Intercepted (New Hope #1)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Mallory

A full moon looms behind Pemberton Academy, turning the ostentatious architecture into a dark silhouette worthy of an Addams Family reboot. The air is frigid, which isn't conducive to a formal event. My stilettos slip across a patch of black ice in the parking lot. Luckily, Mason is there to catch my elbow.

I thank him, avoiding eye contact as we make our way into the school.

He's wearing a three-piece suit, and quite honestly, it's doing things to my lady bits every time I glance his way. It's as though each strip of navy-blue fabric was made specifically for him, which I'm sure it was. The dress shirt showcases his thick biceps and broad shoulders. His pants sit tightly over his immaculate bum and powerful thighs. When he buckled me into the Range Rover, his arm brushed against mine, and I swear my skin sighed at the softness of his coat. The man must've paid more for that suit than I did for my car.

Tonight is Grace's Christmas recital. Apart from the knowledge that she's dedicating a non-holiday song to her father, I have no idea what we're walking into. Mason has even less information, which is why he's been casting me inquisitive glances all evening, wondering why the hell I'm so nervous.

"Is Grace really that bad of a singer?" he asked me on the ride to school. "Is that why you look like you're gonna throw up?"

I just shook my head, keeping my lips pinned shut.

Now, we enter Pemberton's main hall. The stone archways and dark wooden bannisters are decorated with wreathes and tinsel. Fake icicles dangle from the chandeliers, and the catering staff are all wearing Santa hats. They walk through the substantial crowd, carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne. I snag a glass of bubbly, toss it back in one gulp, and deposit the empty glass on another tray.

The boys all raise their eyebrows, but I ignore them, letting the classical music guide us toward the coat check. One of the attendants smiles warmly at me, his gaze slithering down my bodice. I turn to let him take my winter coat. Mason clears his throat, stepping forward to do the honors.

He places his lips at my ear, growling so that only I can hear. "My woman, my job."

Mason has had his heated gaze fixed to my body all evening. I'm wearing a conservative dress, the hemline of which goes past my knees. However, the crimson red fabric hugs my every curve and has a sweetheart neckline. When I walked down the stairs an hour ago, Mason, Aidan, and Blake were waiting for me in the foyer. Mason's eyes went glassy, and his jaw nearly dropped to the floor. Aidan flicked his father's chin, closing his mouth for him.

It was a nice confident boost. Not that I needed one, until I saw Mason in his suit. I've seen him dressed formally before, but it was always through a camera during postgame interviews. In real life, I'm subjected to his spicy, woodsy smell and the sound of his scruff scraping against his hand when he runs his palm over his face. It's the details that make him otherworldly, which is also why we're drawing a ton of attention.

Seriously, every single person—parents, grandparents, siblings, staff—is swiveling their heads in our direction. A few ballsy fans step forward, asking Mason for an autograph or a picture. He signs his name as quickly as possible, and poses for a few photos, his smile reeking of discomfort. When he spots Aidan, Blake, and me waiting patiently at the entrance to the amphitheater, he disentangles himself from a group of teenagers.

"Sorry, guys." Mason holds his hands up at the line forming in the middle of the hallway, refusing to accept the pens being shoved into his face. "I'm here with my family tonight. Maybe some other time."

Daniel Higgins is welcoming each and every guest into the theater. An assistant stands dutifully at his side, passing out programs. My eyes alight, and I snag one with a vengeance, riffling through it until I reach the soloists. Grace will be the last to perform, but it doesn't say which song she'll be singing.