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Mason looks across the table at me, and I wince. “I’m sorry, I have not decided yet,” I say apologetically.

“Not a problem, I’ll return in a few minutes,” the waiter says, leaving the table.

“We should decide,” Mason says.

“No, I want you to finish what you were going to tell me first, then we can decide.”

“And then you’ll give me a skeleton?” he asks.

I snort. “It’s only a matter of deciding which one to pull out of the wardrobe. Kind of like picking a little black dress for the evening.”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of glad you went for the shorts,” Mason says.

Heat. Pure heat rushes through me from his flirty comment.

“But to answer your question, Mum tells me Dad is just trying to push me to do my best. She concedes it’s a bit much, but that is how he does business.”

“You aren’t business,” I snap angrily. “You’re his son. He needs to treat you like that instead of like another acquisition.”

Mason stares at me for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. We barely know each other—I mean, we don’t know each other this way, on anything beyond a racing level. But to see a man as good as Mason being treated like this upsets me.

No. That’s a lie. It makes me furious.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I know this is your family, and I have no right to say things like that b—”

Mason silences me by reaching for my hand, putting his over mine and holding it still.

“Hey. Thank you,” he says quietly. “It’s nice to have someone other than Ruby think his behaviour is shite.”

“It is,” I say firmly.

Mason laughs and releases my hand. “I like this side of you.”

“What is that?”

“Fierce. Outspoken.”

I make a face. I’ve never been called either of those things in my life.

“Maybe Isla is rubbing off on me,” I muse aloud, shifting my attention back to the menu.

“Maybe this is who you really are, when you allow yourself to show it.”

I immediately jerk my head up to look at Mason.

He sees me in a way nobody else ever has. And I like it.

Mason shifts his attention back to the menu. “We need to pick entrées before the waiter comes back.”

I’m tempted to say forget dinner and let’s live on shishito peppers and caviar buns and conversation, but I resist. I force myself to focus on the options.

“What are you ordering?” Mason asks.

“I’m not sure. You?”

“Miso black cod,” he says, closing the menu now that his decision has been made.

I bite my lip, still feeling undecided.