I’ve always thought that New York City has one of the most beautiful skylines in the world. Through the small plane windows, the skyscrapers stretch into the sunset-filled sky, tips so high I’m sure they’ll clip our wings.

Mason stretches out on the leather sofa, calm even as we begin our sharp descent. “Come to my place tonight,” he says.

My stomach does a slow flip. Somewhere in the middle of those buildings below, my sister is making herself at home in my apartment. “I should…”

He cuts me off with a lazy grin that almost stops my heart. “Your sister can wait another day.” He lifts an eyebrow. “You did tell her you were on a business trip, right?”

Actually, I’ve left most of the details about this retreat to myself, still unsure how to explain it. No matter how I phrase the words, Renee will read the subtext, and she will be relentless in her pursuit of the truth. But he’s right—she isn’t expecting me home yet. “I guess I could stay one night…”

Mason’s grin widens. “I’m glad you have the strength to suffer a few more hours in my presence.”

“The sacrifices I’m willing to make for this company.”

While he made good on his promise to leave the island, he spent most of the long flight home on his laptop or phone, texting, emailing, researching.

“Do you plan to make me work all night?” I ask eventually.

Mason’s eyes glaze over with instant longing, and I blush, not realizing until too late the sexual undertone of my words. My stomach flutters.

“I thought I’d at least make you dinner,” he says, winking. “Hungry?”

My grin is so wide it makes my cheeks ache. “Famished.”

* * *

Mason’s penthouse suite in Upstate New York is more than double the size of my childhood home. Long and narrow, the walls and windows stretch impossibly far in both directions, the length of the open concept space broken up by expensive looking furniture and a curved brick pony wall peppered with exotic flowers and an impressive waterfall that flows into a small pool.

“Whoa,” I say. And then again when a splash cuts through the silence. “What the hell was that?”

“Koi,” Mason says. He drapes his jacket over a bar stool and plucks a can of fish food from a cabinet near the pond. “Would you like to see them feed?”

I slip off my shoes, walk barefoot across the hardwood and peer into the swirling depths of water. An orange and red fish surfaces, as though in greeting, and then dips back under the water, winding through a maze of rocks and plant life. A second koi follows close behind, flipping its fins in beautiful display.

Mason sprinkles food into the water and several more fish peck at the pellets until the water froths from the feeding frenzy.

“How many fish do you have?” I say, losing count at half a dozen.

Mason shrugs. “Eight—maybe nine. I rescue them from pet stores.”

I tilt my head. “Rescue?”

He sprinkles more food into the water. “People buy koi not realizing how big they get. Or they put them in outdoor ponds, then don’t know what to do with them in the colder months. They trade them in for smaller fish.”

“That’s so sad,” I say, surprised, but also touched by his obvious care. “I didn’t realize that was even a thing.”

Mason’s lips form a crooked smile. “It’s definitely a thing.” He brushes off his hands and walks over to a glass coffee table where mail is stacked in three neat piles. A polished silver statue of the machine from the Terminator movie acts a centerpiece, gleaming under the natural light that filters in through the oversized windows.

Most of the available wall space is bare, sans a couple of abstract pieces of art and a framed Chuck Norris poster that also looks signed. Bile creeps up my throat—my father practically worships that man.

“You’re quite the movie buff,” I say.

“Memorabilia mostly,” he says. He sets down his mail, unopened, and holds out his hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”

He leads me to the far end of his suite, winding through the gourmet kitchen that morphs into the dining room with a chandelier so large and impressive it might have been ripped from the set of Phantom of the Opera. The dining area transforms into another seating area, and behind it, an actual room that is the master suite.

My jaw drops. The room is crimson and cream, with plush carpets and lush bedding. A four poster, king-sized bed takes up at least half of the space, an intentional focal point that does something to my insides. My throat goes dry as my thoughts veer off course, reimagining our night of passion in Hawaii. I cross one leg in front in a futile attempt to lessen the dull ache of yearning, but I’m tingling with desire.

A door at the back of the room is padlocked shut.

Mason tugs me toward it. “This way.”

Unease pricks at the back of my neck. “You’re not a murderer, are you?” I say, not fully teasing. It occurs to me how easily I seem to follow Mason—out of the city, out of my comfort zone—and the first inkling of nervous anticipation tightens my chest.

Mason shoots me a devilish look. “Only on Wednesdays. Sundays are for prayer and stuff.”

“And stuff?” I say, broadening my smile. It’s so easy to be with this version of Mason, the intense but genuinely interesting guy that he becomes outside the office and away from his partners.

He unlocks the padlock and eases open the door. I blink into the dim light, and then widen my gaze with awe. At the back of the space, a giant flat screen drops down from a rounded ceiling that is painted black and dotted with glowing dots that form constellations and stars. But the virtual galaxy isn’t what makes my breath catch. A giant dragon curls around a thick pole, massive jaw open and pointed to the rows of couch seating below.

“Check this out,” Mason says. He flicks a switch and an overhead blue light shines down on the dragon, highlighting its purple and red complexion. An eerie melody filters through the surround sound speakers. My skin prickles with anticipation.

Seconds later, the dragon’s head sways from side to side, his impressive jaw opening and then snapping shut. I’m transfixed, mesmerized by the music, the lights, the animation. The creature opens its maw once more and a burst of flame erupts from his mouth. Sudden heat splashes over my face and I gasp. “Holy shit.”

Mason bobs his head with excitement. “I know, right? Some theatre in Canada was selling the thing, and I actually flew there to make a bid on this guy.”

“He’s amazing,” I say, still staring at the gigantic beast. It must cost Mason thousands of dollars to keep the dragon working, but talk about making an impression! Dragging my eyes from the ceiling, I survey the rest of the room. More movie props, some I recognize, many that I don’t. On the opposite wall from the flat screen, a bank of pinball machines, as well as the fortuneteller from the movie BIG, flank an antique popcorn maker that even empty emits a buttery scent.

“If I looked in your garage, would I find a DeLorean?”

He rocks back on his heels. “You would. As well as a 1967 Shelby GT 500.”

“Eleanor,” I say, with reverence. “I know the movie.”

“Impressive,” he says. “Come, let’s make you something to eat. I know you’re hungry.”

I suspect the flutter in my stomach has little to do with food, but I slip out of the theatre room and back into the master suite, and then follow Mason to the kitchen. He gestures to the stools on the other side of the breakfast nook. “Relax. I’ll see what I’ve got in the fridge. I can’t promise anything gourmet.”

“I’m not picky,” I say, which is true. Dad was a better chef than Mom, and after he left, we lived on Mac and Cheese and pizza, more out of survival in the beginning, and then because it had become normal. Mom never inspired a love of cooking, and when I moved into my apartment, food became more of a luxury than necessity. I could happily live on bagels and Cheeze Whiz. “But I am thirsty.”

Mason reaches up to grab a bottle of red wine from a built-in rack above the toaster, and sets it on the counter. “One step ahead of you.”

I study the label while he pulls out the corkscrew and two glasses.

“If you’d prefer a different variety, I’m sure I’ve got something in the wine room. Champagne?”

I dip my head shyly. “This is perfect.”

It’s certainly more expensive than any wine I’ve bought, and I commit the label to memory in case I ever have a chance to share it with Renee.

Mason holds up a carton of eggs. “Hope you like cheese omelets, because that’s about all I have.”

“Delicious.”

Mason hands me a grater and a brick of marble cheese. As I get to work, I’m surprised at how comfortable it seems—a surreal normalcy in a situation that is anything but. Mason’s apartment boasts of extreme wealth, but watching him scramble eggs and pour them into a sizzling frying pan reminds me that he’s just a guy.

An incredibly hot, sexy guy.

And very complex.

Busting through his barriers won’t be easy, but if this—whatever this is—is going to work, I need to try. I deserve to be happy.

“Did your mom cook?”

Mason scoffs. “Mom took off when I was just a kid. And Dad never remarried. A couple of his lady friends could pull off a decent grilled cheese sandwich, but they were more beauty than brains.” He lifts the pan off the element and tosses the omelet in the air. It flips, and lands with perfect execution.

“Whoa,” I say, genuinely impressed. “Those skills don’t come naturally.”

His voice goes quiet. “Mrs. Kratky taught me a few kitchen tricks.”

A lump forms in the back of my throat at the mention of his former teacher’s name. I recognize it from the headlines—she was caught in the crossfire of the shooter who riddled that small Maine classroom with bullets, killing everyone except Mason, Lucas, and Holden. From reading the interviews, I know how important Mrs. Kratky was to him. Almost like a surrogate mother.

I absently swirl my wine. “Mrs. Kratky sounds like a great lady.”

Mason dumps cheese into the pan. “She was. The best, actually.”

The somber tone of his voice tugs on my heartstrings. “I’m sorry.”

“You never forget something like that.” He cuts the omelet in half with a spatula and slides them on two separate plates. “The visions are still so vivid. Like a nightmare playing on a constant loop.” His voice catches a little. “It’s hard to talk about with anyone except Lucas and Holden…which is maybe why they come off a little possessive.”

“Of course that makes sense,” I say, feeling a twinge of guilt for my temper tantrum in Hawaii. I can’t begin to imagine the grief that still haunts them. I cover Mason’s hand with mine. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

He grimaces. “That’s not what my therapist would have said.”

I shovel a mouthful of egg into my mouth, chewing slowly.

“Turns out, she didn’t really have answers either,” he says, and then takes a bite of his omelet. A ghost of a grin crosses his handsome features. “Shit. This isn’t bad.”

As we finish our meal, Mason shares some of his memories about Mrs. Kratky, and with each story, the ice around my heart continues to melt. I’m touched that he’s opening up to me, but more than that, that he’s allowed me to see this side of him.

He swallows his last bite and pushes his plate aside. “Did you get enough to eat?”

“Plenty,” I say, and then rub my stomach. “Completely satisfied.”

Mason quirks an eyebrow, deftly shifting the tone of our conversation. “Excellent,” he says, standing. He holds out his hand. “I’m still hungry.” His eyes darken with lust and burn into my skin. A shiver rolls along my back. “Starved, actually. And I know exactly how I want to satiate my appetite.”