on them, though. Did that provide any clue to what was inside?” Isaac questions.
“Not really. Most of it was code or a bunch of numbers followed by a use-by date.”
The sound of Isaac’s hearty laughter ekes out my own. It’s raucous and unapologetic. “We had some winning meals, Iwon’t lie. Like sloppy joes with sliced peaches that someone turned into some kind of savory sauce. Good times.”
Sabrina raises her glass to toast her memories, and we both follow suit.
“To tin can potluck,” Isaac declares.
“To tin can potluck,” we confirm, before downing our glasses and ordering another round.
Briand I are curled next to each other in the suite’s sitting room overlooking the meandering Buffalo Bayou and Memorial Park. Views my father’s office shared.
We’re booked on an early commercial flight, and Mason’s face is still roguish and ruggedly handsome on the laptop propped up on the coffee table as Bri fills him in on our meeting with Zac Grenfer only because his father canceled—again.
“This is pissing me off. Either that man wants to work, or he doesn’t. Fuck, he could do the fucking radio from a studio in his home if he wanted to. He’s the one making a big fucking production about the contract.” As he talks, his shirtless torso flexes and ripples. He’s backlit by the fireplace in his bedroom at Onyx One, having been called back to a booked calendar of back-to-back meetings and reports requested by Mercer Group prior to the retirement of Magnus Mercer on January 1 after sixty-five years at the helm. While his rhetoric is important, I can’t help but focus on the cleft of his chin, almost invisible under his signature stubble. Or the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Bri is equally enamored, eyes laser-focused on the screen, and ears attuned to instructions and requests. Can he have this report by close of business tomorrow? Yes, Mr. Mercer, no problem.
“Trys, did you hear me?” His impatient tone makes methink this isn’t the first time he’s asked me that question. “No, sorry, can you repeat that, please?”
“I said that I’ve told Malice that you and Sabrina will both be joining us for Christmas. I don’t want you to be alone again, especially after seeing you break out of your shell on Thanksgiving.”
“I still think Cousin Gail was flirting with me,” I muse.
“She’s full-blown Irish. And she was drunk; she flirts with everyone.”
Mason hesitates, his jaw clenching while the telltale signs of him chewing the inside of his cheek play out. His mouth works, followed by his jaw as the flesh is pulled between his molars. His composed look of calculation. What’s up with him?
“Both of us?” I reiterate, confused.
“Yeah,” he adds, scrubbing a hand down his scruff before resting it on his thigh out of shot. I want to demand he pan that phone lower, lower still.
“Fine,” I murmur begrudgingly. “We’ll both come watch your Mercer Christmas tragedy play out in high-def right in front of our eyes. Can’t wait!” My sarcasm isn’t appreciated; his tense brow tells me that, as if I needed confirmation.
“Is there anyone you would like to bring?”
“To that train wreck? Um, no thanks.”
“Fine. See you both tomorrow. Bri, you’ll need to meet with Helen about access to data. Once the reports are done, you can take the rest of the day off. I’ll see you back in the office on Thursday in time for the ten o’clock Salvatore announcement. Mr. Hynd, you’re expected bright and early.”
“Yes, Mason,” she replies, while I throw up two fingers toward my forehead in a lazy salute. Yes, Mr. Mercer, sir.
Because we’re not flying out until 7:50 a.m., and because I’m obviously a masochist, I pour us both a drink and settle in. Bri plays with the ends of her long hair, now down and freeafter being up in a high ponytail for most of the day. I wonder what Mason thinks about when he plays with her hair? My hair, well past my collar and beyond the acceptable lengths of the stuck-up elite, is straight, unlike her soft waves.
“Have you ever been in love?” Her question sledgehammers through my thoughts.
“Yeah. Once.”
“What was it like?”
Magical. Tortured. Current. A prolonged sigh escapes me, unbidden. How to answer this tricky question. With a question, of course. “What about you, Bubble? Have you?”
She ponders the question for a moment, turning her head to expose the column of her throat before composing her answer. “Maybe. I think I was infatuated with a guy I met in college. But it wasn’t what I’m experiencing now. It wasn’t the same,” she corrects herself.
The flashing red light and siren couldn’t be any more urgent if the building were on fire. Oh, honey, don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t…
“I’m falling for him.”
