Chapter Fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SECRETS, SECRETS – Romance statistics calculate that if you have a secret, the odds of it coming out at the absolute worst possible moment are 100 percent.

T he knock came at exactly two o’clock. Which was perfect, because she’d been ready for an hour. Or so she thought.

Swinging the door open, she saw Mason had swapped out his usual gray peacoat for a trim black one. Her hand reached out of its own volition, tugging open the lapels of his coat. Her stomach dropped. He looked especially dapper in his fitted charcoal-gray slacks and crimson button-down with the top two buttons undone. If his sleeves were rolled up under that coat, it was over for her. She couldn’t be held responsible for her actions where exposed forearms were involved. Her libido simply couldn’t take it. Whoever made the rule about them not sleeping together again was delusional, clearly.

“Oh no,” she said, taking a step back, fisting the hem of her oversized sweater nervously.

“It’s fine,” Mason said immediately. “It’s my fault. I should have warned you my family is extra. This way, at least one of us is comfortable. Let’s go.”

She shook her head adamantly. “Give me, like, five minutes. You can time me.”

He raised one brow, tugging his phone from his coat pocket with an amused quirk of his lips. She watched as his thumb swiped up, and she bolted across her apartment before he could start the timer. She’d need every second.

She didn’t have very many nice dresses. She didn’t often have the occasion to wear them, and she sent a telepathic thank-you to Lily for getting married in the winter and not cursing her with a hideous maid-of-honor dress. She grumbled as she fished out her least favorite bra from the back of her lingerie drawer, the one with the poke-y underwire. It was the only one that worked with the dress, however, so she apologized to each boob personally before hooking it on.

“I will let you out as soon as I can,” she promised them.

She kicked her comfortable pleather leggings into the corner of her closet before stepping into a pair of patterned black tights. Last year’s maid-of-honor dress was a simple, long-sleeved wrap dress made of emerald velvet and felt like a hug. She cinched it around her waist before giving herself a quick once-over in the mirror. She darted back into the closet and nudged aside her weather-appropriate ankle boots and slipped on her Mary Jane pumps.

“Will this do?” she asked as she reemerged from her bedroom.

Mason looked up from his phone and froze like a video game glitch. The timer on his phone went off and he jumped, a myriad of expressions flashing across his face as he silenced it without looking. He cleared his throat. “That’ll definitely do,” he said tightly.

Silence stretched between them, every inch of her aware of the slow drag of Mason’s gaze over her. When he raked his teeth over his bottom lip, she felt it in her core, the distance between them both too far and too close. She gave her head a little shake to clear it, pulling the neckline of her dress closed to hide the flush in her chest.

“Great.” The word came out garbled, as if she’d experience the entirety of puberty in that one sentence. “But now I need something else to wear for New Year’s Eve, because this is the full extent of my nice dress wardrobe.”

“I’ll buy you a dress,” he said offhand.

Sawyer froze in the middle of adjusting her T-straps, teetering slightly to the side. Mason reached out, steadying her.

“You don’t—I didn’t mean—”

“Sawyer.” He interrupted her stammering with a smile. Had he always said her name like that? Surely, he’d said her name plenty of times before, so why did it feel so… intimate ? “If I’m dragging you to a snobby party, I should provide you with a snobby dress.”

“Okay. The snobbiest,” she agreed with a limp smile. She was still thinking about the way her name sounded in his deep, rumbling voice that she forgot she hated accepting help, but she sure as shit couldn’t afford a dress nice enough for a Hollywood party—even Chicago Hollywood.

Mason shoved his hands in his pockets, pulling out a small package wrapped in gold paper. She froze as he extended it to her.

“I didn’t get you anything,” she confessed. “You didn’t say we were doing presents!”

Mason waved her concern away. “It’s for Friendshipulent.”

She eyed him warily. God, this was embarrassing. She hadn’t made a new friend in so long, she forgot that they did things like this. She bought gifts for Lily every year, but that was Lily . She was the closest thing Sawyer had to family. The gold wrapping paper fell away, and she slid off the square lid. It was the mushroom mug she’d been eyeing at the mall. Her gaze flitted between him and the mug. “How did you—?”

“Luis grabbed it for me after we left.”

“Then it wasn’t for Friendshipulent. We hadn’t adopted him yet!” she accused with a jab of her finger to his hard chest. Nevertheless, she strode over to the succulent in its plastic pot, slipping it into the vintage mug, the orange mushroom pattern and the sage-green plant a happy combination.

“I’ll have to get some soil to repot it.”

Mason stared at her blankly, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“What?”

He pressed his lips together, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Sawyer, I—” A laugh bubbled past his lips. “I don’t know how to break this to you, but… Friendshipulent is a fake succulent.”

She gasped, snatching the plant off the counter. Upon closer inspection, she could see where the layers notched together, the edge of the mold used to create the squishy leaves.

“You watered it, didn’t you?”

“No,” she lied, meeting his gaze sternly. They stared each other down for a long moment before Sawyer broke. “Fine, I did, but it’s not my fault that all succulents look fake, so, whatever. I’m getting you a present,” she pivoted, praying a change of subject would cause her face to stop burning.

“You in that dress and those tights is gift enough.”

Well, that didn’t help. The flush in her cheeks spread to her chest, her core. Gathering herself, she put on her best come-hither look, allowing one leg to slide out of the dress’s slit. “Oh yeah?”

He fixed her with a stern look, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. “Don’t be a tease. At least, any more than you usually are, by just, y’know”—he gestured in her general direction—“existing.”

Her heartbeat was akin to a gallop in her ears. She really needed him to stop talking like this. Of course, she knew he was attracted to her on some level. They’d slept together. But they weren’t into each other. She needed to divert this conversation into calmer waters. Friendly ones. Cool-as-a-cucumber waters. Sawyer could be cool, even if her neglected vagina was anything but.

She hummed thoughtfully. “I mean,” she said skeptically. “We did sleep together the night we met, so I don’t know if that makes me a very good tease.”

He laughed, effectively breaking the tension. “Agree to disagree.”

The tension snapped right back into place. She tore her gaze away from his, her chest feeling tight.

Glancing at the time on her microwave, she crossed over to the fridge to grab the fancy cheese she’d panic bought yesterday. She’d googled “housewarming gifts for someone who probably already has everything and you’re hella broke.” Surprisingly, there was an article for that. Unsurprisingly, there hadn’t been an article for her first search: “what to bring to your one-night stand’s family’s house for Christmas dinner.” Given the last minute–ness, neither search had been particularly fruitful. So, after checking with Mason that his entire family wasn’t tragically lactose intolerant, she went with her default: cheese. As far as Sawyer was concerned, it wasn’t a party unless there was cheese.

She gestured with the wooden cheese wheel box toward the door. “Shall we?”

Silence fell between them as she locked up, the silence stretching as she followed him to his car. Something was different, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. They were no strangers to flirty comments, but today it felt charged. Before, they’d laugh it off, remind each other of the rules, but now… it refused to be stifled.

She ran back the events at IKEA, the afternoon at the skating rink, relived all their conversations, but she couldn’t pinpoint anything out of place. They’d always teased each other, maybe with a bit more innuendo than necessary, but, like, they’d fucked each other’s brains out a month ago. Of course they made sex jokes. It was fine. It was chillllll. They were friends . Friends could make innuendos, right? She was reading too much into it. She blamed it on all the masturbating she hadn’t been doing lately. It was making her tense.

She silently made a pact with her vagina to take care of business later tonight if it could just cool it for a few hours.

The forty-five-minute drive passed in a blur. Despite talking the entire time, Sawyer couldn’t remember a single thing they talked about, only coming to when Mason began parallel parking along a side street with houses that cost more than all of Sawyer’s advances combined.

“What does your sister do?” she crowed, gawking at the houses and trying to suss out which one was Margot’s.

Mason didn’t answer right away, his eyes on the rearview. Sawyer melted a few inches lower in her seat when he placed his hand on the back of her headrest, smoothly sliding into the only available parking spot by turning the wheel in expert increments with the heel of his palm. She was too horny to be in public if she was getting off on parallel parking.

“She’s an econometrician,” Mason answered as he shifted the car into park.

Sawyer considered any job title that had more syllables than she had fingers on one hand to mean one thing: money. “Nice job, Luis,” she murmured appreciatively.

Mason grinned. “Don’t count him out. I made sure to connect him with my costars when he opened his gym, so he was doing just fine long before he and Margot got together.”

“Well, shit, connect me!” she said without thinking.

Something unreadable flashed across his face for the second time that evening, and she flinched internally. People probably badgered him for connections all the time. This—them—had never been about that. Sure, her career was floundering, and in a roundabout way, he was helping, but she couldn’t live with herself if she took a handout. She would save her career by herself or not at all.

Mason opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He closed his mouth, hesitating a moment before nodding resolutely and getting out of the car.

She waited until the door shut behind him before letting out a long-suffering sigh. Why were things so weird with them tonight? She hastily composed herself before stepping out of the car.

Mason was unloading immaculately wrapped presents from the trunk—a smaller pile than she’d anticipated, given his aforementioned large family.

“Fess up,” she teased. “You ate all those fudge boxes from the Christkindlmarket.”

Mason laughed, patting his toned stomach affectionately. “This is the body fudge built, no doubt. But no. The extended family celebrates on Christmas Eve, so it’s just immediate family and a few friends today. I gave the kiddos their gifts last night.”

“Favorite uncle status secured?” she asked.

“It was never in question,” he said confidently as they walked up the freshly shoveled sidewalk to a beautiful brick town house with a little Christmas tree in the yard. Glancing up and down the block, she noticed that every house had a small decorated tree in their yard.

From the porch, she could see a second tree beyond the window. This was the kind of rich people shit she could get behind. Two trees.

The wind picked up, sneaking under her coat, and she shivered, leaning into Mason’s warmth automatically as he rang the doorbell.

“It’s open!” a voice called.

Mason removed his hand from her lower back just long enough to open the door, guiding her with him across the threshold. He placed the handful of presents at the base of the tree before helping her out of her coat. As he hung it in the hall closet, a little boy came careening into the entryway.

“Uncle Mason! Uncle Mason!” he screamed.

Mason scooped the kid into his arms, making the little boy squeal as he tickled his middle. Sawyer took the moment to take in the house. The foyer was predominantly devoted to the tree, but beyond it, there was a living room best described as a study in white. Sawyer couldn’t fathom owning a white couch. She’d ruin it in a day. Minutes, probably.

The sounds of laughter and cooking flowed out from a door to their left. Luis appeared in the entryway, wearing an apron and furiously whisking something in a bowl. At the sight of his dad, the little boy squirmed out of Mason’s arms and made a beeline for the kitchen.

Luis yelled something after the boy in Spanish before turning back to them. “Sawyer!” He greeted her warmly as Mason tucked her shoes into the closet next to his. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks, man,” Mason joked.

Luis frowned. “Didn’t you wear that last year?”

Mason glanced down at his clothes helplessly. “You cannot win in this family,” he muttered under his breath to Sawyer.

She grinned, leaning in and air-kissing Luis on the cheek. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Of course!” Luis said, like they were old friends and not strangers who had met yesterday. But Luis was one of those people who made you feel instantly comfortable. “C’mon,” he said with a jerk of his head. She fell into step beside him, bypassing the kitchen and through the living room to… a second living room?

Luis paused, face screwing up as he spotted Mason following them. “What are you doing? Suit up.” He handed Mason the bowl of cream he’d been whipping and eased the fancy cheese from Sawyer’s grasp, handing it to Mason as well. “Your dad just started the stuffing.”

Mason’s eyes darted to hers, as if asking for her permission to leave her alone, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by Luis.

“I got this one,” Luis said, all but shooing Mason out of the room. Turning back to Sawyer, he grinned, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Let’s get you a drink before introductions. One outsider to another—” He lowered his voice. “This family is best with a drink or two in you.”

Sawyer nodded knowingly. “Ah. My family is the same—but with a drink and also a few hundred miles.”

Luis laughed knowingly, coming to a stop in front of the bar. “I get that completely. I’ve been spending the holidays with the Wests since I was sixteen because my family is…” He trailed off, staring at the wall.

Sawyer understood without him saying anything. Her mother and pastor father hadn’t spoken to her in years. It was easier for everyone if she stayed gone. Luis blinked, turning back on his million-watt smile. “The Wests are great,” he clarified. “They’re—well, you’re a writer, so you’ll know what I mean when I say they’re characters .”

She grinned wickedly. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Matching her grin, Luis grabbed a bottle from the back bar. “Mason said you prefer whiskey? And two ice cubes but only if they’re square?” he asked, as if unsure he remembered that correctly.

She nodded in confirmation, her throat suddenly too tight to speak. She really had to stop getting emotional over ice cube shapes.

Luis broke the paper seal over the brand-new bottle before pulling the cork out. Jesus Christ. Had they really gone out and bought a bottle for her? He portioned a healthy amount into a rocks glass and popped two ice cubes into it before picking up a bottle of tequila and pouring a shot for himself. “Cheers,” he said conspiratorially.

She clinked her glass against his and took a small sip as he tossed back his shot.

Luis gestured for her to follow him, talking over his shoulder as they walked toward the adjoining dining room, decked to the nines in Christmas decorations, each place setting complete with a unique ornament. This was some HGTV-level hosting shit Sawyer was wholly unaccustomed to. “—and the red salsa is gringo-safe spicy, but proceed with caution around the green one. Okay.” He clapped his hands together. “I gotta get back to cooking, so I’ll let Mason give you the tour later, whenever the two of you need to sneak off.”

“Oh, we’re not together,” Sawyer insisted good-naturedly.

Luis raised his eyebrows. “I know,” he said, but it sounded like Sure, bud .

As they rounded the corner, Sawyer nearly tripped over her feet. She didn’t cook, but if she had a kitchen like this, she would learn.

The island alone was as big as her apartment’s galley kitchen. A massive slab of quartz with veins of gold running through it matched the tile behind the stove and counters. Mason was chatting with an attractive older man that could only be his father, both wearing aprons that matched the one Luis wore. Luis wandered over to inspect the stove, and as the four women occupying the plush barstools fixed their attention on her, Sawyer took a large gulp of her drink.

At the lull in conversation, Mason looked up, snapping to her side like a magnet.

“Everyone, this is Sawyer. Sawyer, my mom, Moira—” He gestured to a beautiful older woman with white-blond hair and Mason’s eyes—though hers were an icy blue to Mason’s warm brown. Sawyer sent up a prayer that she aged half as gracefully.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said congenially, her expression sharpening as it landed on Mason. “Though we’ve heard nothing about you because my son prefers I learn about his love life from the tabloids.”

“Mom,” Mason groaned. “I told you. Sawyer’s a friend. Retract the claws.”

Moira pursed her lips, swirling her goblet of white wine slowly. “Very well. But you’re not getting any younger, and I want grandbabies.”

To Moira’s left, Margot made a choking noise. “Mom, you have two already.” She gestured emphatically to the tortilla chip–covered child in her lap.

“Yes, and I love my Milo,” Moira said affectionately, brushing a crumb from the boy’s cheek. “And my Max!” She called to the house at large, an ominous giggle resounding somewhere to Sawyer’s right that she couldn’t place. “But we need someone to carry on the West name.”

“My name isn’t West. Mom, you named me,” Mason pointed out. From the stove, Mason’s dad cackled. “And you know I don’t want kids.”

Moira bristled, taking a prim sip of her wine. “Yes, well, you also didn’t want to take the Diagnostics gig—” Addressing the room at large, she continued, “But I told him to just take the meeting.” Then, back to Mason: “And look how happy you are now.”

Silence fell for a moment before Mason started laughing. Sawyer wondered if anyone else picked up on the slight strain to his laugh. “Anyway,” he said tightly. “Margot, you’ve met—” His sister gave a small wave before hastily stopping the child in her lap from upending the plate in front of him. “And Milo. My mom’s best friend, Lynn.” The older woman next to Margot waved, her many, many bracelets twinkling. “Her daughter, Bex.” By comparison, Bex was considerably less adorned, but striking all the same with her large hazel eyes and honey-brown curls. “My father, Antonio, and Luis you know,” Mason finished.

Sawyer took a deep breath. “Moira, Margot, Milo, Max—” Another giggle, the boy’s hiding spot still a mystery. “Lynn, Bex, Antonio, and Luis. Got it.”

“And I’m Mason,” he added.

She rolled her eyes, and he grinned down at her, giving her a gentle nudge toward the empty chair next to Bex. The kitchen island was laden with appetizers—most notably, a massive cheese board that had her humming the Hilary Duff classic “What Dreams Are Made Of” under her breath.

Rejoining his father at the stove, Mason rolled up the sleeves of his button-down, toned forearms on full display. Sawyer started sweating in a place that wasn’t her underarms.

The arms, the snug fit of his pants, the goddamn apron… It was all really doing it for her. She was tempted to sneak a picture and send it to Lily, captioned with fire and eggplant emojis, but she knew exactly what Lily would say in response. While Sawyer was normally immune to Lily’s goading and prodding, tonight it might be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Or the final drop in the bucket that broke the dam she’d built to contain her (purely physical) attraction to Mason. And maybe Lily was right. The fact that she was here, introduced to his family like it’s no big deal—because it was no big deal to him—was proof enough that he wasn’t falling for her. Maybe they could sleep together and still do their mission. Maybe just once, to dispel this persistent tension between them, to get it out of their systems.

“So, Sawyer,” Lynn called, leaning around her daughter. Judging by the knowing smirk she wore, she had definitely seen Sawyer ogling Mason with fuck me eyes. “What do you do?”

Sawyer was so grateful for the interruption to her lust-laden thoughts she almost kissed the woman, momentarily forgetting she hated this question, simply for the follow-up questions it necessitated.

She traced the pattern of the cut-crystal tumbler to avoid making eye contact, forcing lightness into her tone as she answered. “I’m a writer.”

“She’s a New York Times bestselling author,” Mason supplied.

Her gaze snapped to him, where he watched her with crossed arms, wooden spoon in one hand and those goddamn forearms . As the women at the island beside her cooed in excitement for her, he winked before turning back to the stove.

The conversation played out exactly like it always did. “Anything I would know?” followed by “Oh, I loved that movie!” followed by Sawyer choking out a thank-you despite the fact that she felt no ownership of it. She wasn’t the only author to have their work bastardized in an adaptation, but that didn’t make it sting any less. Accepting praise for it felt like reopening a half-healed wound every time.

“The book’s better,” Mason supplied. Sawyer felt a rush of affection for him so strong that she was grateful she was already sitting down.

“Well, of course,” Moira agreed. “I’ve always said writers don’t get enough credit. We actors interpret, yes, but there’s not much you can do if the source material is bad.” The approving look Moira gave Sawyer made her chest feel tight. Though Mason’s mother was on her eye level, Moira seemed larger than life from her perch at the other end of the island. It wasn’t hard to imagine how that presence translated on-screen. It was like sitting across the table from Meryl Streep and Meryl Streep had just paid you a compliment. But she could also easily see how that presence could be stifling.

“Like your role on In the Hills ?” Lynn nagged.

Everyone erupted into hoots and howls.

“We don’t talk about that project in this house!” Moira declared, feigning upset.

Sawyer smiled behind her drink, watching as they fell into what was clearly a running joke among them. She caught Luis’s attention, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Bex turned to her, shaking her head in disbelief. “They bring it up every year without fail. After a few years, you know the whole routine.”

The kitchen was an absolute cacophony as everyone talked over each other, but Sawyer couldn’t help but think it was a right sight better than the oppressive silence that had been her family dinners. From the raucous laughter to the mash-up of cultures represented in the dishes on the kitchen island—this felt more like the Queermas dinners she’d spent with Sadie and their friends. She didn’t realize how much she’d missed it, how lonely she’d been, until now.

“So what do you do, Bex?” Anything to keep herself from going down that mental rabbit hole.

“Oh.” Bex blushed. “I’m an intimacy coordinator.”

Sawyer sat up straighter. “That’s awesome.”

Bex allowed herself a little smile. “Thanks. That’s not usually the response I get.” When Sawyer raised her brows in question, Bex sighed. “Usually there’s some suggestive joke, which is ironic, because that’s kind of the whole reason my role is needed on set in the first place.”

Before Sawyer could ask more about her job, another giggle resounded from somewhere in the room. Sawyer glanced around, this time spotting the mismatched socks peeking out from behind the window curtains. Sawyer made a mental note to give the drapes a wide berth.

“So,” Lynn said loudly. Though Sawyer was beginning to suspect that was Lynn’s one and only volume level. “How do you and Mason know each other?”

The din of the kitchen died down immediately, and Sawyer found Mason’s eyes across the room. “We got trapped in an elevator together.” She wished there were a less rom-com-y way to spin it, but that was how it happened.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Lynn trilled to Mason. “After what happened on set—”

“We don’t need to talk about it,” Mason said with a flush.

At Sawyer’s confused expression, Bex leaned in. “A few years back, they were filming a scene at this sketchy warehouse, and Mason and his costar got stuck in the service elevator for half an hour.”

“In my defense, it felt much longer.”

“I’m sure Davi Shah having a full-blown panic attack did not help.”

“I’ve never felt more useless or helpless in my life. I didn’t know phobias were contagious, but experiencing that with her… It stuck.”

Lynn sighed wistfully. “I always hoped the two of you would get together. You two had such good chemistry.”

“Mom,” Bex chastised. “Not in front of—” She gestured meaningfully to Sawyer.

Sawyer interjected at the same time as Mason.

“Oh, we’re not—”

“Just friends.”

The tension in the kitchen could’ve been cut with a knife, the only sound Antonio chopping, blissfully ignorant to the conversation—or too used his family’s antics to care.

Luis cleared his throat pointedly. “Personally, I’m glad you’re not together. I like you, and maybe this way, you’ll last longer than the next few months.”

Everyone laughed, save for Mason, who threw a green bean at Luis. Sawyer watched it all unfold from behind her drink, which needed refilling, but she had a feeling she needed to stay sharp around this bunch.

Any buzz she might have had was immediately squashed by Bex’s next words.

“Oh, that’s right!” she trilled. “When are you leaving? When shooting wraps?”

Sawyer expected the entire room to freeze, to slowly turn and stare at Mason, but it didn’t. Lynn was talking baby talk to Milo while Margot bounced him in her lap. Luis and Antonio were inspecting the turkey through the oven window. Mason’s back visibly tensed beneath his burgundy shirt, turning slowly. His PR Face was firmly in place, but his eyes gave him away in the nervous flick toward his mother. Moira moved a cup out of Milo’s reach as if on instinct alone, refilling her glass of wine with her other hand.

“Where are you going, dear?” she asked Mason offhand, clearly unaware of the gravity of what Bex had just revealed.

Bex’s mouth parted slightly as she realized what she’d done. Grabbing her own glass of wine, she stared down into it like she wanted to drown in it.

“To LA, for work,” Mason said with forced casualness.

Sawyer still couldn’t believe that everyone was carrying on as usual, like Mason wasn’t broaching a topic he’d spent months hiding from them. Maybe it was fine, maybe it wouldn’t be a big deal. But looking around at everyone, the natural rhythms they had together… He was leaving this behind. Sawyer wished she had more than melted ice in her glass but couldn’t get up to refill it, not when she was holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Moira blinked, tearing her attention away from Milo. “Wait, why would you go there after shooting wrapped?”

God, the woman knew how to commandeer a room. The slightest shift in her tone, and suddenly everyone was paying attention, the silence in the kitchen now deafening.

Wild thoughts flashed through Sawyer’s brain. Maybe she could fake a violent bout of sudden-onset diarrhea and get them out of here so Mason wouldn’t have to talk about this before he was ready. Maybe she could fake an ankle sprain—but she wasn’t a very good actor, and she was in a room full of professionals. Her heart ached with the need to protect him. She knew how deep the hurt only family could cause went. All she could do was sit and watch, her eyes trained on Mason, as if she could telepathically send him support.

He met her gaze, taking a deep, steadying breath as he set down the spatula, put aside the bowl, and carefully wiped his hands on the dish towel thrown over his shoulder. “Because I’m moving there.” His voice was quiet, but the room was quieter. The way Margot gasped, you’d think Mason had said something profane. Mason’s eyes were still locked on Sawyer’s, as if he couldn’t look away or he’d lose his nerve. “Alissa is starting her production company, Guiding Light, and she wants me as her producer.”

More silence greeted his words.

Next to her, Bex gulped down the last of her wine before primly wiping the corners of her mouth and gingerly setting the empty crystal on the marble countertop. “Firstly,” she said shakily. “I’m an ass. I thought everyone knew. I’m so sorry. Secondly,” she said more fiercely, earning Mason’s gaze, which clearly conveyed he was a drowning man in need of a lifeline. She gave him a reassuring nod. “When Kara told me, I thought it was brilliant. With Kara leaving to do Marvel, and Nurse Lia and Dr. Santiago’s storylines so integrated, it’s the perfect time for both your characters to exit the show. You’ve been producing on episodes the past two seasons and on Alissa’s productions before that—you’re going to be an amazing producer.”

The way she said it left little room for adverse opinions, which was no doubt her goal. This was Mason’s moment. Sawyer had admittedly had to ask Mason what the hell a producer did, and he’d explained that he’d be in charge of securing funds for the films and managing all the departments and their schedules while Alissa helmed the creative side of things. It was no small job, and Bex had managed to deftly remind everyone that this was bigger than just Mason moving across the country. That this was a good thing for him, and not about them. Sawyer resisted the urge to clap.

“And you better throw some work my way,” she added with levity.

Mason grinned, the tension in the air lessening a fraction. “Obviously.”

“Oh, but you’ll be so far from family!” Lynn crowed. “We just got you back.”

Goddamn it, Lynn.

Sawyer chanced a glance at Moira, whose face was strangely neutral, in what Sawyer could only assume was her own version of PR Face. Sawyer held her breath, waiting for Moira to comment. It was less a conscious choice than it seemed all the air had been sucked out of the room, the tone for the rest of the evening to be determined by which way the pinch at the corner of Moira’s mouth turned.

“He can fly home just like I do,” Bex said pointedly.

“And it’s Christmas,” Luis reminded everyone as he refilled Bex’s wineglass for her. “Time to be selfless and celebrate.” If he was upset that Mason had kept this from him, he hid it well, a good enough friend to have Mason’s back.

“Agreed,” Moira said with a sniff. God, her posture was immaculate. She raised her glass, everyone in the room doing the same. Sawyer raised her tumbler of melted ice obediently. “To Mason robbing Hollywood of all their money.”

Everyone laughed as they clinked glasses and drank deeply. It was so perfectly in sync, Sawyer wouldn’t have been surprised to find someone in the corner holding cue cards.

The conversation moved on, but the tension remained, and Sawyer began to suspect there were more than two actors in this room, that their whole routine of rehashing old bits was a perfectly choreographed dance around conversational eggshells. Mason was avoiding his mother’s gaze like everyone in the room was avoiding the bomb that had just dropped.

This felt much more like the family dinners Sawyer was used to.

Bex mouthed, Sorry! to Mason, and he gave her a smile that Sawyer suspected was supposed to be comforting, but it came out strained.

The timer on the stove dinged softly, and Mason exhaled heavily. “Thank God.”

Antonio pulled the turkey out of the oven, sprinkling herbs over top with a flourish. “Dinner’s ready!”

Luis directed everyone to grab a dish, tossing them potholders and dish towels, effectively keeping everyone too busy to corner Mason. The man was a mastermind. Chairs scraped across the hardwood floors as everyone pushed back, grabbing platters to carry into the adjacent dining room. As the guest, Sawyer wasn’t allowed to carry anything, which was for the best, because as she crossed in front of the bay window, Max pounced.

“Boo!”

She screamed bloody murder and dropped to the floor.