Page 53 of Rival for Rent
He looked so pleased with himself, I couldn’t help but smile back.
Carolyn showed up fifteen minutes early, her heels clicking across the hardwood. She wore a black cocktail dress that looked demure until you noticed the stilettos. She was barely over five feet tall and always claimed she needed four-inch heels to keep people from stepping on her.
“Oh my god,” she said, hugging me. “Something smells amazing. What is that?”
“Roast garlic, apparently.”
I hugged her back. Carolyn had been one of our first hires when Brent and I started the company. We’d been friends ever since.
“Apparently?”
“I’m not the one who made it.” I held my hands up in surrender.
“Who did, then? Weren’t you going to cater?”
“I was. But Mason convinced me not to. He’s a really good cook, so I figured…”
“Oooh, who’s Mason?” she asked, lips rounding with delight.
“He’s—well, it’s hard to explain,” I said. Carolyn mostly worked offsite, so she hadn’t met him yet. “But he’ll be right down. I’m sure he can tell you…”
I trailed off because right then, Mason came down the stairs—and my brain short-circuited.
He looked incredible. His seersucker suit over a crisp white and blue striped shirt should’ve made him look like Colonel Sanders, but instead, he looked like someone who belonged in a magazine spread about the new Southern gentleman. The jacket hugged his broad shoulders, the pants were just tight enough to do criminal things to his ass, and his blond hair was brushed back neatly. He’d even shaved.
I felt like I should applaud. Or faint. Possibly both.
He saw me and Carolyn at the bottom of the stairs and smiled. I realized I wanted him to smile at me like that every day for the rest of my life.
“Well, hello,” Carolyn said, grinning as Mason stepped down. “I’m Carolyn. You must be the famous Mason I’ve heard so much about.”
She held out her hand and he shook it, glancing at me. “Only good things, I hope.”
“The very best,” she said. “For one, I hear you’re an amazing cook. Come show me what you’ve made. I’ve never seen Kai in that kitchen, but you clearly know your way around it.”
She linked her arm through his and led him towards the kitchen. Halfway there, she looked back and mouthed, ‘Damn,’ along with a littleOKhand gesture.
God. She thought we were dating. I needed to clear that up before she said something truly embarrassing to Mason.
But then the Espositos showed up a little early, and I rushed to greet them and hand out drinks. I barely had time to breathe before the Michaelsons arrived—Nancy and Steve, the same couple from the theater. Nancy immediately enveloped me in a cloud of perfume and launched into a dramatic tale about the ‘terrible traffic.’ They lived at the Four Seasons, ten blocks away, but she made it sound like they’d trekked across state lines.
Then came Roderick Gladstone, the Chens, Ophelia Monroe—and suddenly, it had been over thirty minutes since I’d seen Mason or Carolyn.
Not that Mason needed me. Somehow, he’d found an apron—one I was pretty sure didn’t exist in my house before he arrived—and had tied it around himself, his suit jacket slung over the back of a dining chair. He was carving chicken and talking Nationals baseball with Roderick, and when I glanced again, he was chatting politics with the Michaelsons like he did it every day.
It was like seeing a completely different person. I was used to Mason being grumpy, aloof, snide. But this Mason? This Mason laughed easily, talked confidently, blended into a room full of wealthy strangers like he belonged there. And he didn’t even flinch when Carolyn leaned in and asked, “So how long have you and Kai been...?” with a pointed smile.
“We’ve known each other since middle school,” Mason said, smooth as anything. “Kai was always smarter than me, so we didn’t share many classes, but we had the same homeroom teacher.”
Technically true. And just like that, he’d made it sound like we were old friends. No awkward tension, no sordid backstory—just two guys who went way back.
The evening was going well. As the clock neared nine, Carolyn shoved a glass into my hand and said, “Your time to shine, sweetie.”
I took a deep breath and a long sip—only to sputter and cough when I realized she’d handed me a gin and tonic. “What the—” I choked, “—why did you—I thought this was water!”
“How was I supposed to read your mind?” she said, all innocence. “A little Dutch courage never hurt anyone. I know how much you hate public speaking.”
I’d been avoiding alcohol all night specifically to avoid moments like this. Great. I dabbed at my blazer where the drink had splashed. At least it wouldn’t stain.
