Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Oliver
“That’s never going to work.” I rub my forehead and listen to Greg, our construction manager, deliver his spiel over the phone. “Look, I don’t mean to cut you off here, but that’s simply not going to work.”
My leather chair squeaks as I lean back and gaze out of my office windows. The sun is shining brightly just above the buildings to the East. I love watching it rise—slowly inching its way into the sky like a lazy yawn. Some people meditate. Some go to church. I watch the sun rise.
But not today.
Today, I missed it. It’s evident in my mood.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, taking advantage of Greg’s pause, “email me a bullet point list of everything you just said and I’ll go over it with Holt today. I don’t think it’s going to work, but we’ll see what he thinks.”
“Will do. I know it’s more than we bargained for, but I don’t see another solution.”
“There’s always another solution, Greg.”
“I can’t find it for the life of me.”
That’s why I’m the boss. “Then we make one.”
“Okay, Mr. Mason.”
Greg’s voice is defeated, which wasn’t my intention. I want our guys in the field to feel confident. Confident people do better work. But I don’t have the time, nor the energy, to coddle anyone today.
“Email me,” I tell him. “I need to go.”
“You got it. Goodbye, sir.”
I end the call and sit up, my chair screaming again. The sound grates on my nerves. I unlock my computer screen to send an email to my assistant to buy me a new one when I realize I don’t have one. Or, rather, I do but she’s overwhelmed.
Irritation sweeps through me like a wildfire.
I punch a couple of buttons on my desk phone.
“Yes, Mr. Mason?” Toni, the head of human resources, asks.
“Good morning, Toni. I need an update on the administrative issue in my office, please.”
“Yes, sir. Not a problem.” Papers shuffle in the background.
“We are in the process of hiring you an executive assistant. We’ll leave Kelly to oversee the office as a whole and we’ll move Miriam over to assist Holt.
Also, I’m on the lookout for an EA for Boone, too. Someone tough is what Holt suggested.”
The plan soothes my displeasure enough to stop the start of a migraine behind my left eye.
“I have a few candidates coming in this morning,” she says. “Here’s hoping they are as good in real life as they are on paper.”
They never are. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Toni. Please keep me in the loop.”
“I will, sir.”
I lift the handset and then sit it back down.
My chair squeaks again as I lean back and try to center myself. The morning has been a shit show with problems from job sites that Greg can’t handle, issues with contracts from the legal department, and the disarray in the front office.
And I missed the sunrise.
I sigh.
My gaze falls to the stack of papers—contracts, purchase orders, invoices—that need my signature.
It’s not as easy as it used to be. Just as harried, but not as simple.
When our former secretary retired, everything fell apart.
Suddenly, no one knew anything despite all the training in the world.
The day she left felt like the first day of work for everyone else.
We’ve never recovered.
Miriam and Kelly do a decent job, but they aren’t equipped to handle three Masons in one office now that Boone has decided to actually work. Miriam and Holt get along well, so he’ll use her exclusively. Kelly is great but we don’t really vibe on a level that will work out on that kind of EA level.
The light on my desk phone flickers and a buzz resonates through the room. Holt’s extension flashes on the screen.
I press the speakerphone button. “Yeah?”
“Did Greg call you?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“You sound optimistic.”
“It’s not gonna work, Holt. There’s no fucking way. By the time you factor in—”
“I know.” He chuckles. “How much coffee have you had today?”
I glance at the three mugs on my desk. “Enough.”
His chuckle grows louder.
“This version of you is annoying,” I tell him, plucking the top file off the stack at the corner of my desk.
“What version?”
“The …” I grimace, even though he can’t see me. “The happy one.”
The bastard laughs even louder.
“Call me back when you’re a prick,” I tell him. “It makes me feel better about myself when I’m the nice one.”
“Just go see Wade. That’ll fix it.”
My lips turn upward. “At least you’re still logical.”
“I’m a happy logic. That’s what a good woman will do for you.”
Just like that, I grimace again.
There’s so much to be vexed about in that sentence—some of which I might’ve worked out in sunrise therapy this morning.
I tug at my collar. Happiness. A good woman. The concept that my life is lacking in any way—it’s all annoying and it’s been annoying well before Holt called me this morning.
A bubble sitting in my stomach kept me from finding any peace all night.
I snacked. I worked out. I snacked again.
A shot of whiskey never hurt anyone and it didn’t hurt, nor help, me last night. The hot tub wasn’t the answer. My sheets were nestled at the foot of my bed in a giant ball when I woke up this morning.
Throughout all of this, one voice filtered through my brain.
“Goodbye, Oliver.”
Out of everything Shaye said to me yesterday, this was the one sentence that ricocheted through my brain. It was almost a taunt, a challenge—even though I don’t think she meant for it to be.
I think she genuinely was concluding our interaction as if we will never see each other again.
And why would we? We’re two strangers who met in a freak sneeze accident that may be the first of its kind.
But, then again, maybe that was some kind of universe interference? Maybe we were supposed to meet. It certainly feels like it.
I scowl at myself for unearthing this line of thinking. It’s stupid. It’s pointless. It’s a waste of damn time.
My fingers strum against my desktop.
“Are you?” Holt asks, shaking me out of my reverie.
I shift my weight and refocus. “Am I what?”
“Never mind. Obviously, you’re not.”
“Okay. I’m not.”
He laughs, which amplifies my irritation again.
“I heard you had a car wreck yesterday,” he says, a smile buried in the words.
I roll my eyes. “Word travels fast.”
“What can I say? Boone is quick.”
I roll my eyes.
“Naturally, I also know that the woman refused to give you her number,” he goads.
“She was married.”
Even though I don’t know that to be true, it seems like the fastest way to shut him down.
It also makes me feel better.
That one little possibility—that I have no reason to believe due to no mention of a husband and no ring on her finger—is my saving grace. And not just for my ego.
It’s what dampened the burn inside me to find her.
A hand goes to my head and I scratch at my scalp.
I’ve fought all morning not to think about Shaye. Each time she started to slip into my mind, I shoved her right back out. But now that Holt has placed her in the forefront of this conversation, the nugget in my gut that I fought with all night is back.
“You being quiet is concerning,” Holt says.
“Yeah, well …”
I frown.
My thoughts remind me of a hurricane, tumbling over themselves so fast and hard that it’s impossible to make any real sense of it.
I don’t know why I keep thinking about her.
This isn’t a problem I encounter often. Or ever.
I can push a woman out of my brain and focus on work like the CEO that I am.
Sure, she was gorgeous. And funny. And charming in an entertaining kind of way. It also probably didn’t hurt that she didn’t fawn over me. I like a chase as much as the next guy. But, in reality, I’m sure it was just the fact that I’m not sure if she was okay or if she got her car checked.
Yeah. I’m sure that is it.
“I’ll give you a pass,” Holt says. “What are we doing about Greg?”
I blow out a breath. “I don’t know. I think we need to go out there and take a look at the Jewell site and see what he’s overlooking. There has to be a better way to get in and out of there.”
“Probably a good idea. You free around four?”
I fiddle with my keyboard until my screen awakens. My calendar is splashed in front of me. “Yeah.”
“I’ll drive. Meet me in the parking garage at four.”
“Okay.”
“Also,” he says, “I was just in Toni’s office. She’s interviewing a handful of possible assistants this morning for you. I told her to weed them out and send you copies of any of the resumes that might work.”
I open the folder in front of me and take out an invoice. “Yeah. I talked to her this morning.”
“One more thing.” He clears his throat. “The Landry family sent an invitation over on Friday for the annual Landry Charity Gala.”
“Can I just send a check?”
“Negative. Blaire and I are going since her brother, Walker, will be in town for it. That means you have to go too.”
I scan the invoice in front of me. I slap my signature in bold, black ink in the red box, thus approving payment for a new accounting software system.
“You’re the family representative. I think that gives me a pass,” I say.
“This is good press, Ollie.”
“This is a pain in the ass,” I mutter.
He sighs. “It’s Saturday, so make plans. I’ll see you at four.”
The line clicks, and he’s gone.
I glance up at my computer screen as a purple-colored box magically appears on my calendar.
Landry Family Gala—Saturday, 6p.m. EST
“Fucker,” I mumble.
My stomach growls, desperate for something other than more coffee. I check my watch and see that it’s nearly lunchtime.
I toss my pen on my desk and reach for the phone but pause. My hand dangles in the air.
In another time, before the administrative mess in our office, I would’ve asked my assistant to order me lunch. I wouldn’t have to tell her what I wanted or where from. She’d know. But as my gaze flips to the door that separates my office from the reception area, I know that time has passed.
“I can’t work like this,” I say to an empty office. “I need help.”
I grab a mug of cold coffee and march to the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Mason,” Kelly says from her perch at the large black marble desk that faces the elevator. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you, Kelly.” I nod to the other two women standing at her desk. I also ignore the hearts in their eyes. “Hold my calls, please.”
“Of course, sir,” Kelly says.
I hit the button on the elevator and try not to acknowledge the weight of their eyes on me. As soon as the doors open, I step inside and punch the floor for human resources.
My stomach growls again as I descend to the fourth floor.
The doors pull apart, and I step into the lobby. Genevieve smiles brightly from the front desk.
“Hello, Mr. Mason,” she says.
“Is Toni in her office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thanks.”
My coffee sloshing in the cup, I head down a long hallway to the right. Offices pass on my right, and two large conference rooms are on my left. As I pass the second one, my feet falter.
I step closer to the half-closed blinds and peer inside the room.
My body knows what, or whom, I see before my brain registers it.
I draw in a quick, heated breath as goose bumps prickle my skin. My stomach knots. My heartbeat picks up in to a frenzied pace.
Sitting at the table is her. Shaye.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
Her chestnut-colored hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders instead of the messy bun she wore yesterday. Her lips are a pretty pink. From this angle, her cheekbones look wildly high and the apples of her cheeks round and rosy.
She focuses on a piece of paper in front of her.
What is she doing here?
“Mr. Mason?” Toni’s voice says from somewhere to my right. It snaps me back to reality. “Can I help you? Genevieve said you were on your way back to see me.”
Shaye moves, her head beginning to turn to face me. I step away from the window toward Toni.
“Is that where you’re holding interviews?” I ask, jamming a thumb toward the conference room behind me.
“Yes.”
A hot swallow passes down my throat and drops into an acidy stomach.
My mind races, calculating possibilities that this woman would randomly show up in my life twice in as many days.
Surely, that’s a harbinger. Hopefully, a good one.
I ignore the scream in my brain that’s as loud as my squeaky chair—the one telling me that I know better than to do what I’m about to do, that it’s against every rule I’ve ever made about work—and do it anyway.