Chapter 12 Sierra
Sierra
“It’s so similar to his brother’s situation,” Trish is saying. “Layne just needs the right woman to come along and fix him right up, help him learn to love again, you know? Imagine raising a little girl all alone! That man just needs someone to take care of him.”
From the look on her face, I’m getting the sense that the “right woman” to do this for Layne Grant, in Trish’s estimation, would be her.
But what’s really got me reeling is: Left at the altar.
Mason was left at the altar?
When?
And by who?
This nugget of gossip definitely gives me some context for his perpetually crappy mood. I would love to get more info out of Trish, but she’s clearly more interested in talking about Layne to anyone who will listen, and I’m not about to ask.
My mind drifts to that first night we met. When Mason took me home and took care of me. When he was in a much better mood . . .
How careful he was with me, never crossing the lines I drew. His hands roaming over my body, seeking out my soft, sensitive places, but never quite venturing between my legs.
The base of my spine.
The backs of my thighs.
The nape of my neck.
Skimming the sides of my breasts or drifting underneath, but never touching my aching nipples.
His big hand cupping the back of my head as he rasped in my ear: Promise me this isn’t all.
Promise me that I get to see you again.
“So, what can Sierra do to get involved around here?” Sophie asks, startling me back to reality, what must be several conversation topics later. The finger sandwich in my hand is drying out. “You mentioned something about a festival committee, Pam?”
“Oh, we’re all on the Sunshine Fest planning committee,” Power Mom says.
“That would be a great way to get involved,” Hot Mom agrees.
“That sounds so interesting,” Sophie says, then cocks an eyebrow at me.
I shove the sandwich in my mouth. How many times do I have to tell this woman that I am not a joiner?
“We can always use more help with the festival,” Bev says. “There’s still so much left to do and less than two weeks to do it. You’d be a natural fit for helping out with the food and drink area, Sierra! Wouldn’t she, Pam?”
“Oh, yeah.” Power Mom looks up from where she’s hovering at the dining room table over a charcuterie platter. She still hasn’t sat down. “Totally. You can meet up with us tomorrow morning. Eight a.m., right by the pier.”
“Well . . . okay. Sure. I’ll be there.”
How bad could it be, right? Helping organize a festival and getting to know more of the locals . . . I’m good with organizing stuff.
“As long as there’s no nature involved,” I quip, “I’m in.” I pop a breaded shrimp into my mouth.
“Wonderful,” she says. “Mason and I can really use the help.”
It takes a few minutes for me to completely finish coughing after I choke on the shrimp—which I failed to realize I’d dipped in hot chili—when Power Mom says “Mason.” As in, she and Mason, and now me, are in charge of the food and drink area at the festival, together.
I attempt to douse the fire with ginger cider, which only makes it much, much worse.
“Oh, dear,” Hot Mom says, jumping to her feet. “That’s a spicy sawsawan.”
“What?” I cough.
“Siling labuyo. Filipino chili sauce.” She utters something in Filipino—swearing, I think—as she rushes into the kitchen. She brings me back a glass of milk.
“It’s not that spicy,” Sophie says, patting me on the back. “As long as you don’t choke on it.”
“You and Mason, huh?” Bev muses as once again, everyone stares at me. “I can see it.”
I shake my head as best I can while chugging milk, my eyes watering.
After that, June arrives, and we get to discussing Murder in the Barnyard, which no one but me and June actually seemed to enjoy, and I suspect half the women in attendance never actually read.
Maybe they think I didn’t read it, either, considering how totally distracted I am and how little I add to the conversation. Once again, I hand over my note-ridden book to Sophie, who has at it.
The highlight of the night is an impassioned debate between the moms and June, who can’t seem to agree on whether the hot detective deserved to die. Interestingly, it’s June who thinks he should’ve lived and had a happily-ever-after with the widower, while the moms are out for his blood.
“I would never have guessed you’re such a romantic, June,” Sophie teases.
To which Bev says, “Oh, June always picks the books with a tragic love story.” And June, drifting into the kitchen for a white wine refill, pretends not to hear.
When we eventually get low on alcohol, we say our goodbyes, Bev stuffs our handbags with leftovers, and we head out into the night. She insisted only June stay behind to help her clean up. “Bev wants to gossip about us,” Trish tells Sophie and me.
By now, I’m starting to make peace with it. Frankly, all the local cider and wine really took the edge off caring one way or another if the entire town decides to hate me because they’re Team Mason.
We say goodbye to Hot Mom at her car—Power Mom left long ago—and the three of us walk together, making our way back to Honeymoon Lane. As Trish peppers Sophie with random questions about the work she does for Dirty, I mentally spitball excuses to back out of this planning-committee thing.
Mornings are me time? Dick move.
Against my religion? Don’t have one.
Struck with a sudden illness? Not a good look for Cutie Fruitie.
As we approach the stop sign where Honeymoon Lane begins, a couple of men appear on the road to our left, also approaching the intersection on foot. Tall, attractive men who’re built kind of similar. One blond; one with brown hair and a beard.
Oh, no.
Trish gasps ever so quietly. I think she’s drunk. And definitely some part in love with Layne Grant.
“Layne!” she calls out. “Mason. What perfect timing!”
Yeah. So perfect.
I haven’t come face-to-face with Mason since a week ago on the beach when he wore those very thin clothes on a windy day and I drooled all over him while he declared war on me.
I didn’t know how weird/uncomfortable/panic-inducing it would be to run into him unexpectedly with other humans as witnesses and so much booze in my system.
And he looks freaking good.
Stupidly, unfairly good, in a sleeveless black T-shirt and jeans, his haphazardly sexy hair ruffled by the breeze.
Sophie meets my eyes as I edge behind her and mouth, Help me, I’m drunk!
“Hey, ladies,” Layne says easily as the gap closes between us. “Nice night for a wander, huh?”
“Oh, we’re not wandering,” Drunk Sophie says, positioning herself smoothly between me and the brothers as we all naturally form a loose group to continue walking together. “Just coming from a serious book club meeting.”
“Cool,” Layne says. “Just coming from a serious meeting ourselves. Poker night.”
Trish giggles, inserting herself between the two men. “Who won?”
“This guy.” Layne waves a thumb at his brother. “Always.”
Mason hasn’t said a word or looked at me. I think. I guess I really wouldn’t know since I’m not looking at him, either. But I’m sure he’s as hyperaware of my presence as I am of his when Sophie, Trish, and Layne fall into easy conversation and the two of us remain silent.
A mental battle ensues in my head: ignore him, or rip off the bandage?
Ignore him is almost winning when I realize he’s falling back from the group a bit.
Like me.
Sophie glances over her shoulder to see how I’m dealing with this. This time I mouth at her, Never mind, and she kind of rolls her eyes.
Then she pokes out her cheek with her tongue—in a definite reference to a woman having a dick stuffed in her mouth. Because she knows when I’m crushing on a man against my better judgment.
I respond by rubbing my nose with my middle finger.
I can’t help it if my body finds him attractive. It’s just physical. Biological.
He smells like cedar and cinnamon and sex god, for Christ’s sake.
As Mason falls into stride with me, I slow my pace a bit, putting more space between us and the rest of the group so that if he’s about to say something outrageous, our friends don’t have to be subjected to it.
And maybe just to test if he’s actually trying to walk with me.
The others keep chatting as we fall farther behind.
We glance at each other like we’re waiting for the other to hurl the first insult.
“How’s business?” he says neutrally.
“Much better than you’d like it to be, I’m sure.”
“It may surprise you to know, Sierra Daniels, but I wish you no ill.”
I make a gagging, choking sound into my fist. “Excuse me. That was the sound of me throwing up in my mouth a bit. Egregious insincerity makes me nauseous.”
Shit. And now I remember what I’ve learned about him in the last few days, and why I maybe shouldn’t be such a jerk.
Left at the altar.
Parents died in a car accident.
Damn it. Compassion is kicking in hard.
When I sneak a look at him again, he looks down at me over his manly, gleaming beard. I know from experience that it’s silky. I bet he takes really good care of it.
He strikes me as a man who keeps himself nicely groomed and smelling delicious at all times just in case a hot babe wanders by and swoons into his arms. I bet he’s had a lot of pussy. And not in a gross way. Just . . . nicely seasoned.
I bet he knows what he’s doing in bed.
I bet he’s really good with his hands . . .
You know he is. You felt them all over you.
“So, I hear you want to extend your lease,” he says. “Stay in Orchard Cove a while.”
“Yeah. That’s what I hear, too.”
“Then it’s true?”
“That I want to stay in Orchard Cove? Not exactly. That I want to extend my lease at Pier Seven? Yes.”
“Why would you want to do that if you don’t even want to be here?”
“For opportunities like these?” I say sarcastically. Then add with pathetic honesty, “Where else could I wander down a moonlit road and run into you?”
Our eyes meet, and I inwardly shiver at the memory: his hot breath on my neck, his rough voice in my ear . . .
Promise me this isn’t all.