Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
In theory, this was supposed to be a simple, straightforward fieldwork session. I was going to take initial surveys of each of the plots and tally up the plant species. I came prepared. I brought my identification guides, sunscreen, and my trusty research notebook.
What I didn’t prepare for was being completely distracted by a shirtless, six-foot-two lifeguard with wind-tousled hair and a crooked smile.
So here I am, crouched in a patch of dune grass, daydreaming about sucking Mason Burke’s dick instead of focusing on the impact of invasive species on the fragile lakeshore ecosystem.
I’m supposed to be a scientist. I pride myself on being logical and rational. Yet I’m willingly letting my prefrontal cortex be hijacked by hormones and nonsensical feelings.
But God, I want to kiss him again.
Groaning, I force myself to turn my back to the lifeguard tower and focus on my work.
I move methodically through the plots, counting all of the Pitcher’s Thistle and Spotted Knapweed, the latter of which is a pesky invasive species with vibrant purple flowers.
The work is soothing, and I start to fall into a rhythm.
That is, until my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Mason: hey. wanna have lunch 2gether?
Hunter: Yes. :) Meet me in the shed?
He replies with a thumbs-up emoji. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head down the park trail, winding between beech and maple trees.
I take a few grounding breaths, focusing on the scent of distant lake water mixed with decaying leaves.
I count each step as I hike down the trail, feeling the squish of decaying forest matter beneath my boots.
It helps me pretend I’m still in control of myself.
When I reach the maintenance shed, I unlock the door and slip inside. The musty air hits me immediately. On the ground, I notice the overlapping shoe prints we left behind a few nights ago, faint now but still visible in the layer of dirt.
They make me smile.
What can I say? I’m a man of logic and evidence. And those shoe prints are clear, tangible evidence that I really did hook up with Mason that night in the shed, and again yesterday at my house. That it wasn’t just a dream.
“Hey, you,” Mason says, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. His cheeks are a little pink from the sun.
“Hey,” I say, rising on my toes to kiss him.
His lips meet mine, urgent but sweet. His arms wrap around my waist and tug me closer. His body slots against mine, firm and warm. His palm migrates to grope my ass, squeezing hard, and I gasp into his mouth.
He suddenly pulls back, breathless. “Sorry.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why are you apologizing?”
“Because I only have fifteen minutes left on my break,” he mutters, running his fingers through his hair, “and I really shouldn’t be starting anything.”
“It’s fine, Mason—”
“No, it’s not. I can’t go back to work with a boner.”
Oh. Oh.
I glance down, and sure enough, he’s hard. My brain struggles to accept the fact that I did that to him.
I feel myself blushing, flustered and secretly flattered. “Okay. Let’s, uh—let’s eat, then.”
Mason nods and grabs his lunchbox. We sit cross-legged on the dusty floor, the shed providing a small pocket of cool relief from the blazing sun outside.
Before he eats, he fiddles with the buttons on his insulin pump, entering numbers with calm efficiency.
The tiny device makes a quiet mechanical whirl, barely audible.
I don’t say anything—I don’t want to make a big deal out of it—but I can’t help watching the way he does it like second nature. Like breathing.
I open my lunchbox and take out the salad I packed, peeling the lid off and drizzling raspberry vinaigrette across the greens.
Mason eyes it, grimacing. “Are you sure you’re a real Michigander?”
I arch an eyebrow. “Yes. Why?”
“Because the only acceptable salad dressing in this state is ranch.”
I laugh, stabbing a forkful of spinach. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“You don’t like ranch?”
My nose wrinkles. “Nah. Not really.”
He gasps. “That’s blasphemy!”
I shake my head fondly. “I take it you like ranch?”
“I don’t like ranch. I love ranch. I put ranch on everything. Chicken nuggets, fries, pizza, tacos—”
“That’s disgusting,” I interrupt, making a face.
“Ranch makes everything better,” he insists.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I’ll make you a changed man,” Mason says around a mouthful of sandwich. “By the end of the summer, you’ll be a ranch convert.”
I give him a tight smile. I don’t like thinking about the end of summer. It’s approaching quickly—too quickly.
“So, how’s your research going?” he asks.
I shrug. “Fine. Just getting some initial species counts today, and I would’ve finished sooner if someone hadn’t been distracting me.”
Mason grins, completely unapologetic. “Well, consider it payback.”
“Payback?”
“For all the times you’ve distracted me.”
My face must be beet red. “I… distract you?”
“All the time,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “Especially when you wear shorts like that.”
I look down at my legs. I’m wearing a pair of green athletic shorts made of an airy mesh material. I normally hate wearing anything this revealing, but it’s so goddamn hot outside.
I don’t know what to say, so I take another bite of salad and chew in silence.
“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he muses as he peels a clementine.
“Ugh, shut up,” I plead, burying my face in my hands.
He laughs. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave. Oh—I almost forgot. Check out what I got in the mail today.” He pulls something from his pocket and hands it to me.
It’s a folded piece of pink construction paper with a crayon drawing of a beach scene: blue waves, brown sand, a yellow sun smiling in the corner. I flip it open and read the messy handwriting inside.
To Mason:
Thank you for saving me! You are my hero!
-Hannah
I grin, handing it back to him. “That’s so sweet.”
He nods. “Yeah. I’m glad she’s okay,” he says, shaking his head. “People underestimate the lake. It can be dangerous, especially for little kids or inexperienced swimmers.”
I hum, popping a cherry tomato into my mouth. “Yeah. That’s why I stay away from it.”
He frowns. “Wait, what?”
“I don’t know how to swim.”
His jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I’ve just… always been afraid of water,” I admit. “Growing up, my parents had a yacht on Lake St. Clair. I hated going near it.”
Mason shakes his head like he’s personally offended. “That won’t do. I’m teaching you.”
“Absolutely not,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ve made it twenty-three years without knowing. I’m not trying to drown now.”
“C’mon! I’m a great teacher. I taught Maddie and some of her friends when we were younger.” His eyes are lit with excitement and determination.
I bite my lip. “I’ll think about it.”
He seems pleased with that answer—at least for now.
We fall into easy silence while we eat. I glance out the dirt-covered window. Outside, the wind stirs the trees, birds chirping from the branches.
Mason finishes his lunch and leans back on his hands, watching me curiously. “So, what do you think of Claremont Shores so far? Is it the coastal paradise you imagined?”
I consider it. “It’s a beautiful town. The beach is nice.”
“It is.”
“But…” I scratch at the back of my neck, hesitating. “Most of the people are exactly what I expected, unfortunately. I don’t think they’re used to seeing openly queer people.”
His smile falters. “Has someone said something to you?”
“Not directly, but I hear whispers when I walk by. And the other day, someone muttered a slur under their breath on the sidewalk.”
His nostrils flare. “Jesus.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I insist, shrugging it off. “I’m just here for my research until September. It’s not like I’ll be stuck living here.”
The words leave my mouth before I realize how they sound. “Sorry,” I blurt, wincing. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“It’s fine,” he cuts in, but his voice has gone softer. Distant. The kind of quiet that makes my chest tighten.
I clear my throat, fidgeting with my fingers. “What was it like? Growing up here and being gay?”
His shoulders tense, his eyes drifting away. “I didn’t meet another queer person until I moved to Shelby Harbor for college. I always kind of knew I was different, I guess. I had secret crushes on male celebrities, but around here, being gay wasn’t even an option. It just… didn’t feel real.”
I suddenly feel like an oblivious, privileged asshole. Back home, being gay wasn’t even interesting. We had an annual pride festival. My high school had a LGBTQ club. We elected a lesbian mayor once. No one cared.
I frown. “So… did you date girls in high school?”
He inhales a sharp breath. “Yes.”
“And you slept with them?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
He gives me an incredulous look. “What? You never slept with girls?”
I almost laugh at the thought. I was a complete outcast in high school, overshadowed by my popular football quarterback twin brother. I was the weird kid who didn’t understand social cues and corrected teachers in front of the class.
“No,” I say firmly. “I didn’t sleep with girls in high school. Or boys. Or anyone, really. Not until undergrad.”
Mason gives a low whistle. “Wow. That’s surprising.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he says, gesturing to me vaguely, “you’re, like, the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
I stare at the floor and shake my head. “Even if that were true—which it definitely isn’t—you’re forgetting the fact that I’m incredibly awkward.”
“I think your awkwardness is charming,” he says, smirking.
I roll my eyes. “You’d be one of the first to think that.”
Mason scoots closer to me, dragging himself across the floor. Our thighs brush, and the warmth makes my skin buzz. He sandwiches my face between his hands, staring at me intensely.
“I mean it,” he says after a moment. “I like that you don’t hide your weirdness.”
“I’m not trying to be weird,” I mutter.
“Exactly! You’re just being yourself. I like that you know the scientific names for basically every plant. I like that you put rainbow stickers on everything you own. I like that you yelled at that guy on the beach for throwing a soda can in the trash instead of recycling.”
His words melt inside me, gooey and soft. I keep waiting for a punchline—like all of this is too good to be true, and soon he’ll admit that it’s all an elaborate prank. But he’s just staring at me with an honest smile on his face.
Instead of saying anything, I lean in and kiss him. Our lips meet, soft and a little clumsy. My glasses shift crookedly between our faces, and I know they’ll have smudges on the lenses afterwards, but I don’t care.
When we pull apart, his hand stays on my cheek. “As much as I’d like to stay here and keep kissing you, I have to go back to work. And you need to get back to your precious plants.”
I groan, but he’s right.
He laughs and stands, offering me a hand. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet.
We grab our empty lunchboxes and start walking down the trail again, shoulder to shoulder. We don’t hold hands, but our elbows knock together every now and then.
When we reach the beach, he gives my arm a gentle squeeze. It’s too crowded here to sneak in a farewell kiss, so the touch lingers as our silent goodbye.
I head back toward the dunes with the sun on my back and his warmth still buzzing under my skin.