17. Mason
Chapter seventeen
I’ve entered an unfamiliar and highly concerning state of mind in which I’m struggling to think of anything but Callie.
The way she loves learning new things, seeing the simplest things under the brightest light. It makes me want to show her the world. My world.
She loves iced matcha and the beach. In high school, she worked for a local charter company, helping on boat and helicopter tours along the coast.
She wears glasses after she’s been at the computer for long periods of time. The horny bastard in me let every naughty librarian fantasy come to life the first time I saw them, and I’m thoroughly ruined.
She has the most stunning blue eyes, the same ones she gave to her daughter.
Her daughter.
I thought only my niece could give me those excited bubbles in my chest. The ones that crackle and burst under my skin, and make my heart skip a beat for the pure happiness their presence brings.
I don’t know if I’m more of a baby guy than I thought I was or if it’s something specifically tied to Briony and Navie. Especially Navie.
Either way, I hate that tomorrow is her last day in the office with us.
I’m tempted to tell Callie to drop daycare altogether, but I don’t want it to look like favouritism when I probably wouldn’t do it for anyone else.
Maybe I can just build a daycare centre somewhere in our office? Maybe that’s too far… or is it?
I’m still lost in thoughts of them when my name echoes in the changeroom, and Tristan walks in.
“Hey, man.” I slap my palm against his as he passes, dumping his bags on the bench beside me. I’ve changed into my tennis clothes, but I only managed to get one shoe on before Callie took me over. Again.
“Thanks for switching our game to tonight instead,” he says, tugging his collared shirt over his head. The fine line tattoos scattered over his forearms stretch over his chest and collarbone, and one more on his hip. A random collection of hidden meanings.
“No worries.” I tug on my shoe. “I wasn’t really in the mood for a bar either.
” Most weeks, Tristan and I play tennis on Wednesdays and have drinks on Thursdays.
Back in the day, that would be the start of a weekend of hookups, though Tristan was never quite as enthusiastic as I was to indulge in the distraction of a woman.
I’d never leave him alone; we’d catch up while I had one eye on the dancefloor—deciding who I’d leave with—until Tristan was ready to call it quits.
Occasionally, he’d leave with someone, too.
He couldn’t make our game last night. His mum had a physio appointment that ran late, her muscles giving her more trouble than usual. Instead of skipping, he wanted the game tonight, needing to expel the energy.
“Is everything all good with your mum?” I ask.
Tristan trades his chinos for loose shorts, revealing more tattoos decorating his thighs and calves.
It’s crazy how people can present a version of themselves to some people and something entirely different to others.
I guarantee many people, women mostly, have been duped by what a nice guy Tristan looks like on the outside.
And he is a really nice guy, but from stories he’s told me, he’s got a kinky side. Makes me so proud.
“Yeah, she’s all good. Doc says her muscles are just out of practice with all the extra independence she’s gained in the new place. But it’s a good thing. She’s ecstatic to be regaining some freedom, sore muscles included.”
“That’s awesome.” I smile. I love that I was able to help his mum get there, even if neither she nor Tristan will ever know.
It’s not about recognition. “So, why’d you wanna come here tonight instead of The Wayside?
” I could hear the agitation in his voice when he called me, the deep sigh and clipped words.
He tugs his shirt down aggressively. “Work pissed me off this week.”
Selfishly, my ears prick up. Tristan’s always enjoyed his job, and he’s loyal. When Beth and I started our company, I tried to get him to come work with us, but he was on the fast track to becoming a senior architect. He wouldn’t accept a handout from me, and I respected the hell out of him. “Oh?”
Tristan’s eyebrows pitch as he stares at me, not for one second believing my feigned disinterest.
He tugs on his shoes, then picks up his bag, and wordlessly, I follow as we head out to the courts.
“The boss’s son.” He sighs. “After years of deciding he wanted nothing to do with the company, having no interest whatsoever in architecture or design because he was going to be a world-class boxer”—I chuckle at the way Tristan mockingly spits out the last of his tirade—“apparently, now he wants in.”
“What does that mean for you?” We drop our bags on the side of the court, pulling out our rackets and pocketing a few balls as we walk on either side of the net.
“This absolute scrub has even less clue about business than he does about boxing. Walks around the office, all proud cos he’s going to shake things up. Nothing’s wrong with the place; we’re award-winning, constantly featured in magazines.”
“So is my company, just saying.” I shrug with absolutely no sense of humility.
Tristan pinches the bridge of his nose. I know he’s not frustrated with me, but of a situation that’s clearly bothering him.
“Hey.” I tap my racket against his. “The offer’s always open to come work with me.”
The side of his mouth pulls up. “Trade one devil for another, you mean?”
“Beth’s not that bad.” I chuckle and bounce the ball a few times before I throw it up and serve.
We go back and forth, ribbing each other when we miss a ball or do a shit serve. We keep going, both huffing and dripping in sweat, before we stop for a water break.
I drop to the floor, resting my arms over my bent knees, and draw a deep breath through my nose.
“So, how’s Callie going?” Tristan asks, and my head snaps to his.
“Why? What have you heard?”
His eyes widen, his water bottle frozen mid-air on its way to his mouth. “Nothing,” he draws out. “I was just asking. Has something happened?”
“No.”
He stares at me, unblinking, his eyebrows pinched. “Do you want it to?”
“Pffft.” A series of huffs and random noises spill from my mouth, but no actual words to disagree.
“Mase, she’s your assistant. I mean, you can do what you want, but that feels messy. That’s not your style.”
“I know.”
“And she has a newborn.”
“She’s five months old. Calm down.”
“Calm d—” Tristan looks around, then leans his head in. “Mase… what are you doing?”
I groan and fall back against the floor. “I have no clue.”
“Is this like wanting something more cos you can’t have it, or are you actually crushing on her?”
“I think it started as the first thing, but now…” Who am I kidding? It was always the latter.
“Oh, shit.” Tristan chuckles. “You’re in deep already.”
“Am I?” I run a hand through my hair, pushing the damp strands off my forehead as a shadow falls over my face.
“Hi, Mason.” Emilia’s voice is sweet and fake, like fingernails running down a chalkboard.
I sit up, get back on my feet. “Hey, Emilia. You remember my friend, Tristan?”
“Thanks,” Tristan scoffs under his breath.
“Sure.” She smiles, running her eyes all over my friend, but then she steps closer to me. “You two always come together.”
I don’t miss the suggestion in her tone, and neither does Tristan as he looks at me from over her shoulder, eyes wide as he slowly shakes his head.
“Well, it’s harder to play tennis without a partner.” I try to pretend I don’t understand her insinuation. I didn’t hook up with Emilia for her subtlety. She never wanted me for anything other than to say she’d been with me, so I guess we’re even.
“Some things are just better with other people.” She runs a finger down my chest, and it feels like my heart is physically recoiling.
“And sometimes three’s a crowd.” I gently push her hand away. “We were just about to head out. See you around, Emilia.”
Those kinds of interactions with women are a dime a dozen for me, but they’ve never outright pissed me off.
Okay, I used them straight back, but I was still respectful of the time they gave me, ensuring they felt desired in the moment, without promising anything more.
Emilia just makes it sound like she’s bored and wants to be entertained.
I push Tristan over to our bags so we can hurry up and get the fuck out of here.
“In regards to your earlier question,” Tristan says, looking back at Emilia, who watches us walk away. “Yeah, I think you’re already in deep.”
Fuck.