Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Beau
The dining room was still a meat locker, but this was the last time I'd have to endure it until the holidays.
I sat at the end of the mahogany table, nursing my third cup of coffee while my mother picked at her grapefruit with surgical precision and my father hid behind the Richmond Times-Dispatch.
Outside, I heard the low rumble of the moving truck's engine and the voices of the movers as they loaded the last of the boxes from the carriage house where I'd been storing my furniture.
Freedom was approximately two hours away.
"Are you certain you don't want us to hire someone to help you unpack?" My mother dabbed her lips with a linen napkin. "I'm sure we could find someone professional. It seems like so much work for one person."
"I'll be fine, Mom."
"But darling—"
"Claudia, the boy is thirty-two years old," my father interjected from behind his newspaper. "If he can't unpack his own boxes, we've failed as parents."
"I'm merely concerned about his back. All that lifting—"
"He played lacrosse for years. I think his back can handle some boxes."
I tuned them out, mentally cataloging everything I needed to do today. Meet the movers at the condo, supervise the unloading, unpack the essentials, maybe order Thai food and eat it in my own space where the thermostat was set to something approaching human habitation temperature.
My phone buzzed on the table.
Patsy Hollingsworth: Good morning, sweetheart! How's the move going?
I smiled despite myself. Patsy was like a second mother to me.
Me: Haven't left yet.
Patsy: Wonderful! I hope you don't mind, but I volunteered Mason to help you today.
My coffee cup stopped halfway to my lips.
Me: You did what?
Patsy: The poor boy works too much. I thought it would be good for him to do something normal for once. Team building! He should be there soon.
Me: Patsy, you didn't have to do that.
Patsy: Nonsense. What are colleagues for? Have a wonderful day, darling!
I stared at my phone, a mix of panic and something else I refused to name flooding my system.
Mason. Here. At my parents' house.
"Fuck," I muttered.
"Language, Beau," my mother said without looking up from her grapefruit.
"Sorry." I stood abruptly, nearly knocking over my chair. "I need to—there's a colleague coming to help. He'll be here soon."
My father lowered his newspaper exactly two inches. "A colleague? From the firm?"
"Yes."
"Does this colleague have a name?"
"Mason Price."
"Price?" My father's eyebrows rose. "Any relation to the Prices from Hanover County?"
"I have no idea, Dad."
"Well, what does his father do?"
"I don't know. I've never met his father." I was already backing toward the door. "We played against each other in high school. He went to Collegiate. Lacrosse.” Fuck, I was babbling. “I should go make sure the movers haven't broken anything—"
"Why are you nervous?" My mother tilted her head, studying me with those all-seeing eyes. "It's just a colleague."
"I'm not nervous."
"Your face is flushed."
"It's warm in here."
"It's sixty-two degrees."
Gracie appeared in the doorway like a ghost materializing from the ether, coffeepot in hand. Her eyes met mine, and one silver eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline.
Boy trouble, that eyebrow said. I told you so.
"More coffee, Mr. Beau?" she asked, her voice perfectly neutral.
"No. Thank you. I'm good." I was already heading for the hallway. "I'll just—I'll be outside."
I made it to the front door and stood there for a moment, trying to calm my racing pulse. This was fine. This was completely normal. A colleague was coming to help me move because our boss had voluntold him. There was nothing weird about this.
Except everything about this was weird.
I'd barely slept last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Mason in his office—the way he'd looked at my mouth, the careful distance he'd maintained, the crack in his armor when he'd told me about his mother.
And then I'd think about him going home alone to that sterile apartment, and I'd wonder if he was thinking about me too.
Which was insane. And pointless. And exactly the kind of thing that was going to get me in trouble.
A sleek black Audi pulled up the circular driveway. Mason climbed out, and I forgot how to breathe.
He was wearing jeans. Actual jeans that fit him perfectly, showing off long legs and narrow hips.
A simple gray t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and chest in ways that should've been illegal.
His blond hair was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it, and he was wearing sunglasses that made him look like he'd stepped out of a magazine spread.
This was absolutely a mistake.
He pulled off the sunglasses and spotted me standing on the front steps. For a moment, we just stared at each other.
"Hey," he said.
"Hi." My voice came out rougher than intended. "You didn't have to come."
"Patsy said you needed help." He walked toward me, and I was acutely aware of how different he looked outside the office—younger, somehow, and more approachable. "I can't exactly say no to Patsy."
"Right. Neither can I, apparently." I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Look, this is ridiculous. You don't have to stay. I've got movers, and I can handle unpacking on my own—"
"Patsy told me to help you," Mason said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I can't say no."
"Mason—"
"Where do you want me?"
Everywhere, my brain supplied unhelpfully. Pressed against a wall. Spread across my new bed. On your knees—
"Let me introduce you to my parents," I said instead, because apparently I hated myself. "They're inside."
Mason's expression shifted to something that might've been alarm. "Your parents?"
"Welcome to the nightmare." I opened the front door and gestured him inside. "Try not to let my father interrogate you too much."
The foyer of my parents' house was all marble floors and crystal chandeliers and furniture that cost more than most people's cars. Mason looked around, taking it in with those sharp blue eyes, and I wondered what he was thinking.
"Nice place," he said neutrally.
"It's a museum." I led him toward the dining room. "Oh, and I’m sorry it’s so cold. My mother thinks arctic temperatures build character."
We stepped into the dining room, and both my parents looked up.
"Mom, Dad, this is Mason Price. Mason, these are my parents—Claudia and Howard Thatcher."
My mother stood immediately, extending her hand with that gracious smile she'd perfected over decades of charity galas and country club brunches. "Mason, how lovely to meet you. Beau's told us so much about you."
I had absolutely not told them anything about Mason.
"It's a pleasure to meet you both," Mason said, shaking her hand. His manners were impeccable—the kind of polish that came from good breeding and expensive schools.
My father stood as well, giving Mason the kind of handshake that doubled as a test of character. "Price, you said? Any relation to the Prices from Hanover County?"
"Not that I'm aware of, sir."
"Where'd you go to school?"
"Princeton."
My father's expression shifted to something approaching approval. "Fine institution. Law school?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you're working at Hollingsworth, Rhoads, and Brown with Beau?"
"Yes, sir. We're on a case together."
"Well." My father released Mason's hand and clapped him on the shoulder. "Any colleague of Beau's is welcome here. Can we offer you some coffee? Breakfast?"
"Coffee would be great, thank you."
As if summoned by dark magic, Gracie materialized in the doorway with a fresh cup of coffee. She crossed the room with her characteristic glacial pace and handed it to Mason, her eyes never leaving his face.
The silence stretched for approximately three seconds—long enough for Gracie to conduct a full assessment of Mason's character, his intentions, and probably his credit score.
Then she looked at me.
Her expression didn't change, but I saw it anyway: the slight softening around her eyes, the almost imperceptible nod.
Oh, so this is the boy trouble, her gaze said. He'll do.
"Thank you," Mason said to Gracie, his tone respectful.
"You're welcome." Gracie's voice was neutral, but when she turned to leave, she caught my eye and one corner of her mouth twitched.
Right here, in my parents' icy dining room, I was going to die of embarrassment.
"So, Mason," my mother said, settling back into her chair, "Beau mentioned you two went to rival high schools?"
Mason glanced at me, and I could see the question in his eyes: How much do they know?
"We did," Mason said carefully. "Lacrosse rivalry. It was... competitive."
"Competitive," my father repeated, his tone suggesting he knew there was more to the story. "Beau was quite good, as I recall. Made all-state his senior year."
"He was excellent," Mason said, and something in his voice made my chest tighten. "We both were."
My mother smiled. "Well, how wonderful that you're working together now. Life has a funny way of bringing people back together, doesn't it?"
"Mom—"
"What? I'm simply making conversation."
The front door opened, and one of the movers called out, "Mr. Thatcher? We're all loaded up. Ready to head over whenever you are."
"Great. Perfect. We should go." I looked at Mason. "I'll drive you to the condo—the movers are meeting us there."
Mason set down his coffee cup. "Sounds good."
"It was lovely to meet you, Mason," my mother said. "I do hope we'll see you again."
"The pleasure was mine, Mrs. Thatcher. Mr. Thatcher." Mason shook my father's hand again.
We made it to the front door, and I thought we were home free until Gracie appeared one last time, blocking the doorway like an ancient guardian.
She looked at Mason, then at me, then back to Mason.
"You take care of him," she said quietly. Not a request. A command.
Mason's eyebrows rose slightly, but he nodded. "Yes, ma'am."