Page 53 of This

“Yeah. Older. Paler. Bitchier.”

I flip him off and purposely drop my bag on his foot. He flings it into the backseat of his truck when we get outside, aiming for me, but I block it while checking my phone.

“I thought Dane was coming with you,” I say after he climbs in the front.

“Grandpa threw him the entire Willis portfolio out of nowhere. It’s one of our biggest clients, and he needs to catch up before a meeting on Monday. He’s been buried in balance sheets and earnings reports, yelling,‘Fuck me,’ from his office all day.”

Sure enough, a text says something similar, but in Dane.

Fuck. This. Shit. No chance I’ll be at the airport. Or dinner. Or my own funeral.

I wilt into the seat. We haven’t seen each other in over a month, since our fight about Bentley. The morning after, I thought we were back to normal, but our goodbye felt off. The time apart different.

“I’ll assume you won’t throw a fit about stopping there real quick?” Liam eyes me through the rearview mirror. “I need to drop something off.”

Glancing out the window, I shrug and say, “Whatever.”

He starts the truck, and I bite my lips together to keep the smile off my face. Because the face-cracking grin on Keaton’s is enough for both of us.

The lobby of the buildingis quiet, except the trickling water of a fountain in one corner. The lady behind the panel with Masters Financial Group etched into hazy glass gives a small perk of her lips and goes back to her work. Keaton loops her arm through mine as we follow Liam across. We pass a small kitchen and a conference room before he ducks into one of the offices.

“Dane’s is the next one,” Keaton says before she goes in. She sits in one of the chairs in front of the desk, Liam on the other side with a stack of papers.

I hover outside a few seconds and then stroll farther down. When my knock on the half-open door is met by a low growl, I push it the rest of the way. He doesn’t look up, on the office phone with his elbow on the desk, head in his hand, and fingers in his mussed-up hair. The few people I’ve seen were in suits and skirts, Liam in slacks and a dress shirt. Dane is in jeans. The sleeves of his button-down are rolled up and the tie around his neck loosened.

Propped in the doorway, I watch him glance between the papers in front of him and his phone off to the side. I slide mine out of my back pocket and text it.

Waiting for something?

The phone vibrates on his desk, his attention trained on the screen right away. He checks the message, and a smile curves on his lips. “If you’re not the one in my doorway right now, we’re going to have a problem.”

When I don’t say anything, he looks up. Nothing is wrong or different once our eyes meet.

His entire body relaxes back in his chair, and he dangles the office phone away from his ear. “So fucking beautiful.”

“Important call?” I ask, stepping farther in.

He drops the phone onto his desk and presses a button, so hold music streams through the speakers. “Not anymore.” He hooks a finger at me, mouthing,Come here.

I shut the door, and on my way over, I scan the room. It’s bigger than I imagined from the pictures he’d sent. Art prints on the walls match those hanging in businesses across the country. The chairs are the same as Liam’s, and Dane has a leather couch under the window. But the desk, the desk I recognize. Black and sleek.

“I was wrong,” he says. He rolls his chair back, and when I’m close enough, he pulls me onto his lap. “We have a problembecauseit was you in my doorway.”

I drape my arms around his neck and lean back on his arm. “I could go. If you want.”

“I don’t want.” His hand pushes into my hair, loosening the sloppy updo I threw together in the airport bathroom. “And if you try to leave, I can’t be held responsible for what will happen.”

He brings my lips to his, letting out a gruff sound when they connect. I wonder if he would have kissed me like this at the airport. In front of Liam and Keaton. A terminal full of strangers wouldn’t matter, as we’ve been all over each other in various bars in San Francisco and a few tourist stops along I-80, but people we know in the real world?

“Mr. Masters?” a man says through the phone.

I missed the music cutoff, but Dane seems unsurprised by the interruption. “Still here,” he says.

“We’ve moved the reservation for Monday ahead two hours, sir, and scheduled your tee time for eleven a.m. As always, we’re thrilled to have you dining with us, but we’re sorry your father won’t be able to join—”

“Uh-huh. Thank you.” Dane slaps at the buttons on the phone, hanging up on him.

I tug at the knot of his tie. “Liam said you have a lot of work to do this weekend?”

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