Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Mason
I pulled into the HRB parking deck at seven-fifteen Friday evening, later than I’d intended but earlier than most people who’d spent their evening at Safe Harbor Legal Clinic.
The clinic operated out of a converted church basement in Church Hill, serving people who couldn’t afford attorneys and didn’t qualify for public defenders—immigrants navigating visa issues, tenants facing eviction, workers dealing with wage theft.
These cases didn’t make you rich or famous but made you feel like maybe the law could actually help people instead of just protecting corporate interests.
Tonight had been intake night, which meant sitting across from a steady stream of people whose problems were simultaneously devastating and solvable.
A single mother facing eviction because her landlord wanted to convert the building into luxury condos.
An older man whose employer hadn’t paid him in six weeks.
A woman trying to get a restraining order against her ex-husband.
I’d taken three new cases and stayed an extra hour to help one of the clinic’s other volunteers draft a motion.
Now I was back at the office because I had briefs to review and a merger strategy to finalize, and apparently I’d decided sleeping was optional.
The nineteenth floor was mostly dark. I headed toward my office, already mentally cataloging everything I needed to accomplish before I could justify going home, when I noticed the light under Beau’s door.
I stopped, briefcase in hand, staring at that strip of light like it was a warning sign.
He’s still here.
Of course he was. Because the universe had decided that avoiding Beau Thatcher wasn’t an option anymore, no matter how much I might want it to be.
I should’ve kept walking. Gone to my office, closed the door, buried myself in work until the memory of this afternoon’s hearing—and the way my concentration had wavered every time I’d thought about Beau—faded into background noise.
Instead, I knocked on his door.
“Come in,” Beau called.
I pushed the door open and found him at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, surrounded by what looked like every document related to the PharmaTech merger.
He’d changed into a sweater and a pair of jeans, and his dark hair was slightly mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it.
He looked up, and something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or something else I didn’t want to analyze.
“It’s Friday night,” he said. “I thought you’d gone home.”
“I had an appointment. Just got back.” I stayed in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “You’re here late.”
“So are you.”
“I asked first.”
“Is that how this works?” But he was smiling, just slightly. “I’m reviewing the due diligence reports. Figured I’d get through them while the office was quiet.” He gestured to the papers spread across his desk. “I found a couple of things you might want to look at.”
Despite my better judgment, I stepped into his office. “Like what?”
“See for yourself.” He pushed a document toward me, and I rounded his desk to look at it, leaning over his shoulder. Immediately, I caught the scent of his cologne—something expensive and woodsy that had been distracting me all day—and had to force myself to focus on the page in front of me.
He’d highlighted a section of PharmaTech’s quarterly financials, specifically a discrepancy in their reporting of clinical trial costs. It was subtle—something most people would miss—but it was there.
“This could be a problem,” I said.
“That’s what I thought. If they’re misreporting trial costs, it raises questions about their entire R&D budget. Which means—”
“Which means MediCorp’s board might want to renegotiate the valuation.” I straightened, putting some distance between us. “Good catch.”
“I have my moments.”
I pulled out my phone and made a note to flag this for Carter and Patsy on Monday. When I looked up, Beau was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just...” He hesitated. “You said you had an appointment. Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“Mason, it’s after seven on a Friday. That’s not normal.”
I could’ve brushed him off. But there was something about the way he was looking at me—genuinely curious, not prying—that made the deflection feel petty.
“Pro bono work,” I said. “I volunteer at Safe Harbor Legal Clinic in Church Hill. Friday evenings, usually.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. Why is that surprising?”
“Because you’re—” He stopped himself, but not before I saw the wheels turning. “Nothing. That’s... that’s awesome. What type of cases?”
“Housing, mostly. Some employment law. Immigration issues when I can help.” I crossed my arms, suddenly feeling exposed. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is, though.” Beau leaned back in his chair, studying me as if I were a puzzle he was trying to solve. “How long have you been doing it?”
“Since I started at HRB. Five years.”
“Every week?”
“When I can.”
“Does anyone here know about it?”
“Lisa, Patsy, Carter.” I shifted my weight. “It’s not something I advertise.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not about advertising.” The words came out sharper than I’d intended. “It’s just... something I do.”
Beau held up his hands. “I wasn’t criticizing. I think it’s impressive. Most attorneys talk about doing pro bono work. You actually do it.”
I didn’t know what to do with that—with the genuine respect in his voice, with the way he was looking at me like I’d surprised him in a good way. So I did what I always did when conversations got too personal: I changed the subject.
“Have you eaten?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Dinner. Have you had dinner?”
“I had a protein bar around four.”
“That’s not dinner.”
“Says the man who probably hasn’t eaten since breakfast.”
Beau wasn’t wrong. I’d grabbed coffee before court and nothing since. “We should order something. If we’re going to keep working.”
“Are we going to keep working?”
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with subtext I wasn’t ready to unpack.
“The PharmaTech case won’t strategize itself,” I said.
“Fair point.” He pulled out his phone. “What are you in the mood for?”
“I don’t care.”
“You have to have a preference.”
“I genuinely don’t.”
“Everyone has a preference, Mason. Italian? Chinese? Thai?”
“Whatever you want is fine.”
He stared at me like I’d just spoken in tongues. “You’re telling me you, Mason Price, the man who probably alphabetizes his spice rack, doesn’t have an opinion on what we should order for dinner?”
“I alphabetize by cuisine, not alphabetically,” I said before I could stop myself.
His laugh surprised me—genuine and unguarded. “Of course you do. Okay, I’m ordering Thai. If you have a problem with it, you should’ve spoken up.”
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in my office—which had more space than his—with takeout containers spread across my desk.
Beau had ordered enough food for four people, claiming he “didn’t know what I’d like,” which meant we had pad thai, green curry, spring rolls, and some kind of fried rice situation that smelled incredible.
“This is too much food,” I said.
“Leftovers are a thing, Price.” He handed me a container of green curry and a fork. “Live a little.”
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Outside my windows, downtown Richmond sparkled with lights, the James River a dark ribbon in the distance.
“So,” Beau said eventually, “pro bono work. What made you start doing that?”
I should’ve deflected again. Should’ve said something vague and redirected the conversation to the case. But maybe it was the late hour, or the fact that we were alone in my office eating Thai food like normal people instead of rivals.
“My mom,” I said.
Beau looked up, surprised.
“She worked for legal aid when I was growing up. Before she got sick.” The words felt rusty in my mouth—I didn’t talk about this, didn’t let people in on this part of my life.
“She’d come home with these stories about people who were getting screwed by landlords or employers, people who just needed someone to explain their rights.
She loved it. Said it was the most important work she’d ever done. ”
“What happened to her?” Beau’s voice was gentle.
“Breast cancer. When I was in college.” I took a bite of curry, giving myself a moment to push past the tightness in my chest. “She fought it for two years. We thought she’d beat it, but...”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t make it easier.”
No, it didn’t. I changed the subject before he could ask anything else. “What about you? Why’d you really come back to Richmond?”
Beau set down his fork and leaned back in his chair.
“Honestly? I was tired of being invisible. In San Francisco, I was just another ambitious attorney in a city full of ambitious attorneys. Every case felt like shouting into the void. Here, I can actually make a name for myself. Build something that matters.”
“And your parents had nothing to do with it?”
“Oh, they definitely pulled strings to get me the interview. But I’m the one who had to nail it.” He met my eyes. “Just like you probably got your foot in the door here because of connections, but you’re the one who earned partner track.”
He wasn’t wrong. My father had gone to Princeton with Judge Hollingsworth and had made the introduction that led to my interview. But I’d worked my ass off to prove I belonged here.
“Fair enough,” I said.
“See? We’re not so different, you and me.”
“We’re extremely different.”
“Are we?” He leaned forward, elbows on my desk, and suddenly the space between us felt tiny. “We’re both workaholics and perfectionists. And I bet we both feel we have something to prove. Plus, we’re both sitting in this office at eight o’clock at night instead of having lives.”
“I have a life.”
“Do you?”