Chapter 8 Sierra #3
“Yeah. Ugh. I forgot to thank you for not even batting an eye at his hotness. His ego clearly doesn’t need it.”
She shrugs. “All in a day’s work.” And it is.
For her. Not only is she happily married, she and Pete work as merchandise managers for Dirty, the hottest rock band to ever come out of Vancouver, so she’s constantly surrounded by beautiful VIPs, both male and female.
Which means Mason and all his hot “swinging dick” friends are not going to faze her.
Me, I’m just a regular girl. And sure, I’ve met some VIPs, in passing, whenever Sophie’s dragged me to some party that’s filled with them, but that is so not my scene.
I’m way too socially awkward for high-level mingling—unless I’m sucking back shooters or something.
And I’m too much of a music fanatic to be chill around a rock star.
Mason, I thought I might actually be able to handle. We had a vibe. He even claimed to love music, just like I do. We made each other laugh.
But now that he apparently hates me? Shit.
“I am really gonna need your help thinking straight in the face of that fuck-hot bar owner,” I warn her. I’m so fucking grateful she was able to come here with me for a few weeks while the band is on a break in their current world tour. What would I do without her now? “Beard and dimples? Fuck me.”
“I’m here for you, babe,” she says solemnly.
“I just don’t understand his extreme change in attitude toward me. Even with the Pier Seven thing. Last night felt . . . magical. But maybe it was only me who felt that way.”
“You were incredibly drunk. Maybe he just isn’t as much of a teddy bear as you thought?”
“Yeah. Maybe. Today he sure turned into a raging grizzly. And he seemed to believe, so easily, that I’m in league with the devil.”
“Maybe you are,” Sophie jokes. “You may be right about June. Though I’m getting more of a ‘forest witch’ vibe than Lucifer.”
“Maybe so. Or maybe she just lives with too many cats. Maybe one too many men screwed her over, and she went crotchety old lady?”
“Interesting theory.”
“On the other hand, Mason is, what? Mid-thirties? Hot, presumably wealthy, owns property and businesses, has every reason to be loving life. And he was cold as hell today. Mean, hurtful, downright rude. He made it grossly clear that he wants me gone.”
“He wants the smoothie bar gone,” Sophie corrects me. “Maybe it wasn’t as personal as it felt.”
“Maybe. And maybe there’s no financial reason to be here if he’ll pay me for the lease and lost income, and I call it a day.”
Sophie looks worried. “Do you really want to do that, though?”
I groan. “I don’t know.”
At this point, I don’t know if there would be a point in leaving, when I really have nothing to go back to.
Whoever actually puts I love long walks on the beach on their dating profile is a fucking psycho. Or has never actually walked on a beach. Or has no feeling on the bottoms of their feet.
Or maybe just hasn’t walked on a beach on the Canadian West Coast.
Early on Monday morning, after a terrible, restless sleep, I make the mistake of heading down to the beach at the end of Honeymoon Lane with my yoga towel.
I actually check my delicate city-person soles several times for cuts as I stagger painfully over the sharp shards of hell dust that I guess we’re calling sand.
I brush it off my feet and put my shoes back on, but there’s still so much sand on my skin, now it feels like I’m wearing sandpaper socks.
I pick a spot and roll out my yoga towel, kicking off my shoes again. But it feels like I’m doing my morning sun salutations on rough concrete. The seagulls cry in the distance, probably harassing people walking on the pier and dive-bombing them for food, and it’s weirdly hard to concentrate.
I finally give up and sit in a simple cross-legged Sukhasana. I pop my earbuds in and listen to “Somebody That I Used to Know” and just breathe. But it’s too sad, so I pluck Gotye out of my ears and close my eyes.
Unfortunately, I’m still sad about the breakup. Mostly, I’m sad about the years I wasted with, apparently, a man who was all wrong for me.
I’m angry at Kyle for diving into his best friend’s arms so fast. I’m angry at Mason for trying to evict me from Orchard Cove.
I’m angry at my stepsister for telling me on our weekly Sunday-night phone call yesterday that I “really could’ve seen this coming,” and for being so right about Kyle, and especially for having all her shit so perfectly together, as always, while mine is perpetually falling apart.
And I’m angry at myself, for putting myself in a position to get dumped by someone I should’ve broken up with long ago, for struggling in my business, and for generally fucking failing at life, still. At thirty years old. When I really thought I’d have some of it figured out by now.
“Fuck,” I curse into the wind.
I try to focus on the gentle sound of the waves and the breeze in the trees. But I’m too sad. And angry. And creepily on guard. I’ve seen this on influencers’ travel pics, but is this supposed to be calming? An axe murderer could sneak right up on me. There’s, like, no one out here but me.
I knew it.
Nature is overrated.
A tinkling sound startles me. My eyes fly open as a golden retriever trots up to me, collar tinkling and tail wagging. His tongue lolls out the side of a lopsided doggy smile.
“Hey, you.” I reach out to greet the friendly dog, letting him sniff my hand, then petting his soft head. I find myself smiling for the first time today, and I look up as the dog’s owner approaches.
I yank back from the dog as if it bit me, and it happily turns to sniffing my shoes.
Mason Grant is walking toward me, blue eyes leveled at me, the dog’s leash dangling from his hand.
He wears a scrap of a shirt that I guess you would call a tank top, his muscular shoulders, tattooed arms, and the outer curves of his pecs on spectacular display in the morning sunshine.
I even glimpse an exposed, dark-pinkish nipple as the thin fabric flutters in the breeze.
My entire body flushes hot. I feel like the girls in the KPop Demon Hunters movie when the ripped dude in the boy band flashes his abs, and popcorn shoots out of their eyes.
I try to scrape my eyeballs back into their sockets as I get to my feet, angrier than I already was. But his loose shorts cling to his muscular thighs, the aforementioned breeze making the long and girthy package in front impossible not to notice. The fabric is practically translucent.
It’s obscene.
Of course this man has an incredible cock, because the universe is an unfair place. And yes, I remember vividly how it felt in my hand. Warm. Smooth. Pulsating, and hard as rock.
Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, ever since he so kindly reminded me that I shoved my hand down his pants and grabbed it, somehow awakening the memory with extreme sensory detail.
But come on. Did he put on the thinnest shorts in the world, without underwear, because he knew I was here?
Who is actually trying to seduce who here?
I scowl as he comes too close for comfort. As in, where I can see his bare nipple clearly.
Did he see me come down here? Has he been watching me?
“Scar,” he calls to the dog. “Come here.” He stands there, his gaze roaming over my yoga outfit, and I wonder if my nipples are showing through my sports bra. The breeze is kind of cool.
I hug myself as my eyes scramble for something unsexy to fixate on. The dog.
“Your adorable golden retriever is named Scar?” I say incredulously.
“My brother’s dog,” he corrects me with a frown. “It’s short for Scaramouche. It’s from—”
“‘Bohemian Rhapsody,’” I say blandly. “I guess you didn’t believe me that I know all the songs.” But why would he? I am a liar, according to him.
“You didn’t seem to know ‘Hotel California,’” he points out, deadpan.
Damn. Didn’t I? Grandpa Alex loved that album.
“I do. I was just drunk.” I change the subject.
“What are you doing here? Lemme guess. Here to draw a line in the sand? What is it this time? You want me to stay away from your barber, your mechanic, and your kindergarten teacher? Anyone else you wanna add to the list?”
His eyebrows pinch together. “I’m just walking a dog. It’s a public beach. And I live . . . right there.” He nods toward his family’s expansive property above the beach. We’re standing right in front of it.
I thought I’d walked straight down from Honeymoon Lane. I didn’t realize I’d drifted over this way.
“So? If you don’t mind, your dog interrupted my mindfulness practice.” What there was of it. The only thing I was really mindful of was that I really don’t want to be here, but I think I might need to be.
If for no other reason than I can’t bear to fail at one more fucking thing right now. And I have a specific sales number I need to hit this month, or my business is for sure going belly-up.
“He didn’t seem to bother you,” he says, but puts the dog on the leash and draws him in to heel. Scar sits patiently at Mason’s feet as Mason stares me down. “You’re not at the pier,” he says accusingly.
Why is this guy always accusing me of shit? And what is he accusing me of now?
“It’s early.”
“So, you’re all set up for your grand opening on Wednesday?”
“Will be.”
He looks away, out over the water, and my eyes rake over him from the cords in his manly neck to his attractive toes. The man even has nice feet. His chest rises and falls in a slow, deep breath. He looks tense all over.
Exactly how I feel.
I meet his eyes when he turns to me again. “Have you given some thought to my offer?”
I snort. “Was that what it was? Felt more like an order.”
“It was a legitimate offer. Name your price, within reason. And I’ll pay it.”
Yeah. That’s what he said the other night before I basically laughed in his face, and Sophie politely asked him to get out of my shop or she’d call some of her biker friends to come down and remove him. (Yes, sweet, squishy Sophie knows bikers.)
“Oh, I thought about your ‘legitimate offer.’ Kinda hard to forget.”
“And?”
“And I think I’ll have to legitimately decline.”
“Much easier if you back out now, before the shop opens.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Because then you won’t have to deal with me anymore.”
We stare at each other as my hormones flip out at the thought of dealing with him. Over and over. Naked. For some reason, my sex parts seem to think he’s flirting with me again.
I never realized before that they’re so fucking stupid.
“But dealing with you is so enjoyable, Mason,” I say, hoping to put across with my scathing sarcasm: You know what? Fuck you for being so hot, affectionate, duplicitous, and completely despicable.
“You’re making a huge mistake, Sierra,” he says in a low voice. I can’t quite tell if he’s pissed or legit trying to warn me, like he thinks he’s doing me a favor.
It definitely sounds like a threat. But I don’t feel threatened. Just outraged.
“Maybe you’re making a mistake,” I retort. “I’m feisty.”
I could swear a glimmer of surprise, or maybe even amusement, alights in his eyes, but it’s quickly snuffed out with a frown. “You’re going to regret your stubbornness on this.”
“Uh-huh. You too, I’m sure.” I’m not sure, but I’m fucking mad.
“You really think coming into town and making enemies is a smart move?”
“You tell me. You seem to have some enemies yourself.”
His full lips tighten into a hard line. Oh, he didn’t like that. Because now he’s wondering if June has said something about him. Or if I know how much she hates him, his entire family, and his “assorted associates.”
“I guess this is war, then,” he says flatly.
“Yeah. Let the best woman win.”
He grunts. He holds my gaze for a long moment, like, You sure this is what you want?
I’m not sure. But I’m definitely not going to stop defending myself against his ridiculous accusations or asserting my right to be here.
That, and I’m competitive as hell. And this guy thinking he can just drive me out is lighting a fire under my need to win.
It has been way, way too long since I just had a fucking win.
“Come on, Scar.” He turns, giving me a sudden, unneeded view of his broad back and tight, mouthwatering ass as he walks away.
He turns back once, catching me staring. “Good luck staying on June’s good side,” he says ominously.
“Whatever!” I call out to his back as he leads the dog away. “June likes me!”
He chuckles, but doesn’t look back.