Page 6 of Making It Burn
Mason’s eye twitched.“Of course.”
“Excellent,” Patsy said, beaming.“I have a feeling you two are going to make a formidable team.”
Formidable was one word for it.Combustible was another.
The meeting dragged on for another twenty minutes—case details, timelines, strategy.I absorbed maybe half of it.My brain was still preoccupied with the man sitting three chairs away; his posture was so rigid he seemed carved from marble.
Finally, mercifully, Patsy dismissed us.“Mason, why don’t you show Beau to his office and get him up to speed on the case files?”
Mason stood, his movements precise and controlled.“Of course.”
We filed out of the conference room in silence, the other associates scattering to their desks.Lisa shot me a look—half sympathy, half curiosity—as she disappeared down the hall.
And then it was just the two of us, standing in the corridor like gunslingers at high noon.
“Your office is this way,” Mason said curtly, then he spun on his heel and began walking.
We walked in silence, past frosted glass walls and offices filled with people who didn’t know they were witnessing the beginning of a wildfire.Mason’s stride was brisk, purposeful—like if he moved fast enough, he could outrun whatever the hell this was.
I kept pace easily, studying him from the corner of my eye.Fifteen years had changed him in ways I hadn’t expected.The boy who’d glared at me across a lacrosse field was gone, replaced by this polished, controlled man who looked like he’d ironed out every wrinkle in his personality along with his shirt.
But I could still see it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth.He was furious.Or rattled.Maybe both.
Good.
He halted in front of an office door, and I nearly collided with him.
Up close, he was even more devastating—those blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass, that jaw tight with barely controlled tension.He’d filled out since high school, all lean muscle and coiled energy.A body that came from religious gym sessions and a punishing work schedule.
For half a second, neither of us spoke.Just stared at each other like we were trying to solve an equation that had no answer.
Then Mason’s expression hardened.“Let’s get something straight,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.“What happened in high school?That stays in high school.We’re professionals now.Let’s act like it.”
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and gave him my best smile—the one that usually made people nervous.“Sure, Price.Whatever you say.”
“I’m serious, Thatcher.”
“So am I.”
For a moment, we just stared at each other, the air between us crackling with something I refused to name.Something that felt too much like the charge before lightning strikes.
“Let’s try to have a good working relationship,” Mason bit out, his voice clipped.“Case files are already on your desk.Read them, get familiar, and we’ll meet tomorrow morning at eight to strategize.”
“Can’t wait.”
His eye twitched.Just barely.“Try to be on time.”
“I’m always on time.”
“We’ll see.”
Price walked away, his footsteps sharp and precise against the polished floor, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and a hollow feeling I couldn’t quite name.
I turned and pushed open the door to my office.It was smaller than Mason’s but still impressive—floor-to-ceiling windows, a sleek desk, a view of the city that would’ve been breathtaking if I could focus on anything other than the memory of the look on Mason’s face as he limped off the lacrosse field.
I sank into my chair and stared at the case files stacked neatly on my desk, but the words blurred together.Closing my eyes, I saw him again—seventeen, defiant, being helped to the sideline while his team celebrated around him.I’d stood there frozen, stick still in my hand, watching him go and hating myself for the sick twist in my gut that was half guilt, and half something I didn’t have a name for.
The rivalry had burned hot from the moment we first faced off freshman year—two cocky teenagers who recognized something threatening in each other.
