Holt

“What in the hell took you so long?” Oliver hits the gas, barely giving me enough time to shut the door to his sport utility vehicle.

“Delayed flight.”

My briefcase sails across the floorboard in the back, ramming the door behind my brother, as he takes a tight right turn onto the freeway.

“You know, we could always buy a private jet.” He looks at me like he’s just proven a point he’s struggled to make for years. As the President of Mason Ltd, I control the purse strings and major financial decisions. I remind him of this with a simple quirk of a brow.

He scoffs. “We’re going to be late to our meeting with Graham Landry.”

“And what the fuck should I have done about it? Explained to the weather gods in Portland my little brother needed me for a business meeting and the storm should just vanish because I said so?”

He’s not entertained. With a roll of his eyes, he sits back in the leather seat and hits cruise control on the steering wheel.

“And stop fucking calling me every twenty seconds and handle shit like a big boy,” I add for good measure.

“Really, Holt?”

We watch each other, a heated standoff like only brothers that run a multi-million-dollar company together can manage. We’re both Type A, intelligent, and damn good at what we do. This causes a few skirmishes, but we are also loyal. To a fault. And that’s what makes our bond stronger than any other in the business and why Mason Ltd. kicks ass.

The ringing of Oliver’s phone through the car breaks our stalemate. Oliver answers. “Oliver Mason.”

“It’s Rosie.”

“How are you, Rosie?” I ask our shared assistant. She’s seventy-five years old and still good at old-fashioned typed things. Neither Oliver or I can let her go, despite having to hire separate assistants to help pick up the slack. Wade was going to hire her in his architecture office because it’s more low-key, but when Oliver brought it up to her, she looked hurt. So, we pretended like there was a big fight over her, she was happy, and we just made do.

“Is that you, Holton?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’ve made your brother extremely nervous today. I’ve warned the Landry’s you’re running late. Told them you had a weather delay.”

I grin at Oliver as he shakes his head. “It was the weather.”

“Of course it was, dear. I shall ignore any strange credit card charges from the last couple of hours when your bill hits my desk in a week.”

“That would be awfully kind of you, Rosie.”

Oliver butts in, going over a few things with her while I gaze out the window and try to get my head quiet. Meeting with Graham Landry is no joke. The man is a powerhouse all of his own—quick witted, smart as hell, and cutthroat. If you aren’t on top of your game, you’re out of play.

We pause at a traffic light and wait as the cars in the opposite lanes barrel across the street. A pedestrian with long, dark hair, crosses in front of us.

Unlatching my seat belt, I raise up in the seat to get a better look. Oliver’s eyes are on me as I try to ascertain whether this is the girl from the airport, but I ignore him. Instead, I watch the sway of her hips back and forth and determine, without a doubt, it’s not her.

I fall back into the seat with a flourish just before Oliver slams the gas again.

“Wanna tell me what that was about?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“Does it have anything to do with why you were really late?”

“I wasn’t too fucking late,” I contend. “Just shut the hell up about it.”

“Fine, fine. Just be ready for Landry. He knows how much we stand to make if we purchase this property from him. He’s not going to give it to us easy.”

I look at Oliver and laugh. “Maybe he’ll be nice and use some lube.”

“Let’s hope he remembers how much Dad donated to Barrett Landry’s campaign a few years back. Maybe that’ll help.”

He takes a right off the freeway and heads to the outskirts of Savannah where the Landry’s Estate is located. I’ve been there a few times for random events and meetings and it’s nice as hell. I keep telling my brothers we need something like that, but our personalities are too different to agree on something. We just meet in Aspen and go skiing every winter instead.

As the car pulls up to the gate, a man takes Oliver’s information and buzzes us through. We slip by tall rows of trees along the freshly paved path leading to the massive farmhouse nestled back away from the road. Oliver parks the car and looks at me.

“You ready, big guy?” he asks.

“Let’s do this.”