Resolution (Mason Family #5)

Prologue

Wade

“Will you please cooperate?” Holt sighs, his face muddled with complete exasperation.

My brothers and I sit around a conference room table in their office building.

The only one missing is Coy. He was smart enough not to work in the family business.

My architectural firm is technically a separate entity for the sake of my sanity, but most of my projects interlace with my brothers’, which is a great setup. Until it’s not.

“Come on, Wade,” Oliver groans.

I sigh, resting my forearms on the table.

I was over this ridiculous conversation—a meeting called with the presumption of business—nineteen minutes ago.

We’ve been in this room for a total of twenty.

I’m no more inclined to indulge their request than I was the first minute because this business meeting is really an adult version of my brothers getting themselves into a situation and pleading for my help.

“And which project would you like me to drop to make room for this one?” I raise my eyebrows, knowing damn well they aren’t about to suggest that I remove one of their projects from my list. “I have four Mason Limited projects for you guys in various stages of development, and I’m working on three homes—one that is taking up a lot of my time right now. ”

Holt rolls his eyes.

Oliver sighs too, frustration evident in the harshness of his exhale.

“So, which is it?” I ask as if I’m actually considering this absurd request. “Which job of yours do you want me to cancel? Actually, let’s pick two, and one must be Greyshell.”

Boone, however, leans forward. A smirk settles on his lips. “He’s considering it. Wade is breaking. We’re breaking him.”

I level my gaze on my youngest brother. Before I can put him in his place and tell him that there is no way he can or ever will break me, Oliver steps in.

“For the love of God, Boone, don’t antagonize him,” Oliver says.

I arch a brow at Boone but remain otherwise unaffected—at least on the surface. The truth is, I am affected. I loathe being put in this position. My brothers rarely do this to me, but when they do, they go all in.

Oliver looks at me with resignation. “Let’s just … Let’s back up a little and see this for what it is.”

“I’ve done that,” I tell him. “Do you know what I was doing prior to your text summoning me here?”

Oliver doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

“I’m sure it wasn’t fun,” Boone says, tossing a sunflower seed in the air and catching it in his mouth. He crunches it, then grins. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Well, considering that this is a workday, that would be pretty evident. Don’t you think?” I ask before smirking. “I apologize. Silly question. You never think.”

Boone’s jaw drops. But before he can reply, Oliver cuts in and saves him.

“Curt Bowery, the hotel magnate responsible for—”

“I know who he is, Oliver,” I deadpan.

“Then you know what a score it would be to make friends with him.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to be friends with anyone.”

“Dammit, Wade,” Oliver says, throwing himself back in his chair.

Holt motions for Oliver to take it easy and then takes his turn trying to convince me to participate in their scheme to befriend one of the wealthiest men in all of Georgia.

Via me. The one who doesn’t care. The one who’s too busy.

The one who just wants to design things that excite me and be left alone.

I’m choosy about what projects I take on and who I work with. I have a process, and it doesn’t mesh with just anyone. Independence and control over my day are at the top of the list when it comes to things I value. My brothers know this, yet … here we are.

“Listen,” Holt says. “Curt just wants us to design a home for one of his granddaughters. How hard can that be?”

“Who is this us you speak of? Did you suddenly get a degree in architecture this morning?”

Holt looks at the ceiling.

“Curt rattled on about your work at the Landry Gala a few weeks back,” Oliver says. “He keeps calling me.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“This could be really good for business, Wade,” Holt says. “He has worldwide connections and government contacts. He can literally snap his fingers and get anything he wants.”

“He can’t get me.”

Oliver groans. “Curt has already hinted at a possible collaboration on a project in Atlanta. He’s talking about a state-of-the-art hotel, shopping—the whole bit. Just having our name associated with him would be a feather in our cap.”

“Wade, please,” Holt says, cutting in. “We need you to do this for the greater good of the family.”

“I’d do it if I could,” Boone says.

“Boone, you couldn’t trace your hand with a fucking crayon.” It’s my turn to exhale. “Listen, I’ve really enjoyed this little chat, but I need to go. I—”

“Fine.” Holt interrupts me, running a finger over his lips. “I have a compromise.”

“You have no leverage with which to compromise,” I point out.

“It’s my time. My skills. My lack of time in the fucking day to spend working with some silver-spoon princess who will have unrealistic ideas about architecture that she gleaned from a fake reality show.

” I narrow my gaze at my brothers. “I am not a babysitter nor am I a prostitute. I decide what projects I take on. You can’t just hire me out to the highest bidder. ”

Boone tosses another sunflower seed into the air and catches it. “The granddaughter could be hot.”

I don’t dignify that with a reply.

“Do this for us,” Holt says. “Help us get our foot in the door with Bowery Hotels. I know it will be one more thing you don’t have time for.

We get that. We understand you don’t want to do this.

But …” He takes a deep breath. “If you agree to do this for us, I won’t make you be a groomsman in my wedding. ”

I narrow my eyes because he’s playing dirty.

Holt knows me more than I’m willing to admit. There aren’t many things I want less in the world than to be paraded down an aisle in front of fifty million people in an overpriced and unnecessary ceremony like some kind of trained monkey in an expensive suit. The whole idea makes me twitchy.

“First,” I say carefully, lest they get the wrong impression, “you can’t make me do anything.”

Boone chokes on a sunflower seed, earning him a warning glare from Holt.

“Second,” I say after pausing to make sure Boone doesn’t asphyxiate, “do you even know what Curt wants? Can I do this via email? Electronic prints? How big is this project? Are we starting from scratch? Who is the point person? Do they own the property already or is this conceptual?” I groan.

“And why can’t they use the architect they work with on a daily basis? ”

Holt looks at Oliver. He shrugs.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Oliver says. “I don’t know. I can forward you the emails he’s sent, but they’re basically inquiring about your availability.”

“Great. It’s settled. Tell him I’m not available.”

“Wade, if the roles were reversed and I was refusing to cooperate,” Boone says, “you’d be the first one up my ass, telling me to think beyond myself.”

I sigh. “If it were you, Boone, you wouldn’t have anything else going on. I have a full schedule right now. See the difference?”

They see the difference. They all see the difference. The problem is, they know I see it too—from both sides.

The reality is, I don’t care how much pull or money Curt Bowery has. It doesn’t matter to me. I have enough work to last me two years and enough money to last me a lifetime. That’s part of the beauty of being a bachelor.

Unfortunately, my brothers don’t think like me.

They’ve all started to settle down. They want marriages and children and all the domesticated life trappings that make me ill. That means that Mason Limited doesn’t just have to supply them with a solid future. It also has to take care of their families—families that are my family too.

While I’m happy to walk out of here without agreeing to this Bowery Hotels nonsense, the weight of my brothers’ eyes sets firmly on my shoulders.

They need me to do this—not just for them but for potential future Mason generations.

I know it, and they know I know it. They also know that I’m not completely heartless.

Dammit.

As if he can read my mind, Boone smirks. “I really hope my little Rosie doesn’t need Curt’s help someday, and I’ll have to tell her that her favorite uncle Wade couldn’t make time to—”

“Fine,” I say, shoving my chair backward with more force than necessary. “I’ll meet with whomever, but I’m not guaranteeing that I’ll do it.”

“Great. That’s all we’re asking,” Oliver says hurriedly.

“And Holt—you better take me out of the groomsmen lineup,” I add. “And you are dealing with Mom when she flips out. Not me.”

“Deal,” Holt says, his tone tinged with disbelief.

I’m surprised your proposal worked too.

“This is completely ridiculous,” I mutter as I gather my things.

A discernible tension creeps through the room. It snakes its way across the table, pulling at my brothers and me. They’re looking at each other—I know this without looking at them—but I refuse to make eye contact.

Do not look. You know they’re holding something back.

The collar of my shirt is tight. My jaw sets in place. My heartbeat strums in my chest as the walls of the conference room seem to shrink.

“Oh, and um … You have a meeting with Curt tomorrow at noon in your office,” Boone says.

My hands still over my briefcase, and I look up at Oliver’s cringing face. This motherfucker.

Oliver shrugs sheepishly. “What can I say? We had faith.”

My gaze narrows. His brazenness is absurd. “No, you had a whole lot of stupid. That’s what you had.”

Oliver gets to his feet, relief across his face. “Thank you, Wade. You won’t regret this.”

I pick up my things and level my gaze at my brothers. I let it linger for a few seconds to ensure my displeasure about this entire situation is understood. Once I’m sure my point hits home, I drag my briefcase off the table.

“Famous last words,” I mutter and march out the door.