Chapter 6
SIX
PHOENIX
I take one look at the grease-stained mechanic giving us a ride and my immediate thought is that he looks like he has a collection of human skin on display in his basement.
“This guy looks straight out of a Stephen King novel,” Atticus murmurs as we approach.
“Rude,” I hiss back at him, even though I was thinking pretty much the same thing. I deliberately give the man my most effusive smile once we’re in earshot. “Hello, hi! Thank you so much for doing this.”
“I’m Earl,” he replies with a smile missing a few more teeth than mine. “Pleasure to meet you folks. Don’t get many celebrities through here.”
I try not to let the disappointment show on my face. So much for going incognito while we’re here. “Thank you.”
Earl doesn’t take his gaze off me. “I remember you from that one show…what was it called…on the Universal Kids Channel? Ally’s World. You were such a cute little thing.”
I open my mouth, not sure what to say to that. Saying thank you is the logical response, but that isn’t precisely the sentiment I’m feeling.
But Atticus smoothly interrupts before I say something I might regret. He claps Earl hard on the shoulder and gestures towards the pickup truck behind him. “It’s cold as a witch’s ass out here. Let’s hit the road.”
Earl grumbles his agreement, gaze following me as we hurry toward the truck and he tosses our bags into the back.
The interior is actually cleaner than the exterior suggested, though it smells strongly of pine air freshener and what might be fish. There’s no crew-cab, so Mason sits in the middle while Atticus is by the window and I balance on their laps, bouncing with every jolt from the road.
“Where exactly in Harmony Harbor should I drop you folks?” Earl asks as we turn onto the main road.
“The bed and breakfast,” Mason responds, voice entirely flat.
“The Seafoam Inn is definitely your best bet.” Earl briefly glances at Mason before returning his gaze to the road. “Say, you look familiar. You from around here?”
“No.”
“You sure? You look just like—”
“I’m sure.” Mason’s tone could freeze hell.
We go over a particularly dramatic pothole and I crash back into Mason’s chest, my elbow colliding with his sternum. “Shit, sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Mason murmurs despite his wince of pain.
For some reason, knowing that Mason is struggling with all of this makes it that much harder to tolerate.
“No, it’s not. None of this is fine,” I tell him. “We should be in Montreal right now, drinking overpriced wine and pretending the movie isn’t terrible.”
“The movie’s not terrible.”
I give him a look that could peel paint. “It’s terrible.”
“It’s…not bad.”
“It’s not good, either.”
His lip quirks the smallest amount. “I will give you that.”
“At least if we’d died in a plane crash, I wouldn’t have to read the reviews.”
He waits a beat to ensure I’m joking. “Critics can certainly be gigantic assholes.”
“They can also be right.” I stare at the crop of beech and pine trees at the side of the road, feeling suddenly morose. “I might just be a terrible actress.”
“You’re not—“
“Oh, come off it, firebird. You’re fishing for compliments,” Atticus breaks in, sounding more amused than annoyed.
“Mason is going to assure you that your acting is amazing and you’re going to refuse to believe it no matter how many times he repeats himself.
Let’s fast forward to the next topic of conversation. ”
God, he is infuriating. I consider slapping him fully across the face, but something tells me that’s exactly what he wants me to do.
Instead, I sidle closer to Mason until I’m fully on his lap. If the extra weight bothers him, he doesn’t say a word.
Finally, Earl breaks the silence. “So, you folks gonna be here for the Lobster Festival?”
“The what now?” Atticus asks.
“Harmony Harbor Lobster Festival. Biggest event of the year. Starts tomorrow actually. Whole town turns out. Lobster rolls, live music, craft booths. Real nice time.”
“Sounds like a grand old time,” Atticus drawls. “We should definitely stick around for the lobster party.”
“Phoenix is allergic to shellfish,” Mason mutters.
I wince. “Actually, I’m not.”
He turns me to face him. “I distinctly remember you saying you couldn’t have shellfish like a week after I started working with you.”
“The craft services girl wouldn’t stop offering me shrimp cocktail. I had to say something.”
He groans. “Phoenix…”
“It looked disgusting, Mason. And I didn’t want to be mean.”
“Do you have any idea how many restaurant managers I’ve lit into about not properly labeling allergens on their menus?”
“Three?”
“For the love of…you know what, never. It’s fine.” Mason doesn’t shift me off his lap, but I can almost sense him withdrawing emotionally, if not physically. “I’ll make a note to update your contract rider later.”
Chastened, I let him go back to glaring out the window. Mason usually responds well to my antics. When I stumble, he is always there to catch me. So I sometimes lose my balance on purpose, just to remind myself he’s still there.
But I’m realizing now that I might be abusing that privilege.
I gently touch his wrist. “You okay? You’ve been weird since the captain mentioned Harmony Harbor.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re doing that thing where you clench your jaw and give me two word answers to every question.”
He blinks at that, before squeezing my hand. “I’m not trying to do that.”
“You’re literally doing it right now.”
Mason unclenches his jaw with visible effort. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
“Mason—”
“Here we are,” Earl interrupts. “Best view of town you’re gonna get.”
We crest a hill, and suddenly Harmony Harbor spreads out below us. It’s actually pretty in that quaint New England way—white church steeples, colonial buildings, a harbor full of bobbing boats. Lights twinkle along the waterfront, and I can see what must be festival preparations in the town square.
“It’s like Stars Hollow, but with significantly more decapods,” Atticus murmurs.
I glance at him, still annoyed at his existence. “I don’t know what any of those words mean.”
“Decapods are crustaceans with legs,” Atticus explains slowly, like I’m a complete idiot. “And I assume you’re familiar with Gilmore Girls.”
“Never seen it.”
“You’ve never…how have you never seen Gilmore Girls?”
I scoff. “Maybe I was too busy being on TV for the free time to watch it.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah well, you’re the saddest thing I’ve ever seen…so there’s that.”
He just shakes his head, a mocking smile on his face. “Good one.”
“There’s the inn,” Earl announces, pulling up in front of a three-story building that looks like it belongs on the front of a brochure for the tourism board. “The Seafoam Inn. Best place in town for travelers to stay, though that ain’t saying much since it’s the only one.”
The Seafoam Inn looks like someone took a Victorian dollhouse and supersized it.
Wraparound porch, gingerbread trim, the works.
There’s even a swing hanging from chains and window boxes overflowing with some kind of purple flower that’s probably survived the cold through sheer New England stubbornness.
I slide off Mason’s lap and out of the truck before Earl can offer to help.
My legs are wobbly, either from the cramped ride or the lingering adrenaline crash, but I manage to stay upright as I climb the porch steps.
The wooden boards creak under my heels in that charming way that says character rather than lawsuit waiting to happen.
The lobby smells like lavender and fresh bread.
Actual bread, not that fake scent they pump into hotel lobbies to make you feel cozy.
There’s a stone fireplace crackling away in the corner, mismatched armchairs arranged around it, and more doilies than I’ve ever seen in one place. It’s aggressively quaint.
I approach the front desk, where a woman with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses perched on her nose looks up from a crossword puzzle.
“Well, hello there! Welcome to the Seafoam.” Her smile is warm and genuine in a way that makes me immediately suspicious. “Checking in?”
“Yes, please. Three rooms, if you have them.”
“I’ll just need to see some ID.”
I turn automatically, hand already extended for Mason to press my wallet into it. That’s how this works. That’s how it’s always worked. Mason handles the logistics—the credit cards, the identification, the endless paperwork of existing as a public figure. I just show up and smile.
But Mason isn’t there.
I blink at the empty space beside me, confusion rippling through the exhaustion. Mason is always there. Mason is the one constant in my universe, the fixed point around which my entire chaotic existence orbits. Where the hell—
Atticus materializes at my elbow, smooth as silk. “Someone should have called ahead to set up the rooms. Probably under a corporate account?”
The woman frowns. “Let me check.” Her fingers tap across an ancient keyboard. “Ah, here we are. Three guests, one night. One room is okay, right?”
I blink at her. “It’s really not.”
“I’m so sorry, but the main floor is being renovated so we only have one room available right now.”
“One room.” I stare at her. “For three people.”
“It is our largest suite. King bed, pullout sofa, lovely harbor view.” She’s already pulling a brass key from a hook behind her. “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. If you’d like, I can call around to some of the neighboring towns, but it would be at least three hours of driving—.”
“It’s fine,” Atticus interrupts before I can spiral. “We’ll make it work.”
I want to argue. I want to demand they conjure additional rooms from thin air through sheer force of my personality. But I’m tired, and my bones ache, and somewhere between the emergency landing and the truck ride from hell, I’ve lost the energy to be difficult.
“Fine,” I echo. “One room. Whatever.”
Dorothy beams and slides the key across the counter. “Room 7, top floor. Breakfast starts at seven. And if you need anything at all, just ring the bell.”
I take the key and turn to find Atticus watching me with an unreadable expression.
“Where’s Mason?” The question comes out sharper than intended.
Atticus tilts his head toward the front door. “Still outside. He looked like he needed a minute.”
Through the lace-curtained window, I can see Mason standing on the porch, phone pressed to his ear, shoulders rigid as stone. Even from here, something about his posture screams wrong.
“Something’s going on with him,” I murmur.
“Clearly.”
“He won’t tell me what.”
“Also clearly.”
I clutch the brass key tight enough that the teeth bite into my palm, trying to suppress my growing hurt. Mason is my rock. He’s always been as steady as an ocean liner on my churning sea. I’m not sure what I’m going to do if he is struggling and can’t be honest with me about it.
More importantly, what secret could be so big that he can’t share it with me?
Atticus grabs the key out of my hand before I can stop him, only winking when I glare. “At least one of us needs beauty sleep, firebird. Let’s get this show on the road.”
This is going to be a disaster.