Page 61 of Hidden Resolution
“Wait, why are you still here if she’s expecting you?” Mason demanded, his fury fog clearing. “Are you standing her up?”
With his head half-cocked, Dane shot him a “you’re the dumbest fucker on the planet” look.
Mason’s brain caught up, painfully slow. Its ability to think logically kicked back into gear, and he removed his self-disgust from the shelf, dusted it off, and replaced it in a position of honor.
“Thank you, dickhead.”
“Anytime, asshat.”
Shonda checked herself out in the full-length mirror and ran her hands down her hips, smoothing invisible creases. The dress was a scandal waiting to happen, and she loved it. A blood-red knockout designed to hug her curves and put a man’s imagination to shame.
Eva had swept in earlier, a Cat-5 hurricane in heels, pretending the months-long silence was just a blip in their otherwise glittery mother-daughter fairytale. She’d insisted on a shopping spree, dragging Shonda to her favorite high-end boutique to make amends with someone she couldn’t quite bring herself to understand. With laser precision, she’d plucked the stunning red number from the rack and handed it over.
The material was the answer to every unspoken desire. And the moment the sleek, silky fabric slid over Shonda’s skin, itwas game over. Eva might be a master at emotional evasion, but damn if she didn’t have an eye for fashion. One win in a sea of epic maternal failures.
A knock sounded at the front door, pulling her from the mirror. She glanced at the clock.
Dane was twenty minutes early.
Luckily, she was habitually early, and she only had to slide on the matching ruby stilettos to complete her ensemble.
“A few extra seconds won’t kill him,” she said aloud.
Besides, if she had to endure the awkwardness of a sympathy date, she might as well look incredible doing it. It was doubtful he’d notice or benefit from it since he was heartsick over his breakup.
But Eva’s rule lived rent-free in her head: always dress your best, no matter what life throws at you.
Shonda fastened the tiny buckles at her ankles, took a final breath to steel her jittery nerves, and crossed to the peephole.
Broad shoulders, tailored jacket, angular jawline.
Yep, definitely Dane.
But her body didn’t quite buy it. An electric charge danced beneath her skin, making her buzz before she was halfway across the room. Shaking off the sensation, she flung the door open with a ready smile.
Shit.
Wrong man.
Her heart kicked against her ribs, half in fury, half in surrender.
“What are you doing here?” Her tone was sharper than intended.
Mason didn’t speak as those dangerous eyes swept the length of her body, lingering on every place they shouldn’t. The passion in his gaze wrapped around her, sucking the air right from herlungs. When his attention dropped to her heels, he smiled. Every single one of her traitorous nerve endings lit up.
“Those aregreatfucking shoes,” he said roughly, as if the compliment had scraped its way out of his throat.
Her body, the traitor, reacted instantly. Warmth rushed up her neck, her thighs tightened, and a flutter began low in her belly. Either he was a goddamn wizard, or her standards were somewhere beneath a cat’s belly in a crawlspace.
“Th-thanks.”
And now she was stammering. Fantastic.
She fought to reclaim a shred of composure. “Where’s Dane?”
Mason braced his hands on the doorframe and leaned in, acting as if the space was his and she was his woman.
She sure as fuck wasn’t.
