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I make a face as I dictate a reply.First of all, gross. Second of all, that’s ... disappointing. I already told all the kids that their gifts would be individually wrapped by Rovers players who would initial the wrapping with a Sharpie, and they were so excited. They are going to be really sad and cry and cry when they find out I lied to them. They’ll never trust again.”
I send the text. Then I add,NBD though.
No big deal?I can practically hear the outraged squawk in his voice when I get the text reply.You are a master of manipulation, devil woman. That’s my new nickname for you.
I’m sure you’ve called me worse, I reply.
You’re not wrong, he text-huffs.
Listen. About that zombie movie marathon? I know your teammates are counting on you, and I throw a mean theme party.
Tell me more.
I smile.I will make zombie-themed food and refreshments, and I will get zombie-themed decorations, and Ruby and I will decorate. You won’t have to lift so much as a pinkie finger. All you’ll have to do is pick the movies.
That I can do. OK fine the guys will have a wrap party. And ... that’s a wrap. Ha ha.
Now I’m laughing like a goof.
Oh, shoot.
I am absolutely breaking Cecelia’s rules about fraternization. And I think back on how many times Mason’s popped into my head just since I arrived at work. I’m going to tell Mason this, I’m going to tell Mason that, he’ll love the office gossip, I need to ask him for help with Amanda ...
Slow your roll, I tell myself sternly. Fools rush in and all that.
I send another text.Listen, I’m going to be very busy all week preparing for the event, so I’m not going to be around unless it’s an emergency.Subtext: no nookie. No hanging out.
He sends back a quick reply.I’ve got a busy week too with practice and the weekend games. Will you be there? Wearing the appropriate jersey?
I’ll try, I answer.I would love to, but I can’t make any promises. The event planning has to come first.
What I mean is that I need to stay away. What I mean is that I’m falling for Mason Raker, but I’m going to catch myself before I get hurt.
30
MASON
My father isat home in the afternoon when I stop by, which is not always the case. I called and asked him to meet me there. We haven’t actually seen each other in a few months. He still lives in our Short Hills, New Jersey, home, although he also has a Manhattan apartment these days, and a few other residences scattered around the country.
It’s a cool day, with a dusting of snow on the vast lawn. To this day, my father still has the landscapers maintaining the topiary bushes trimmed in funny animal shapes. He did that for me when I was little. Of course, at the time he didn’t realize I was going to be a little idiot who’d aim his slip and slide down a hill and end up getting his ass impaled by a bunny bush.
It coincided with one of my mother’s rare visits, and she didn’t even visit me at the hospital. I didn’t mention that to Rowan. It’s just too ... I don’t know, pathetic?
I park my rented car in front of the house and the butler—yes, my father has one—lets me in. “He’s in the parlor,” Reginald the butler tells me.
“Thank you, Reginald.”
My father is reclining on a white sofa and reading a newspaper when I walk in. He wears a custom-made cashmere sweater in a deep shade of midnight blue.
His tailored white wool trousers are paired with polished leather loafers, handcrafted by a renowned Italian shoemaker.
The room is adorned with pop art, including a genuine Warhol, a favorite of his. The sofa cushions are printed with Warhol paintings. The grand piano in the corner gleams like new, with an abstract red vase resting on it, holding a single white rose from my father’s greenhouse.
He glances up and sets the newspaper down, and I walk over to sit on an armchair facing him.
“Mason. Long time no see.” He gestures at a silver tray, which has a plate of cookies and bottles of seltzer water. I grab one of the bottles and take a sip, to be polite.
“Thanks,” I say.
