Page 80 of Making It Burn

“Nope.Flying solo.”

“Fair enough.”He made a note on his clipboard.“Should be a good time.Open bar, catered food.Good chance for everyone to relax and celebrate the year.”

Before I could respond, Mason walked up, coffee in hand.“Paul.Beau.”

“Mason!Perfect timing.I was just going over Christmas party details.”Paul turned his attention to Mason.“You’re coming, right?And are you bringing anyone?”

Mason’s expression didn’t change, but I saw the way his jaw tightened.“Just me.”

“Got it.”Paul made another note, then glanced up with an amiable smile.“You know, you two have been absolutely killing it this year.MediCorp, now Henderson Technologies.Carter must be thrilled.”

“We’ve been fortunate,” Mason said carefully.

“More than fortunate.You make a good team.”Paul’s gaze moved between us for just a beat too long before he checked his watch.“Well, I should finish these rounds.Got about twenty more people to track down.”

He walked away, and Mason and I stood there in silence.

“That was fine,” I mumbled.“Normal.”

“Yeah.”But Mason’s hand was clenched around his coffee cup, his knuckles white.

“Mason—”

“I should get back to work.”He started to walk away, then stopped.“Are you coming to my place tonight?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”The word came out rough.“I always want you to.”

He left before I could respond, and I stood there watching him go, Lisa’s words echoing in my head.

Eventually, something’s going to give.

* * *

My mother had specifically requested—demanded, really—that I drop off the family Christmas card photo proof “in person, Beau, so we can discuss it properly.”So I came here directly from work, fighting rush hour traffic the entire way.

The Thatcher house looked like something out of a holiday catalog—perfectly manicured hedges wrapped in white lights, a wreath on every window, and enough exterior illumination to guide ships to harbor.I’d only moved out a few weeks ago, but pulling into the circular drive felt strange now, like visiting a place I used to live instead of somewhere that was once home.

I grabbed the envelope with the photo proofs and headed to the door.

Gracie answered before I could knock, her ancient face creasing into something that might have been a smile.

“Mr.Beau.”She stepped aside to let me in.“Your mother’s in the living room.”

“How bad is it today?”

Her left eyebrow twitched—Gracie-speak forYou’re about to find out.

I followed the sound of my mother’s voice—crisp, commanding, the tone she used when the world wasn’t meeting her exacting standards.The living room looked like a Christmas war zone.Two men in work uniforms were carefully removing a twelve-foot noble fir from its stand while a third swept up fallen needles.Another tree, identically sized and decorated, waited by the window.

And in the middle of it all, my mother sat in her favorite armchair like a blonde icicle in festive red and green, one hand extended while a woman in all black carefully painted her nails a festive red.

“Beau.”She didn’t look up.“You’re late.”

“Traffic was—”

“Excuses are for people without discipline.”She examined the manicurist’s work with a critical eye.“The photo proofs?”