Chapter Nine
Mason
“Wow, you look . . .” Mason stood at Ashlyn’s door the night of the gala, scratching the scruff lining his jaw. It was something new he’d been trying out for the past couple weeks and he hadn’t quite gotten used to the feel of it yet. “. . . different.”
Ashlyn’s hands drifted to her hips.
“Gee, Mas, stop. I’m blushing,” she deadpanned.
Shit. That hadn’t come out right at all, but seeing her in pink frilly lace had shocked him straight into stupidity.
“No. I didn’t mean . . . Not bad different. I just . . . I never really pictured you as a girly . . . I mean frilly . . .” Mason sighed. He could practically feel his foot being shoved deeper and deeper down his throat. “I’m digging myself a hole here, aren’t I?”
“For the love of mercy, stop talking.” Ashlyn drew him inside by his lapels and shut the door.
The dress had thrown him, but as he watched her move into the kitchen the distraction lifted and he noted that she looked incredible. Pink frills and all.
Two glasses thunked down on the counter. “You want a drink?”
“I’m not driving?”
“Your truck?” A slow smile bunched her cheeks. “As much as I would pay to see that, my mother’s driver is already on his way. Here.”
Mason glanced at the shot of honey whiskey she slid in front of him.
“Trust me.”
With a shrug and a grimace, he downed it in one swallow. It burned the whole way down. Ashlyn refilled her glass and took a second shot before putting the bottle away.
Outside, a car horn sounded and she groaned. “You ready for this?”
Mason shrugged. He had no clue what this entailed, but if the pre-show was any indication it would prove to be interesting. “Guess so.”
Ashlyn grabbed a pair of white heels from the counter and plopped into a chair. He had to laugh when he noticed that the lime green polish on her toes in no way matched the reserved pale pink on her fingers. They’d be hidden in her shoes, but it felt like some kind of minor rebellion. A bit of his Ashlyn shining through.
***
“Ashlyn, dear.” A woman in a no-nonsense black dress bustled through the crowd towards them the moment they stepped through the doors.
Ashlyn drew a deep breath as she approached. “Mother.”
She had blonde hair to match her daughter, but that’s where the similarities ended. Thin lips were molded into the likeness of a smile that carried none of the warmth that Ashlyn’s did. A sharp chin and beak-like nose did nothing to soften her appeal.
“And who is this?” She turned to Mason and hesitated.
“Mom, I’d like to introduce you to Mason Locklier. Mason, this is my mother Meredith Mills.”
“Nice to meet you.” Mason extended his hand to find it encased in a firm grip.
“Locklier . . .” Her dark eyes shone only with a calculating glint. “. . . as in Locksworth Unlimited?”
He didn’t know why he was surprised to hear the name of his parents company, but he was. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, how nice to meet you. I wasn’t aware that my daughter had such . . . acquaintances.” Meredith shot a stern look in Ashlyn’s direction. “If I had, the invitation certainly would have extended to your parents as well. Please offer them my apologies for the oversight.”
“I assure you they don’t feel slighted. And they wouldn’t have been able to make it this evening anyway. Work function.” The bald-faced lie fell easily from his lips and he didn’t regret it in the least if it would save Ash some grief later on.
“I see. Well, perhaps next time. I hope you enjoy the evening.”
His gaze drifted to the girl standing quietly by his side. “I’m sure I will.”
“Ashlyn.” The senator’s tone turned clipped. “You know how important tonight is. Do find time to mingle and try to be pleasant.”
Mason bit back a grin waiting to break free. The woman didn’t know her daughter at all if she thought issuing orders was the way to get through to her. But it died a quick death when all Ashlyn did was nod and answer, “I will.”
The tension leaked from her body like a deflating balloon as her mother turned and started through the crowd, stopping now and then to shake hands and kiss cheeks. Mason wasn’t a stranger to extravagant affairs. The broad, sweeping dance floor, tables covered with pristine linens, multiple chandeliers dangling from the vaulted ceiling, and oversized arching glass doors that led to multiple balconies overlooking the gardens they’d passed through on the way in didn’t intimidate him. But he felt Ashlyn’s anxiety as though it were his own.
“You want to dance?” It wasn’t exactly a rave, but the couples gliding around the dancefloor seemed to be enjoying themselves.
“Maybe later?” Ash fiddled with her white pearl clutch, snapping and unsnapping the tiny gold lock. “There are a few people I need to say hi to.”
Mingling didn’t appear to be high on her wish list for the evening, but duty called. “I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have to. If you want to get some food, or a drink, or whatever . . .”
“It’s fine.” He felt confident that he could be quite charming when the situation warranted it.
Making their way across the room was a little like crossing a minefield. The ballroom was crammed with the most finely dressed sardines Mason had ever laid eyes on. Wall-to-wall people dripping with gold and jewels. He thought his parent’s affairs had been fancy, but this was some next level stuff. The music being played by a pair of harpists—Mason had never even seen a harp in real life—was nearly drowned out by the overwhelming volume of voices and clatter.
Ashlyn’s gaze darted from one face to the next until she zeroed in on her target. The sheer plastic in her smile as they made their approach caused Mason to cringe, but the older man and his much younger wife didn’t seem to notice.
“Mr. Wallace, Mrs. Wallace, It’s lovely to see you this evening.”
Conversation ensued, every word of which was more sugar-coated than the last. Mason ran his tongue over his teeth, fearing cavities from simply standing so close. He smiled and nodded in all the right places, all the while suffocating on the high levels of perfume and self-aggrandizement in the air.
“I just love this dress.” Mrs. Wallace fluttered a pink frill. “You look adorable as always.”
Adorable was something you called puppies and babies. Adorable was decidedly not something you called Ashlyn Mills. Mason could only imagine the scathing sarcasm running wild through her mind, but once again she surprised him.
“Thank you.” Ashlyn giggled. She giggled. Mason couldn’t help doing a double-take. It was her alright. The girl he knew stood beside him, but it was like she’d had a complete personality transplant. “Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure Mr. Wallace would like a chance to show off those famous dance moves of his.”
The man barked a hearty laugh.
“Indeed.” Slipping an arm around his wife’s narrow waist, he led her on to the dance floor.
Faces blurred together after that. Mason couldn’t tell one senator, governor, or mayor from the next, but Ashlyn seemed to know each personally. She spewed more compliments over the next half hour than he’d heard pass her lips in two years. She chatted and laughed, but somehow it sounded like broken glass.
Mason tugged at his collar as the latest couple excused themselves. The temperature in the room was beginning to soar. Sweat tickled the back of his neck and the pungent aroma of body odor clouded with cologne thickened the air, making it difficult to breathe. When the pair stepped away Ashlyn took the opportunity to make a bee-line for the buffet table at the far end of the dance floor. Mason grinned when he spotted the chocolate fondue fountain. Just what the doctor ordered. Nothing fixed a case of Ashlyn blues better than dessert.
“Ashlyn.” A tall, wiry man with more salt than pepper in his hair blocked her path.
“Dad.” She looked startled to see him, but recovered gracefully. “I’d like you to meet Mas—”
“Nice to meet you.” The man—her father—glanced his way and dismissed him just as quickly. “I need you to do something for your mother.”
Ashlyn took a careful step back nearly bumping into one of the waitresses circulating with trays of crab puffs and shrimp cocktails. “What?”
“Mark insists that winning Senator Harding’s support is the key to nailing down this election. He’s the campaign manager and all his research indicates that the best way to reach Harding is through his grandson, Pres—”
“Preston.” Her mouth hung open before she snapped it shut.