Chapter 8 - The Escape Clause
An hour later, the black sedan was rolling smoothly down the highway, carrying them away from the flashing lights of the country club and back toward the quiet, mist-shrouded streets of Seattle.
The interior was warm and silent, broken only by the low hum of the climate control and the soft ticking of the dashboard clock.
Maya sat by the window, watching the city lights blur into golden streaks against the glass. The adrenaline of the federal raid, the screaming relatives, and the sheer absurdity of her fake boyfriend turning out to be an international logistics titan had finally drained away, leaving behind a heavy, thoughtful quiet.
“So,” Maya said softly, turning her head to look at him. “The twenty-four hours are almost up.”
Mason kept his eyes on the road ahead—his driver, Marcus, maintaining a disciplined silence in the front seat. “Technically, we have until eleven o'clock tonight.”
“And what happens at eleven o'clock?”
“The contract expires.”
Maya turned fully in her seat, drawing her knees up slightly. “And what does the contractor recommend we do about contract renewal?”
Mason turned his head, meeting her gaze. The streetlights outside flashed across his sharp, handsome features, casting deep shadows over his eyes. “The contractor believes the terms were insufficiently defined. He would like to negotiate an extension.”
“On what grounds?”
“Exclusivity,” Mason said, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly baritone that had first caught her attention across the café counter three months ago. “No more fake boyfriends. No more improvised setups to appease your family. Just... us.”
Maya felt her heart skip a beat, a warm, fluttering heat spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the man sitting beside her.
“You realize my family is insane, right?” Maya warned, a playful smile touching her lips. “Next month is Thanksgiving. My mother makes a turkey that could double as a brick, and my aunt Judith will spend the entire dinner trying to figure out if you own a nuclear submarine.”
“I survived a federal takedown of an armed money-launderer while eating chicken cordon bleu,” Mason replied, his mouth curving into that rare, devastating smile. “I am entirely confident I can survive your mother’s turkey.”
May you like
Maya laughed, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet car. She reached across the center console, sliding her hand over his. His fingers instantly turned, locking around hers with a warm, unbreakable grip.
“Okay, Mr. Reed,” Maya whispered. “Contract extended.”
