Chapter 2 Sierra
Sierra
“Maybe I’ll just have to stay in this tiny little blip of a town,” I tell Sophie as full-blown panic sets in, “where there’s no cell service and no one will ever find me. Maybe I can change my name, and sling drinks at this bar, and—”
“You’re in a bar right now?”
“Oh, yeah. Did I not mention that I just met the hottest bartender in the known universe? Maybe if I hadn’t sworn off males for the rest of the year—you know, for mental health reasons—I’d take it as a good sign.”
“Okay, listen to me, Si. I say this with so much love. Whatever you do, do not get distracted by that hot but probably narcissistic bartender who’s already slept with every girl in town. You have not had the greatest luck with men this year.”
I sigh. “True.” Though “this year” is generous. Have I ever had any luck with men?
“Fuck Kyle, and fuck his parents, okay? You don’t need them. Who’s running your business?”
“Me.”
“Fucking right. There’s money to be made in Orchard Cove, so go make it.
You’ve got this lease, and you’ve got smoothies to sell.
So, keep your phone handy, and keep trying to reach June.
If you can’t, get a hotel room. And I’ll see you tomorrow morning as planned.
I’ll be over on the first ferry. We’ll talk more then. ”
I blink away the tears that are stinging my eyes. I refuse to let them fall. “Okay.”
“Just go find some cute café to hang out in, and keep in touch with me. We’re going to get past this, sweetie,” my best friend reassures me. “You’ll see.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” I say the things I know she needs to hear, reassuring her that I’m okay, and say goodbye. When the call disconnects, I will myself not to check any more messages on my phone until I’m certain I won’t burst into tears.
I haven’t cried over Kyle or the breakup, I’m not going to cry over my entire fucking life falling apart.
Crying won’t put dollars in my bank account.
Sophie’s right. I’m fucking fine.
My eyes creep over to the photo of shirtless Mason.
I need to clear out of this man’s office before it gets weird.
I collect myself and emerge from the room, hugging my bag to my chest and feeling like I just took a nosedive into a gaping, dignity-gobbling chasm.
It’s a feeling I’m getting used to.
I feel so out of control. Maybe that’s the worst part.
The fact that Kyle dumped me with such a vengeance was out of my control. The fact that I had to watch his suspiciously pretty “best friend” swoop in to console him afterwards was not a hell of my own making. He chose those things. He chose her.
And I chose . . . to come here.
Now he’s in the city with her, I’m here alone, and I have no idea how I’m going to fix anything. I would laugh if I wasn’t still halfway in shock.
Mason is behind the bar, and he looks over at me. For someone who said he was leaving “in a minute,” he doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. It’s almost like . . . he’s been waiting for me?
Probably just wanted to make sure I didn’t rob the place.
He doesn’t frown, just takes a long, long look at me, and his eyes seem to soften a bit. If I didn’t feel like utter shit right now, it might be enjoyable, being looked at like that.
“Bad news?” he ventures.
“Not great news,” I admit.
I move along the front of the bar. His friend is gone. The lone waitress is chatting with the bachelorette party, who now have drinks strewn across their tables.
The volume of the music has gone up a bit. I point at the ceiling, not really sure if I’m pointing at the speakers playing “Hold the Line” or the heavens. “Toto. My grandpa would love this.”
Mason looks surprised that I know the name of the band, but then frowns a little. “Yeah, well, your grandpa has good taste.”
Had. But I don’t correct him. “Ah. So the classic rock is your doing, then. I wondered if it was you or that fancy jukebox in the corner.” I smile a little. It almost hurts. I really haven’t used those muscles all week.
“Guilty.” He seems to realize that I’m actually not making fun of him or the music. I think I catch a subtle flash of dimples deep in that beard before he dips his head to open a bottle behind the bar. “You’re welcome to change the song, if you want. Jukebox is free.”
“My grandpa was the coolest human on the planet. Just so we’re clear.”
The dimples are unmistakable this time.
“Thank you for letting me use your Wi-Fi.”
His eyes flash to mine, and I feel that electric zing right down to my ovaries again. “Anytime,” he says gruffly.
I’m not sure how to take that, since getting his help was like pulling teeth, but I feel his attention lingering on me as I head for the door.
I’m not even sure where I’m going, just that I need to fall apart a little bit and I don’t want to do it in front of the most effortlessly sexy man I’ve ever met. Maybe I’ll do it in my van.
“Hey,” he says.
I pause and glance over. He’s pouring something from a bottle into a tall glass: a golden, sparkling liquid that looks incredibly refreshing.
“You look like you could use a drink.”
I’m not surprised. But I am curious about whatever inspired this change in his mood.
Pity, maybe.
“Is it that bad?” I say.
“Professional observation.”
He slides the drink across the bar toward me.
I consider for maybe half a second; Sophie’s advice is in my head. But so is this whole terrible week, and I’m drowning in it. “Well, you’re the professional, so.” I drop my things on a barstool and lean on the bar, eyeing the effervescent drink. “Beer?”
“Apple cider. From my family’s orchard.”
He leans on his elbows on the bar, watching me, all massive shoulders and muscle-corded forearms, and deep, endless blue eyes.
His sleeve has ridden up, revealing more of the tattoo on his right bicep.
Amid the flowers and leaves, the scripted letters clearly read Samantha.
Which is a level of commitment that goes well beyond anything I’ve seen demonstrated by most of the men in my life, that’s for sure.
Maybe he hasn’t slept with half the town?
I try not to be too impressed by the muscles or the tattoo or the orchard thing, but this man just gets more interesting by the second.
Hopefully Samantha is his sweet grandmother, or his dog, or his beloved dead sister or something. And not, you know, the love of his life, who’s sitting at home right now wondering where the hell he is, while he’s right here, staring at me.
What are you doing, the Sophie in my head says, but I ignore her.
He seems to be waiting for me to taste the cider, so I lift the glass and take a sip. I close my eyes, savoring, and maybe trying to escape the intensity of his attention. The cider is cold and tart, then sweet. Refreshing and bubbly. I taste apples and honey and maybe a hint of citrus?
Holy Christ, it’s delicious.
I open my eyes, careful to fix a serious expression on my face, just like his. “There’s alcohol in this, right?”
“Yup.”
“Great.” I take several deep, unapologetic gulps of it.
Something like amusement, or maybe lust, sparks in his eyes. I have no idea which, and it doesn’t matter.
No boys for the rest of the year.
Probably Samantha is his drop-dead-gorgeous wife, anyway.
“Thirsty?” he murmurs.
I set the cider down, trying like hell not to blush from the double entendre I think he intended. “Very.”
His gaze drifts to my mouth. “Good?”
We stare at each other as I wonder if he’s talking about the cider or this simmering, nonsensical heat that’s growing between us.
Finally, I say, “You know it is,” sounding weirdly breathless.
I’m talking about the cider, though. Just the cider.
It’s the cider that’s making me warm.
I totally look for it, but he’s definitely not wearing a wedding ring. I lick my lip unintentionally, and his gaze tracks the movement.
I clear my throat. “I thought you had somewhere to be.”
“I do.”
“Something more important come up?”
He doesn’t look away from my face, doesn’t even blink, when he says, “Ask me tomorrow.”