Chapter 5 #2
"Good." She stepped aside, but as I passed her, she caught my arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "This one's got good bones," she whispered. "Don't mess it up."
"Gracie, it's not—"
"Mm-hmm." She patted my cheek with a weathered hand. "I've known you since you were born, Mr. Beau. It's exactly like that."
Then she was gone, shuffling back toward the kitchen, leaving me standing in the foyer with my face on fire.
Mason was waiting by my Mercedes, looking amused. "She seems... formidable."
"That's one word for it." I unlocked the car. "Get in before they find another reason to interrogate you."
We climbed into the car, and I started the engine, grateful for something to do with my hands. The moving truck was already pulling out of the driveway, and I followed it, acutely aware of Mason sitting in my passenger seat, his presence filling the entire car.
"Your family is..." Mason paused, searching for the right word.
"Insane?"
"I was going to say 'interesting.'"
"That's diplomatic." I turned onto the main road, heading toward downtown. "Sorry about the interrogation. My father thinks every person I meet needs to be vetted like a Supreme Court nominee."
"It's fine. My dad's the same way." Mason shifted in his seat, and I caught a hint of his cologne—the same scent that had been haunting me since yesterday. "Your mother seems nice."
"She is. When she's not trying to marry me off to every eligible bachelor in Richmond."
The words were out before I could stop them.
The silence in the car was deafening.
I'd just—I'd just said that. Out loud. To Mason.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel, and I kept my eyes fixed on the road, waiting for Mason to say something. Anything.
"Does she know?" Mason's voice was quiet.
"That I'm gay? Yeah. Has since I was sixteen." I forced myself to keep breathing normally. "My dad took a little longer to come around, but he's fine with it now. Gracie figured it out before I did."
Another silence, but this one felt different. Less awkward, more... considering.
"My father doesn’t know," Mason said finally. "About me."
I glanced at him, surprised by the admission. He was staring out the window, his profile sharp against the morning light.
"He wouldn't disown me or anything," he continued. "But my dad's got this whole vision of what my life should look like—partner at the firm, country club membership, wife and two-point-five kids. Coming out would complicate that narrative."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." He turned to look at me, and the vulnerability in his expression made my chest ache. "But it's easier than dealing with the alternative."
I wanted to reach over, to put my hand on his knee, to tell him I understood. But we were colleagues, and this was already more personal than it should've been, and I was pretty sure any physical contact would short-circuit my brain entirely.
"For what it's worth," I said instead, "I think living your life for someone else's narrative is bullshit."
Mason's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Noted."
We drove the rest of the way in comfortable silence. The condo was in Shockoe Bottom, a converted warehouse building with exposed brick and huge windows overlooking the canal. The moving truck was already parked out front, the movers standing on the sidewalk with their clipboards.
I pulled into a visitor spot, and we both climbed out. The morning air was crisp and cold, and I could see the James River glittering in the distance.
"This is it," I said, gesturing to the building. "Fourth floor. Corner unit."
Mason looked up, taking in the industrial architecture. "It's great."
"Better than Windsor Farms, anyway. At least I can control the thermostat."
One of the movers—a heavyset guy named Frank who I'd been dealing with all week—approached with his clipboard. "Mr. Thatcher. Ready to start unloading?"
"Absolutely."
For the next three hours, we worked. The movers did the heavy lifting, hauling furniture and boxes up to the fourth floor, while Mason and I directed traffic—this goes in the bedroom, that goes in the living room, the kitchen stuff goes to the right.
And the whole time, I was hyperaware of Mason. The way he'd taken charge of organizing the boxes by room, his exacting brain turning chaos into order. The way he'd stopped to help one of the movers navigate a tight corner, his muscles flexing as he lifted one end of my couch.
This was torture. Exquisite, domestic torture.
"Where do you want this?" Mason called from the bedroom doorway, holding a box labeled BOOKS.
"Anywhere is fine. I haven't figured out where the bookshelf is going yet."
He disappeared into the bedroom, and I forced myself not to follow him. Not to imagine him in that space, surrounded by my things, part of my life in a way that went beyond case files and conference rooms.
By noon, the movers were gone, and the condo looked like a bomb had gone off—boxes everywhere, furniture in various states of assembly, packing paper covering every surface.
Mason stood in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips, surveying the chaos. "You need a strategy."
"I need a nap."
"You need to unpack the essentials first. Kitchen stuff, bathroom, bedroom. Everything else can wait."
"How are you so organized?"
"Practice." He picked up a box labeled KITCHEN and carried it to the counter. "Come on. Let's at least get your kitchen functional so you can eat something other than protein bars."
We spent the next hour unpacking dishes and glasses, organizing drawers and cabinets. Mason had opinions about everything—the wine glasses should go here, the coffee mugs should be within easy reach of the coffee maker, the knives needed a proper block.
"You're very bossy," I said, watching him arrange my spice jars in alphabetical order.
"You're very disorganized."
"I'm an artist."
"You're a corporate attorney."
"I contain multitudes."
He looked at me, and for just a second, I saw it—that crack in the armor, the hint of a smile. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet, here you are. Helping me."
"Because Patsy told me to."
"Right. Patsy." I leaned against the counter, watching him work. "You do everything she tells you?"
"Yes. She's terrifying."
"She's a sweetheart."
"She's a terrifying sweetheart." Mason closed the cabinet and turned to face me. "Where do you keep your coffee?"
"Haven't unpacked it yet. Want to order lunch? I'm starving."
"What are you in the mood for?"
"Pizza. There's a place around the corner that's supposed to be amazing."
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting on my living room floor—the couch wasn't assembled yet—with a large pepperoni pizza between us.
"This is ridiculous," Mason said, but he was smiling. Actually smiling.
"This is freedom," I corrected. "No parents, no arctic temperatures, no Gracie judging my life choices."
"I liked Gracie."
"Everyone likes Gracie. She's a national treasure." I took a bite of pizza, savoring the greasy, perfect comfort of it. "Thanks for helping today. I know Patsy voluntold you to help, but you didn't have to stay."
"I wanted to." The words came out quietly, almost reluctantly, like he hadn't meant to say them out loud.
I looked at him, and he looked back, and for a moment the air between us felt charged. Dangerous.
"Mason—"
His phone buzzed, shattering the moment. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted to something more guarded. "It's my dad. I should—"
"Take it. No problem."
He stood and walked to the window, phone pressed to his ear. "Hey, Dad... Yeah, I'm just helping a colleague move... No, it's fine... I know... Yes, I'll be there for dinner tomorrow... Okay... Bye."
He ended the call and stood there for a moment, staring out at the canal, his shoulders tense.
"Everything okay?" I asked.
"Fine. He wanted to confirm I'm coming to Sunday dinner." Mason turned back to me, and the mask was firmly in place again—polite, professional, distant. "I should probably head out. Let you get settled."
"You don't have to—"
"I've got some work to catch up on." He was already heading for the door, grabbing his keys from the counter. "Thanks for lunch."
"Mason, wait." I stood, following him to the door. "Did I—did I say something wrong?"
He paused, his hand on the doorknob, and for a second I thought he might actually answer honestly. But then he just shook his head. "No. I just need to go."
"Let me drive you back to get your car."
"I'll get a ride. It's fine."
"Mason, your car is at my parents' house. That's ridiculous—"
"I said it's fine." His voice was sharp. Then he softened it slightly. "I need... I just need to go. Okay?"
He left, and I stood there in my new condo, surrounded by unpacked boxes and half-assembled furniture, feeling more alone than I had in my parents' house.
* * *
By eight o'clock, I'd unpacked half my books, assembled my bed frame, and hung exactly three pieces of art before admitting defeat. My body was exhausted, but my mind wouldn't stop racing—replaying every moment of the day, every word Mason had said, the way he'd looked at me before he left.
I just need to go.
I stood in the middle of my half-unpacked living room, surrounded by boxes and bubble wrap, and felt the walls closing in. I didn't want to be alone. Didn't want to spend my first night in my new place obsessing over someone I couldn't have.
Mason and I worked together. We had a massive case to win. Getting involved would be complicated at best, career-ending at worst. He was off-limits. Period.
Which meant I needed to stop thinking about him.
I pulled out my phone and opened Google Maps, typing "gay bars near me." A pin dropped immediately—Therapy, on Grace Street. Less than four blocks away.
I could walk there. Have a drink. Talk to someone who wasn't Mason. Remind myself that there were other men in Richmond, men who were available and uncomplicated.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I headed to my bedroom—one of the few rooms that was actually functional—and changed into dark jeans and a black henley.
Nothing too fancy, but enough to show I'd made an effort.
I checked myself in the mirror, ran a hand through my hair, and grabbed my wallet and keys.
The night air was cold against my face as I stepped out onto the street. Downtown Richmond on a Saturday night was alive—couples heading to dinner, groups of friends bar-hopping, the distant sound of live music drifting from somewhere nearby.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and started walking. Maybe I'd meet someone. Most likely, I'd have a drink and come home alone. Either way, it had to be better than sitting in my empty condo thinking about Mason.