Page 15 of Making It Burn

“Rough night?”she asked.

“Something like that.”

“Boy trouble?”

I nearly tripped over my own feet.“What?”

“You heard me.”She held my coat open, waiting.“You’ve got that look.Same look your father had when he first met your mother—like someone hit him in the head with a brick and he’s still trying to figure out which way is up.”Gracie had figured out I was gay before anyone else.Hell, before I even knew.

“I don’t have boy trouble.”

“Mm-hmm.”She helped me into my coat, tugging the collar straight with a firm hand.

“Gracie—”

“Go to work, Mr.Beau.”She patted my shoulder, and for just a second, her face softened into something almost affectionate.Then she turned and shuffled back toward the kitchen, leaving me standing in the foyer feeling oddly exposed.

I walked out into the frosty morning air, climbed into my Mercedes, and sat there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the sprawling lawn and the house that had never quite felt like home.

Four more days and I’d be in my new condo, with my own thermostat, my own space, and no one asking if I had “boy trouble.”

* * *

I was late.

Not disastrously late—just five minutes—but for someone who prided himself on being early to everything, five minutes felt like a moral failing.

I’d barely slept.Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Mason’s face: that perfect jawline, those cold blue eyes, the way his throat worked when he swallowed.I’d replayed our confrontation in my office about a thousand times, analyzing every word, every look, every subtle shift in his expression.

Do you ever think about me, Mason?

And for just a second, I’d seen it—the crack in his armor, the flash of something raw and hungry before he’d slammed the walls back up.

He’d definitely thought about me.

The realization had kept me awake until three in the morning, staring at my ceiling and wondering what the hell I was supposed to do with that information.Now, racing through the HRB lobby at 8:04 AM, I was paying the price.

“Morning, Mario,” I called, barely slowing down.

“Running late, Mr.Thatcher?”Mario grinned from behind his desk.“Not a good look on day two.”

“Traffic,” I lied, already jabbing the elevator button.

The elevator took a thousand years.When the doors finally opened on the nineteenth floor, I speed-walked through the office, nodding at paralegals and associates who were already deep into their workday.Lisa looked up from her desk as I passed, eyebrows raised.

“Cutting it close,” she winked.

“I know, I know.”

“Mason’s already in his office.And he looks thrilled.“

“Of course he does.”

I made it to Mason’s office slightly out of breath and knocked once before pushing through the door.

Mason sat behind his desk, perfectly composed, reviewing a document with a red pen.He didn’t look up.

“You’re late,” he said.