Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Mason
I made it back to my office without punching a wall, which felt like a minor miracle.
The door clicked shut behind me, and I stood there for a moment, forehead pressed against the cool wood, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human being instead of a man who’d just had his past walk back into his life wearing a perfectly tailored suit and that same infuriating smirk.
Beau fucking Thatcher.
Of all the law firms in Virginia—hell, the entire Eastern seaboard—he had to walk into mine. And not just walk in, but get hired as a senior associate, get assigned to my case, and look at me with those intense eyes like the last fifteen years had been nothing more than an intermission.
I pushed away from the door and crossed to my desk, yanking my tie loose with more force than necessary.
My office suddenly felt too small. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, downtown Richmond stretched out in a grid of glass and brick, the James River a gray ribbon in the distance.
Usually, this view calmed me. Today, it might as well have been a brick wall.
I dropped into my chair, and my leg immediately began bouncing under the desk.
This was ridiculous. I wasn’t a teenager still nursing a grudge from high school. So what if Beau Thatcher had reappeared? So what if we had history? We were professionals now. Adults. We could work together like civilized people.
Except the moment I’d seen him in that conference room, something had shifted in my chest—a tectonic plate sliding out of place.
And when he’d stood close to me in his office doorway, close enough that I could smell whatever expensive cologne he wore, my body had responded in ways that had nothing to do with professional rivalry and everything to do with the fact that Beau Thatcher had grown up into exactly the type of man I tried very hard not to notice.
Not that I was noticing.
I wasn’t.
My hand drifted to my thigh, fingers finding the scar through the fabric of my suit pants. The injury had healed years ago, but it was a reminder of a championship match that didn’t matter anymore.
Except it did matter.
I’d spent four years of high school locked in combat with Beau Thatcher—every game, every face-off, every moment on that field had been about proving I was better. Faster. Smarter. More disciplined. And every single time we faced each other, it had been a coin flip.
We’d been equals, and I’d hated him for it.
The championship game was supposed to be my moment of triumph, and my team had won. But the victory had tasted like ash because I’d spent the last part of the game injured.
And Beau had looked guilty.
That was the part I couldn’t shake. Not angry, not defensive—guilty. Like he’d genuinely given a damn that he’d hurt me.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the memory. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. That was high school, and this was now. Carter and Patsy had paired us together because we were both good at our jobs, not because they wanted to stage some kind of reunion tour of Richmond prep school rivalries.
I could handle this. I just needed to establish boundaries, maintain professionalism, and remember that Beau Thatcher was a colleague, not—
Not what?
Not the guy whose face I’d thought about more than I wanted to admit over the last fifteen years? Not the one person who’d ever matched me stride for stride, who’d pushed me harder than any coach ever had?
“Fuck,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand over my face.
A knock at my door made me straighten automatically, smoothing down my tie even though I’d just loosened it. “Come in.”
Lisa Morales pushed through the door, a stack of manila folders balanced on one hip and her phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. She held up a finger—one second—and I waited while she finished her conversation.
“Mm-hmm. Yes. Tell him if he doesn’t have those depositions to me by tomorrow morning, I’m going to make his life very difficult. No, I don’t care that it’s his anniversary. Thank you, sweetheart.” She ended the call and beamed at me. “Mason, darling. You look absolutely thrilled to be alive.”
“It’s been a day.”
“It’s almost six o’clock.” She set the folders on my desk with a decisive thump. “Discovery materials for the PharmaTech case. I’ve already flagged the sections you’ll want to review first, cross-referenced with the MediCorp financials.”
“You’re a goddess.”
“I know.” She settled into the chair across from my desk, crossing her legs and fixing me with a look that suggested she was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. “So. Beau Thatcher.”
My jaw tightened. “What about him?”
“Do you two know each other? I picked up on some serious energy in that conference room.”
“We went to rival high schools,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “We played against each other in lacrosse. It was, um, competitive.”
“Competitive.” Lisa’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “That’s one word for it.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Clearly not long enough.” She leaned back, studying me. “He seems nice, though.”
“He’s a menace.”
Lisa’s eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly hit her hairline.
She said nothing for a long moment, just studied me with those sharp, all-seeing eyes that missed absolutely nothing.
Her head tilted slightly, and I watched her put the pieces together.
Normally I had an excellent poker face, but I could tell it wasn’t working on her.
“Interesting,” she said finally.
“What’s interesting?”
“Nothing.” But her smile suggested it was very much something.
“For what it’s worth, I think he’ll be an excellent addition to the firm.
He’s sharp, he’s got an impressive track record, and—” She paused, her grin turning wicked.
“—he’s hot. Like, unfairly hot. Did you see him?
Those eyes? That jawline? I bet he’s got abs you could grate cheese on. ”
I stared at her. “Is there a point to this?”
“No point. Just making conversation.” She stood, smoothing her skirt. “You know, you two are going to have to work together pretty closely on this merger. Might want to dial down the homicidal energy.”
“I don’t have homicidal energy.”
“Sweetheart, you’re white-knuckling your armrest like it spit on you.”
She was right. I forced my fingers to relax.
“Mason.” Her voice softened, losing some of its teasing edge. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
“Lisa—”
“Okay, okay. I’m going.” She headed for the door, then paused with her hand on the handle. “But for the record? Whatever history you two have, it’s obvious there’s some serious unfinished business there. Maybe you should actually deal with it instead of white-knuckling it with him.”
Then she was gone, leaving me alone with a stack of discovery materials and the uncomfortable realization that Lisa Morales was far too perceptive for her own good.
Or mine.
I tried to work, opening the first folder, scanning the first page, reading the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.
My mind kept drifting back to Beau’s office, to the way he’d stood so close I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, to the challenge in his voice when he’d asked if I could handle working together.
Can I?
I slammed the folder shut and stood. I needed to move. Needed to do something, anything, that wasn’t sitting in this office thinking about Beau Thatcher’s stupid face.
I grabbed my phone and wallet, shrugged into my coat, and walked out without a word to anyone.
* * *
The locker room at Westwood Racquet Club smelled like expensive soap and old money—a combination that no amount of industrial cleaning could fully erase.
I sat on the bench, lacing up my tennis shoes with mechanical precision, each pull of the strings a tiny act of control in a day that had spun wildly out of my grasp.
Tennis had always been my refuge. The court was a place where everything made sense: clear lines, definable rules, a single opponent and a single objective. Win. It was pure, uncomplicated, and entirely within my control.
Unlike, say, being forced to work with the one person who’d ever gotten under my skin and stayed there.
I yanked the last lace tight and stood, grabbing my racquet out of the locker. I took a few practice swings, letting muscle memory take over, feeling my shoulders loosen incrementally.
“Mason!”
I turned to see Aaron Taylor emerging from the showers, toweling his hair.
He was a regular at the club—a financial advisor or something equally boring that I’d never bothered to fully register.
We’d played a handful of times, always when one of us needed a last-minute partner.
He was good enough to make it interesting, but never good enough to beat me.
Perfect.
“Hey,” I said. “Are you playing today?”
“Was supposed to, but my partner just cancelled. You got a match?”
“Not yet. Want to go a set?”
His face lit up. “Hell yes. Give me five minutes?”
“Take your time.”
While Aaron got ready, I headed out to the courts.
Westwood was old Richmond money—all dark wood panelling and portraits of dead white men who’d probably owned slaves.
But the tennis facilities were state-of-the-art: pristine indoor hard courts with perfect lighting and not a speck of dust on the Plexiglas barriers.
Court three was open. I pushed through the door and was immediately enveloped in the peculiar quiet of an indoor court. I began warming up, and by the time Aaron joined me, I’d worked up a light sweat.
“Ready to get destroyed?” Aaron grinned, spinning his racquet.
“Confident today, are we?”
“Just saying. I’ve been working with a private coach. My backhand’s gotten a lot better.”
“We’ll see.”
We rallied for a few minutes to warm up, and I had to admit—his backhand had improved. Still, I could see the weaknesses: he took too long to reset between points, and his serve lacked variety. Beating him wouldn’t require much effort.