Or, worse, done with him, with what they had?
His phone beeped again and this time it was a text message. The distinct tone told him who it was from.
Hi. I’m not ready. Can I take some more time?
Sure, he replied. No pressure. I’m in town until after Christmas, unless something urgent comes up.
Right, he had no choice now but to wait until the daughter Gemma had never told him about decided to contact him again. And he wasn’t visiting his grandfather until tomorrow.
So, what could he do with the rest of his day?
Mmm, maybe he could drop in to see Dylan-Jane. See whether there was a chance of them taking up where they’d last left off...
And, he admitted, he could see for himself whether she was happy or not.
* * *
In the coffee shop on the Lockwood Estate, Mason James delivered an espresso to the student sitting at the table in the corner and glanced at the complex math equation the kid was solving.
Because math had once been his thing, Mason scanned the guy’s rough notes and immediately saw where he’d gone wrong. Mason opened his mouth to point out the mistake before pulling back.
Three years ago, complex situations and equations, troubleshooting and problem-solving, was what he’d done for a living and he’d made a stupid amount of money from it. The responsibility of the problems he’d been given to solve—some of them with life-and-death outcomes—had generated enough stress to elevate his blood pressure to dangerous levels and burn a hole in his stomach. It had also ended his marriage and threatened his relationships with his sons.
So Mason got out of the think-tank business, buying a chic coffee shop to keep himself busy. He attended his boys’ ice hockey and baseball games, played video games with them and helped them with their homework. He delivered coffee, muffins and pastries and told himself it was good to be bored.
Boredom didn’t place a strain on his heart, or burn that hole deeper into his stomach.
Mason turned away and then heard the low curse. He looked around to see the student putting his head in his hands, tugging his hair in obvious frustration. It was, for him, simple math. What harm could it do to help?
Mason turned back, scanned the equation and tapped a line. “Rework this line.”
Blue eyes flew up to meet his and Mason saw the doubt.
“With respect, I’m in the doctorate program at MIT...”
Mason shrugged and waited him out. He didn’t bother to tell the guy that he’d been through that program and many more. He just tapped the line again until the kid finally turned his attention back to the equation. His brow furrowed and then he released a long sigh. Yep, the light had dawned.
“Hey, thanks so much.”
Mason smiled briefly before retracing his steps back to his small kitchen. Before he reached his destination, he heard the muted ping that indicated he had a customer. He didn’t need to see who was pulling the door open—his heart was way ahead of his eyes and it was already picking up speed.
Mason leaned his shoulder onto the nearest wall and watched his current obsession walk into his coffee shop, followed by a brunette clutching a stack of bridal magazines. The older of Callie’s twin daughters, he remembered—Jules. Callie had her arm around Jules’s waist and love for her child on her face.
Callie Brogan was a beautiful mom.
Mason ran his hand over his face. The last thing he was looking for when he opened Coffee Connection was to be attracted to a stunning, ebullient, charming widow. Yeah, she was older than him but who the hell cared? He could date younger woman, had dated many of them, and none of them captured his interest like Callie Brogan did. It was unexplainable and not something he could wish away.
God knew he’d tried.
Callie’s head shot up and her eyes locked on his. Electricity arced between them and his pants, as they always did when she was in the room, tightened. Even though he was across the room, he could see her nipples respond—God, her breasts were fantastic. A flush appeared on her throat, down her chest. Despite her protests, Callie was as aware of him, as attracted to him, as he was to her...
Why hadn’t they ended up in bed already?
Oh, because she wasn’t ready and because she was still in love with her dead husband.
Mason looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. His was said to be one of the most brilliant minds of his generation, yet he was flummoxed by how to get this woman to sleep with him.
That’s all he wanted, some fantastic sex with an attractive, interesting woman. He wasn’t looking for love or forever—as a scientist, he didn’t believe in either. The human species simply wasn’t that evolved. But sex, a few hot nights? Yeah, he most certainly believed in man’s most primal urge.
Mason started toward her—he couldn’t stay away if he tried—but the infinitesimal shake of her head stopped him.
Right, he wasn’t wanted. He should go and count stock or take out the trash or do his taxes.
Simple, stress-free jobs he could do with his eyes closed. But so blah and boring. Looking through the huge windows of his shop, he wished he could go caveman on Callie. He’d toss her over his shoulder and put her behind him on his Ducati—in his fantasy it was spring or summer—and ride away. When he reached the first isolated area, he’d stop.
He had this fantasy of stripping her down, bending her over his bike and taking her from behind, his hands on her amazing breasts, his lips on her neck, sliding into her wet, warm...
“Sorry, sir? I’m stuck again. Could you help me?”
Mason rubbed his face before squinting at the messy calculations.
Since bike sex, or even warm weather, wasn’t in his immediate future, he could do math. And while he mathed, he could also keep an eye on Callie, which was his latest and greatest pleasure.
Matt walked into Brogan and Winston’s showroom on Charles Street and looked around.
A counter ran along an exposed brick wall and to the right of it was a waiting area with a striped green-and-white sofa and a white chair, both with perfectly placed orange cushions. Funky art hung on the walls and a vase brimming with fresh flowers sat on the coffee table. He liked what he saw, immediately understanding why Winston and Brogan had such an excellent reputation and were booked solid for months.
DJ, as the CFO, worked behind the scenes, but Matt knew how important her work was to the company’s overall success. He couldn’t do what he did without Greta, his office manager, who took care of the paperwork, the staff and the billing. Greta was as indispensable to him as DJ was to Winston and Brogan. Her name, after all, was on the door.
Matt heard footsteps on the iron staircase to the left and he turned to see a pair of knee-high boots and sexy knees coming down the stairs. He knew those legs, the shape of them. He’d tasted the backs of those knees, nibbled those pretty toes. The rest of DJ appeared: short skirt over black leggings, a white blouse, that gorgeous long neck. As she hit the bottom stair, he finally got to see her face for the first time in too many months and, as always, her beauty smacked him in the gut.
Her thick hair, as dark as a sable coat, was pulled back into a soft roll, tendrils falling down the sides of her face. Black-rimmed glasses covered her extraordinary brown-black eyes and her lips were covered in a soft pink gloss. She looked both beautiful and bossy, efficient and exciting.
Two steps and she could be in his arms—he’d