Relentless (Mason Family #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Shaye

I just had to sneeze.

My breath rushes in and out in quick succession, yet somehow isn’t enough. I open my mouth to drag in more oxygen so I don’t pass out.

The last thirty seconds are a muddled mess. I try to sort through them—there was the sneeze, that I remember—but it feels like trying to make sense of a huge ball of yarn that’s been batted around by a kitten.

I grip the back of my neck. The pain is immediate, as though someone flipped a switch and—voila!—the discomfort begins. I wonder vaguely if it’s due to the impact or from the shadow of someone coming around the side of my car.

Crap.

Something tells me to find my insurance card. Please, let me have my insurance card. I reach for the glove compartment, figuring it’s where the responsible version of me would’ve put it, and glance up into the passenger’s side window just as the person who I rammed with my car appears.

My hand falls to the seat next to me, covering a ketchup stain from an errant fast-food cheeseburger. It flew out of my hands last week during an impassioned concert I put on at a red light.

“Sometimes” by Britney Spears just gets to me.

As does the stranger at the window.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. It wasn’t blue-green eyes that remind me of the ocean in postcards from faraway places peering back at me. Or sun-kissed skin. It definitely wasn’t beautiful lips and a jawline that’s squarish and bold.

I fall back into the seat as a surge of adrenaline rolls through me—my wits frazzling more by the second—and try to keep my composure. I just hit a man’s car.

He watches me quietly, licking his lips as if he’s having a hard time comprehending the situation. It gives me a moment to regroup.

A quick once-over puts him in his mid-thirties.

He’s ludicrously handsome. Brown hair kissed with a touch of blond is cut short to his head and styled as though he rolled out of bed looking that handsome.

A deep-blue Polo shirt is stretched across broad shoulders.

Lines around his mouth and eyes lend an approachability, a warmth to his features.

Let’s hope that’s true.

“I just had to sneeze.”

I say it before I can think about it, which is unfortunate. My insides shrivel as the look on his face changes from concern to … surprise? Confusion? Judgment? I don’t know which it is, but it’s clear he’s thrown for a loop.

“Look, I’m not any happier about this than you are,” I say, glancing at his dented Range Rover. “Actually, my insurance rates are going to go up, and that’s devastating.” I look at him again and gulp. “Okay, devastating might be a stretch, but I’m not looking forward to it.”

He blows out a breath. I swear I smell peppermint.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I think he means it like, Did you hit your head or something? but I can’t really tell.

His voice is honeyed and sympathetic—not at all the cool and annoyed tone I predicted. Sadly. Irritated would’ve been easier to accept when I replay this scene in bed at three in the morning.

“Are you all right?” he asks again.

Nope.

“Me? Oh, yeah. I’m fine. I think. I mean, just a little pain in the back of my neck …” I clasp my hand over the area. “It’s probably just … stress.”

Stop talking, Shaye.

His brows pull together. “Why don’t you step out of the car so we can figure out what to do?”

I reach for the glove box again. “My insurance card. You probably want that.”

“Why don’t you … Let’s make sure you’re okay before we get into the insurance and stuff, okay?” he asks gently.

A quick scan of the glove compartment proves that the responsible me was not present the day I got my card from the insurance company. And I know for certain I didn’t download the app like they suggested.

Who needs an app when I have a paper card? I don’t need another dumb app.

I distinctly remember thinking that.

Dammit.

I sit back in my seat again—a little taller this time. I’m going to have to fake having my life together.

“My card is missing in action at the moment,” I admit. “But I have insurance. I swear.”

He holds his hands out as if the movement will calm me somehow. “It’s okay. Let’s start here—what’s your name?”

“Shaye. My name is Shaye Brewer.”

“Shaye.” He says it as if he wondered what it would sound like in his voice. “Okay, Shaye. I’m Oliver Mason.”

Oliver Mason. Good lord—even his name is sexy.

“Hi.”

I mentally kick myself. Hi? Really, Shaye?

“I really am sorry for … that.” I shift my eyes quickly to the location of our cars kissing and then back to him again. “It was an accident.”

“Because you sneezed?”

“Yup.”

His lips dip at the sides as though he’s fighting a smile. His eyes don’t fight it, though. The sides crinkle, the irises light up, and the blues and greens mix into crazy pools of color that are almost hypnotic.

“I sneezed four times, actually,” I tell him, my guard slipping thanks to his I’m-not-going-to-lose-my-shit-over-this demeanor. “Most people do twos or threes. I always do fours.”

He breaks. A wide, knock-me-off-my-feet grin splits his cheeks. It renders me breathless but, unfortunately for me, it does not render me speechless.

“Four times in a row is basically a blackout,” I ramble on. “It’s terrifying. This has always been a big fear of mine and now it came true.”

“Fear of talking too much?” he teases.

My face flushes as I glance in my mirror at a car passing behind me. “No. Sneezing and getting into an accident, but thanks for that.”

His chin lifts to the sky, and a full, friendly laugh slips through the air. My body sags in relief. The pain in the back of my neck becomes a distant memory.

“I talk too much when I’m nervous,” I say, grimacing.

He grips the top of the window with one hand, his eyes still twinkling. “I was just kidding. I’ve never considered the dangers of sneezing and driving before. You have me wondering what other hazards lurk that I haven’t thought about.”

“There are tons of lurking hazards.” I tap at the air vent by the display. “Ever wondered if a snake climbed in your engine at night? And then it occurs to you while you’re driving that it could pop out one of these?”

He shakes his head, clearly amused. “I have not. I am also fairly certain that is impossible if it makes you feel any better.”

“Well, if you’re right, it does. But what’s your expertise in this area?” I narrow my eyes. “Do you even know anything about cars?”

He rewards me with a laugh again. “Get out of there so we can survey the damage and decide what to do.”

“So, that’s a no on knowing anything about cars,” I say as I climb out of the car.

A burst of wind greets me as I step onto the pavement. The contact of my shoe with the ground catapults me back into reality, causing me to look at the front of my car again. I so don’t need this headache.

Oliver walks around the car and stands beside me.

He’s taller than me by a handful of inches, probably hitting six feet without shoes.

He stands tall and confident, his body long and lean like an athlete but without the bulk of one.

And, for the first time in a long time, I feel a crackle of attraction to another person.

I must’ve hit my head.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” I say, focusing on the mess in front of me and not at the man at my left.

“That depends on what you’re looking at.”

I don’t look at him, but I don’t have to in order to know he’s looking at me. His gaze is heavy on my cheek.

A chill fires through my body as I try not to read into his words or the way they—he— oozes sex appeal.

“My bumper is definitely not supposed to be touching the ground,” I say and then force a swallow. “That’s pretty disappointing.”

He switches his attention from me to the cars. “On the other hand, I’m pretty sure my mechanic can just pop my panel out, and I’ll be good to go.”

“Good for you.”

Knowing nothing about car repair except for the fact that it’s not cheap and the state of my front end is … hanging, all I see are dollar signs. Dollar signs that I do not have.

My stomach tightens as reality sobers me a little more.

“So, what do you want to do about this?” he asks.

Cry?

“I don’t know,” I say. “What do you do in an accident?”

He moves to get a better look at the damage. “According to Georgia law, we don’t have to involve the police unless there’s an injury, death, or property damage over five hundred dollars.”

“This is not the first time you’ve been in this situation, I gather.”

“What can I say?” He grins. “I was a mischievous teenager and I have four brothers. It’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Four brothers? Your poor mother.”

He laughs. The sound is easy and comfortable, as if we’re discussing the weather or family stories and not property damage. I don’t really know what to make of that.

“Well, there’s no injury and no death, but I have no idea on the amount of damage. Do you?”

“Probably fifteen hundred or so.”

Shit.

“That is,” he says, pausing for effect, “if you take it to a random mechanic and get ripped off.” He slips his hands into his pockets. “My mechanic, though—I bet we could get him to do it for less than five hundred.”

A-ha!

I twist around and square my shoulders with his. “So, what you’re saying is that we estimate the damage is less than five hundred dollars, so we don’t have to call the police.”

“That’s what I’m saying. We don’t have to call the police if you don’t want to. I don’t plan on turning mine into insurance. If you are, we need to call the cops for a report. The insurance will want that.”

I’m not reporting this to anyone. Involving the police sets us up for tickets and I’d definitely be getting one. I also have no interest in getting this fixed for five hundred or fifteen hundred if it’s not totally necessary.

“Let me ask you this,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “Can I drive it like that?”

“How far do you have to go?”

“Not far.”

He bends at the front end and inspects it. He peers beneath the busted plastic or whatever a bumper is made out of and fiddles with things.