Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Mason
I woke up with cottonmouth, a splitting headache, and the phantom sensation of Beau’s lips on my mouth.
That kiss, though…
My chest tightened. I could still taste him—tequila and lime and something else, something that was just Beau. Could still feel the desperate way he’d pulled me closer, the sound he’d made when I’d bitten his lip.
“Stop,” I muttered, throwing off the covers and forcing myself out of bed.
I made my way to the kitchen and went through my usual routine on autopilot: Greek yogurt, granola I measured out to exactly half a cup, fresh berries, black coffee. The same breakfast I’d eaten every morning for years. Efficient. Healthy. Controlled.
It tasted like paste.
I ate it anyway, standing at my kitchen counter, staring at nothing.
Beau and I worked together. We were on the biggest case of my career. Getting involved with him would be reckless, irresponsible, potentially career-ending if it went south. There were rules about this kind of thing—maybe not official ones, but everyone knew you didn’t shit where you ate.
And yet.
I could still feel his mouth on mine. Still hear the way he’d said my name, rough and wanting. Still remember the way dancing with him had felt like the most natural thing in the world, like my body had been waiting for permission to just... let go.
I dumped the rest of my breakfast in the trash and grabbed my gym bag.
* * *
The gym was my sanctuary—iron and sweat and the satisfying burn of pushing my body past its limits. Here, effort equaled results. No ambiguity, no complications.
I loaded up the barbell for deadlifts, my usual Sunday routine. Pull, hold, lower. Pull, hold, lower. The weight was grounding, and the repetition meditative.
Except today, my mind wouldn’t quiet.
Beau’s laugh. The way his eyes had lit up when he’d seen me across that bar. The confidence in his voice when he’d said, dance with me. And the way he’d kissed me — like he had to, like he had no choice.
I added more weight to the bar, needing the distraction. But even as my muscles screamed and sweat dripped down my face, I couldn’t escape it.
I’d run.
Like a complete coward, I’d panicked and run, leaving Beau standing there confused and hurt.
And then I’d ignored his texts because I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to explain that kissing him had felt like standing on the edge of a cliff—terrifying and exhilarating and completely beyond my control.
I finished my set and sat on the bench, chest heaving, staring at my reflection in the mirror across from me.
Who was I kidding? Beau had been at the firm for one week.
Seven days. And somehow in that impossibly short time, he’d gotten under my skin in a way no one else ever had.
Every argument in that conference room, every moment he’d challenged my careful plans with his instinct and chaos, every time he’d looked at me like he could see past the armor I’d spent years building.
In only one week, he’d made me want things I’d convinced myself I didn’t need.
But thinking about it and acting on it were two entirely different things.
I grabbed my water bottle and headed for the locker room. I had dinner with my father tonight, and I needed to get myself together before then. The last thing I needed was to show up looking like I’d spent the night making terrible decisions.
Even if that’s exactly what I’d done.
* * *
I pulled up to my father’s house at exactly six o’clock, because being late was not an option in the Price family. Even a family of two.
The house loomed in front of me, all brick and columns and excessive square footage. The house was in Salisbury, a pretentious neighborhood where every house tried to out-impress the next, with professionally maintained front lawns and at least two luxury vehicles in every garage.
I hated this house.
It was nothing like the home I’d grown up in—the comfortable craftsman in the Ginter Park neighborhood, with its creaky floors and overgrown garden and walls covered in family photos. That house had felt lived in, loved. This one felt like a showroom.
My father bought it five years ago, right after opening his private investment firm. “An investment,” he’d called it. “Something befitting my position.”
It had never made sense to me. My father wasn’t flashy. He was methodical, practical, and careful. The house felt like something he thought he should want rather than something he actually had wanted.
I grabbed the bottle of wine I’d brought—an expensive Bordeaux because my father appreciated expensive things—and headed up the front walk.
The door opened before I could knock.
“Mason!” My father stood in the doorway, and I actually did a double-take.
He looked... different. Still the same tall frame and graying hair, still wearing slacks and a button-down shirt even on a Sunday evening. But there was something in his expression, a lightness I hadn’t seen in years. Maybe ever.
“Dad. You look good.”
“I feel good.” He pulled me into a hug—a real one, not the usual brief shoulder pat—and I stood there awkwardly, not sure what to do with my hands. “Come in, come in. I have someone I want you to meet.”
Someone he wanted me to meet?
I followed him inside, my confusion growing. The house looked different too—warmer somehow. There were fresh flowers on the console table in the entryway, and I could smell something cooking, something that involved garlic, herbs, and actual effort.
My father didn’t cook. He ordered takeout or ate at the club.
“Mason, I’d like you to meet Caroline.” He led me into the living room, and a woman stood up from the couch, smiling.
She was probably in her late fifties, with auburn hair cut in a stylish bob and an energy that immediately filled the room. She wore jeans—actual jeans—and a soft blue sweater. Caroline crossed the space between us with her hand extended.
“Mason! I’ve heard so much about you. Your father talks about you constantly.”
I shook her hand, completely off-balance. “It’s nice to meet you, Caroline. I... Dad didn’t mention he was seeing anyone.”
“That’s because your father is terrible at sharing personal information,” Caroline said with a laugh, swatting my father’s arm affectionately. “I’ve been telling him for weeks he needed to tell you, but he wanted to wait for the right moment.”
“The right moment?” I looked between them, my brain struggling to catch up.
My father actually looked sheepish. “Mason, Caroline and I are engaged.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “Engaged? As in... getting married?”
“That’s typically what engaged means, yes.” But my father was smiling—actually smiling—and Caroline was beaming. I realized I was still standing there with my mouth open like an idiot.
“Congratulations,” I managed. “That’s... wow. That’s wonderful.”
And the strange thing was, I meant it. Mostly. Underneath the shock and confusion, was something that might have been happiness for him.
“I know this is sudden,” my father said. “But when you know, you know.”
“We met at a fundraiser six months ago,” Caroline added, linking her arm through my father’s. “And I took one look at this handsome, serious man and thought, ‘He needs someone to make him laugh.’ So I made it my mission.”
“It worked,” my father said, looking at her with an expression I’d never seen on his face before—soft, open, completely unguarded.
My chest felt tight. “Six months?”
“I know, I know. It seems fast.” Caroline waved a hand. “My daughter said the same thing. But Mason, life is too short to overthink happiness. Your father and I, we just... fit.”
“Caroline makes me want to be less careful,” my father breathed. “Does that make sense?”
I thought about Beau. About the way kissing him had felt like jumping off a cliff. About how every logical part of my brain had screamed that it was a bad idea, but my body had known—had known—that it was exactly right.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice rough. “It makes sense.”
Caroline clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Now, dinner’s almost ready. Mason, your father tells me you like wine, so I hope that Bordeaux you brought is tasty because I plan to drink at least half the bottle.”
She swept toward the kitchen, already talking about the recipe she’d tried—"Italian, from scratch, can you believe it? I’m normally a frozen pizza kind of woman"—and my father and I stood there in her wake.
“She’s... a lot,” I said carefully.
My father’s smile widened. “Yes. She is.”
“You seem happy.”
“I am.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I forgot what this felt like, Mason. What it’s like to look forward to coming home. To have someone to share things with. Your mother...” He paused, his expression briefly clouding. “Your mother would want this for me. She’d like Caroline.”
My throat was tight. “I think she would too.”
* * *
Dinner was chaos in the best possible way.
Caroline talked—constantly, enthusiastically, about everything and nothing. She told stories about her work as an event planner, about her daughter and twin grandchildren, about the disastrous first date she’d had with my father where he’d been so nervous he’d knocked over his water glass twice.
“Three times,” my father corrected, and they both laughed.
She asked me questions about my work, my life, my apartment. And when I gave my usual careful, measured responses, she’d dig deeper, asking follow-up questions that no one ever asked, genuinely curious.
“So you’re working on this big merger case,” she said over dessert—a tiramisu she’d apparently made herself. “That must be exciting.”
“It’s challenging. High stakes.”
“But exciting, right? Or are you one of those people who pretend not to get excited about things?” She waggled her eyebrows at my father. “Like someone else I know.”
“I get excited about things,” I said defensively.
“Oh yeah? When’s the last time you did something that scared you? Something that made your heart race?”