So he gave us a little push.
Only slick like, so we didn’t guess what he was doin’.
Because when it comes right down to it, we’re only like four or five chromosomes away from bein’ monkeys, am I right?
Or was it slugs? I can’t remember.
Anyway, some of us monkeys and slugs are older and smarter than others.
Which is how I know I have to keep Mason directly in the bright pink path of Little Miss Sunshine, Maddie McRae.
You been around as long as I have, you know real chemistry when you see it. I mean, sometimes it looks a lot like burning hatred, but trust me, that’s chemistry.
Only I can’t come right out and say she’s absolutely perfect for him because I know him too well.
You wouldn’t know it by lookin’ at him—or talkin’ to him, either—but he’s a huge softie. As soft as they come. A marshmallow is harder than Mason. Only he’s been through some tough shit and sometimes when people’ve been through enough tough shit, they get all calloused and crabby and start actin’ like dicks. Like a defense mechanism thing.
Because people are like thigh bones: remarkably strong, but hit ’em just the right way and they shatter.
And if you give ’em a bad enough break, they’re broken for good.
I know he thinks I only care about him for the money, but he’s not as smart as he supposes. The kid’s got heart. And incredible talent. He signed one of the biggest deals in the history of football. He could be one of the greats of the game… or he could be a cautionary tale.
Like my son was.
Greatest regret of my life, that.
And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let Mason Spark go down the same road my son did, no matter how much reverse psychology or guerilla warfare tactics I have to resort to.
Love is war, ladies and gents. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes you need your fairy godfather Dick to swoop in and scream at your dumb, stubborn ass to NOT invade that nice little ladylike pink country because it will end in disaster.
When really what you want him to do is the opposite.
Because fairy godfathers know what’s best for you, even if you don’t.
6
Maddie
I can’t sleep that night. I just lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling, going over every word of my conversation with Mason. Going over everything that happened since he walked through my office door. Going over every single minute of that train wreck of a meeting we had.
The train wreck that was all my fault.
I’m not usually so triggered by people. In fact, I pride myself on my even temper. I wasn’t voted Miss Congeniality four years in a row by my college sorority for nothing.
But from the minute we met, Mason Spark burrowed under my skin like a deer tick and started gnawing on my nerves.
If my mama could have seen how snarky I’d been with him, she would’ve been appalled.
There’s never an excuse for bad manners, Madison McRae! she used to scold me when I was little and had disappointed her with some social failing. She was the epitome of Southern grace and expected me to be the same. As the only girl of her five children, I shouldered all her dreams of debutante balls and opera gloves, of garden parties and cotillions, of handsome callers and white weddings.
Especially the white weddings.
She died long before she got a chance to see me get married. She had her heart set on Bobby Cavendish, a boy I grew up with who’ll probably be elected president by the time he’s forty. To this day, all my girlfriends practically drop their drawers when he walks into a room with that Ivy League air and gleaming smile, but though I tried and tried to fall in love with him, I never could.
It’s really too bad, because we’re perfect on paper.
When my alarm goes off at six o’clock, I drag myself from bed and do my morning ritual, which consists of yoga and twenty minutes of meditation before drinking a tall glass of cold water and reading something inspirational. Then I shower and dress.
Then, as I do every day, I drink a triple espresso with exactly two teaspoons of sugar and make myself bacon and eggs.
It’s while I’m chewing on a delicious, crispy piece of bacon that the idea comes to me.
Before I have time to talk myself out of it, I fire up my laptop, log onto my office computer, and click on the file I’m searching for. Then I pick up the phone and start dialing.
The voice that answers when the call goes through is cold, gruff, and irritated, all at once.
“Yeah.”
Good Lord, the man even sounds like a son of a bee sting over the phone. I say cheerfully, “Good morning, Mr. Spark. This is Maddie McRae.”
The answering silence is so loud for a moment I think we’ve been cut off. But then Mason clears his throat and says, “Lemme guess. You’re calling to tell me you refunded my money.”
“No. Actually, I’m calling about making it up to you.”
Another silence, this one louder and longer. Truly, it’s cavernous. The Grand Canyon doesn’t echo so much.
“Um, like you asked me to?”
“I remember,” he says, his voice rough. Then he doesn’t say anything else.
I can see I’ll be doing all the heavy lifting in this conversation. The man has the social skills of a wild boar. “So, Mr. Spark, I had this idea—”
“Mason.”
I’m startled by his forceful interruption and for a moment lose my train of thought. “Um…”
“I want you to call me Mason.”
He sounds frighteningly intense, as if someone is holding a gun to his head and will blow out his brains unless I agree to call him by his first name.
When I say carefully, “All right, then…Mason,” my reward is a grunt of satisfaction. Or he could be smashing something with a rock. It’s hard to tell.
“As I was saying, I was sitting here eating my breakfast when the thought occurred to me that—”
“Are you always up this early on Saturdays?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Did I wake you? I assumed you’d be up since it’s…” I check my watch, frowning when I see the time. “After nine.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t up. I asked if you were. Always. You know. Up. This early.”
I look around my kitchen helplessly, hoping a translator who speaks Deranged Football Star will pop out of a cabinet and help me out. “Yes. I get up at six every morning.”
He takes a moment to mull that over, probably thinking about how long it takes me to open all the cat food cans and clean out all the litter boxes. Then he demands, “What did you have for breakfast?”
I settle back into my chair, understanding that we’re on his time table here, not mine. I suppose we’ll get around to the reason I called eventually. “Bacon and eggs.”
A pause. “Sunny side up?”
He sounds condescending. As if liking eggs prepared that way is a character flaw.
“No. Poached.”
“Poached?” Now he sounds incredulous. “Who makes poached eggs for themselves at home?”
I can almost hear the answer he left out: A cat hoarding spinster, that’s who.
When I feel the heat creeping up my neck, I hear my mother’s scolding voice in my head. Be nice, Maddie! There’s no excuse for bad manners!