She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 206

(Mason)

She books it on Wednesday. Tells me Thursday. The day before we’re supposed to go.

"Mojave. Friday through Sunday. I already paid the deposit. Don't think about it, just say yes."

"I'm thinking about it."

"Stop it. You need more spontaneity in your life."

"Chloe."

"Mason."

We're at her apartment.

She’s making me a drink that is, as far as I can tell, ninety per cent kale.

I’m going to drink it, but we both know I’m doing it under duress.

I refuse to admit how much healthier I feel since she’s been playing a bigger role in my life.

No need to encourage more raw food and disgusting juice.

"Friday what time?"

"Two."

"I have a call at three."

"Move it. You have an assistant who is excellent at her job. Have her move it."

She hands me the drink and kisses me on the cheek.

I drink it without pinching my nose shut.

"What’s happening at Mojave?"

"Sage moved her retreat there. She left Joshua Tree because the energy got too commercial."

"The energy."

"Yes Mason. The energy. The energy got commercial. You wouldn't understand."

"I'm trying to understand."

"That's why I love you."

She says it the way she says everything. Completely sincere as a casual aside, three-quarter speed, while rinsing the blender.

I don’t think she even noticed she just said it.

I most definitely noticed.

I drink the rest of my kale and try not to panic.

Friday she drives because I’ve been forced to admit that she’s a better driver than I am.

She never gets road rage. In California. It’s unnatural and very impressive. I think she may actually be a witch.

She has a playlist that consists of the weirdest mish-mash of songs known to man.

Mainly things I’ve never heard of. Like Inuit throat singing and Franciscan monks chanting. Interspersed with Taylor Swift and Adele and Hozier.

There’s one Fleetwood Mac song which I judge her for in silence because she'd defend it for forty minutes if I make fun of her.

I respond to emails for the first hour.

Then the freeway thins and the desert starts and I put the phone face-down between the seats.

She’s been very good about not commenting on the phone.

We get there a bit before five.

The Mojave is definitely not Joshua Tree.

No tour buses.

No influencers.

One road with a sign.

A turnoff with a wooden marker carved by Sage who, per Chloe, makes her own ink.

I don’t ask what from, because I’m scared there will be blood involved somehow.

The compound is six cabins around a fire pit, a low building with a sound bath sign, and a view that is, at this hour, going pink at the edges.

A woman comes out of the low building.

"Chloe!"

"Sage!"

There’s a long hug.

They reunite like they haven’t seen each other in a decade, which I know isn’t true.

It’s loud and physical.

Sage looks at me.

"Sage, this is Mason. The Mason."

"I am very honored to meet the Mason. Welcome."

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify