Chapter 17 Sierra
Sierra
The first day of Sunshine Fest rushes by, most of it in a blur of music, food, sunlight, and happy faces.
Following the opening ceremony at noon is a pet parade for the kids down Water Street. Then the farmers’ and artisans’ market stalls open all along Water Street, along with the food trucks, Cutie Fruitie, and Sea Haven Bar & Grill.
The beer and cider garden opens at four, and by five o’clock, Mason’s bar is packed, along with his parking lot, now lined with tables and chairs.
I send Chloe over there—an annoying (to her, I’m sure) many, many times—to scope out the crowd and report back to me.
How many heads does she count, and are they eating?
Lots, and they are.
Although the smoothie bar has a steady flow of customers and even a lineup out the door for most of the day, by six p.m. it’s clear that Mason is slaughtering me in sales.
And just before seven, I realize that my ice machine is broken.
Then we run out of the ice we have left. Which means we can’t make any of the popular slushy drinks on the menu. And it’s still hot out.
I can’t afford this.
I call June from Sophie’s phone but get no answer.
So, I sanitize a couple of large tote bins and haul them across the street, weaving through the crowd at the main stage, which is set up in the street in front of the bar, a local country band playing a pretty hot cover of that classic Fleetwood Mac breakup song “Go Your Own Way.”
I push into the bar, where I’m greeted with a wall of noise and heat, and a totally different vibe.
The room is fuller than I’ve ever seen it, and Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” blasts over the sound system, giving that retro-raunchy vibe you don’t know you need until you’re packed into a bar with hundreds of other sweaty bodies and a drink in your hand.
Behind the bar, Oscar is spinning cocktail shakers and glasses like a juggler at Cirque du Soleil, and I’d be impressed if I had that kind of time.
I spot Mason behind the bar—beyond a throng of women, huge surprise—and hurry to the end of the bar, leaning over.
“Mason!” I have to shout to get his attention.
We haven’t seen each other since the middle of the night, not even twenty-four hours ago—before he fell asleep after all the sex, then I slipped out of his bed, gathered my clothes off his floor, and left, to avoid another awkward morning-after scene in his kitchen—but I don’t have time to overthink the frown he gives me.
He comes right over, but something about that frown annoys me. So, I point up into the ether, in other words, the music. “Please tell me you teased your hair in the nineties.”
“I was born the year after this song came out,” he says dryly.
“If you say so, Grandpa.”
“What’s wrong? And why am I old every time you’re annoyed with me?”
“I’m not annoyed with you.” I skip past the rest of the jabs I was probably about to spew because I’m nervous about all that naked stuff I let him—no, practically begged him to do to me.
No time for that, either. “I’m freaking out because my ice machine died.
And I realize this is great news for you because we’re rivals and all, but this is very bad news for me, so could I pretty, pretty please use some of your ice? ” I hold up the bins I brought.
He raises his eyebrows, taking this in. And very possibly loving it that I need him right now.
Evil.
And way too much like that first day we met.
“Seriously, Mason. Come on. It’s ice. You are outselling the shit out of me right now. I see food on every table, and yes, I’ve been watching, and yes, I know I’ve already lost our stupid competition. Just please, don’t make me beg.”
“Sounds like you just did.”
I groan. “Aren’t you too busy for this? I see many thirsty women leaning on your bar, just waiting for you to hydrate them.”
He narrows his gorgeous eyes at me.
Yes, that sounded jealous. I don’t care right now. “You don’t even need ice, technically. You can serve beer and cider and wine all night. The ladies won’t complain, and neither will the men, so long as the ladies are happy and the beer keeps flowing.”
He looks unconvinced, but probably just because it’s me.
I sigh impatiently. “Google review: The bartender was hot and the drinks were good, but damn, we had to wait forever to get them. Not recommended if you’re thirsty.”
He rolls his eyes and takes a tote bin from my hands. “For the record, I like it when you beg.”
“Cute.” I pretend that statement didn’t go right between my legs, and follow him behind the bar.
His ice machine is twice the size of the one at Cutie Fruitie.
He flips open the lid, revealing a cache of ice.
He takes a plastic beer jug from a shelf, hands me another, and starts scooping ice into the tote bin.
I join him, reaching into the machine for ice at the same time, and we bump heads. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Didn’t see you there.” I try to pass it off like it didn’t even hurt, but fucking ow.
“Do you mind?” he drawls. “You have a very hard head. How can I hydrate the thirsty masses if I’m knocked out cold?”
“I have a hard head? God, you’re really imperious when you’re helping me out.”
“It does seem to happen remarkably often. You, needing my help. Me, helping . . .”
“One might even think we’re more than enemies.”
I don’t even know why that slips out. Our eyes meet, but at that moment, my phone rings. It’s jammed into the tiny, stretchy pocket in the waist of my yoga skirt. And yes, the fact that I’m still carrying it around when it rarely works speaks to my absolute addiction to it.
It’s Kyle, and I’m so frazzled, I answer, because why is he calling me unless something is seriously wrong? I haven’t even spoken to anyone outside Orchard Cove in days.
“Hey. What’s up?” I shove the phone between my shoulder and ear and keep scooping ice.
Mason frowns at me, but we find a rhythm, taking turns.
“Hey . . . Sierra . . . glad . . . finally caught you.”
Finally? What, has he been calling me a lot? He’s cutting in and out, so maybe I’ve misheard him.
“I can barely hear you,” I shout. “Speak up.”
“Where are you? Is that ‘Cherry Pie’?”
“In a bar,” I shout. “I can’t talk right now.”
“Okay,” he shouts back. “I just wanted you to know that I talked to Dawson. You know, my cousin?”
Oh, I know Dawson. The little fucker. “Uh-huh. What did he do now? Release a deepfake of me blowing the purple dildo?”
I realize I’m still shouting when I find Mason staring at me.
“I just wanted you to know,” Kyle shouts, “that he apologized to me.”
I have no idea what he expects me to do with this information. Slow-clap?
“What do you want me to say, Kyle? Congrats on your apology. I have to go.”
“Wait! Sierra—”
I hang up and keep scooping, avoiding Mason’s eyes until the tote bins are full. I pick one up. “Sorry. Shit. I should’ve brought the lids so I could stack them. I’ll take this one over, then come back for that.”
Mason picks up the second tote. “That’s a waste of time.” He calls over to Oscar, “I’ll be back in a few.” Then he leads me through the bar.
We carry our bins through the crowd outside as my head reels with Kyle’s words.
I just wanted you to know that he apologized to me.
Fuck. Way too little, too late, Kyle.
And way off the fucking mark.
Why the hell did he think I’d want to hear that his cousin apologized to him? As if he’s the only one who deserves an apology?
It’s not the kid’s fault. He’s a kid.
But Kyle . . . he’s so fucking clueless.
“You okay?”
I look up into Mason’s endless blue eyes. His eyebrows are drawn together in concern.
“Yeah.”
We’ve arrived at Pier Seven and he one-arms his tote to open the door for me, then follows me behind the counter. My staff are working hard and I feel guilty for leaving. And pissed that I picked up that call.
Every time I start to let that shit fade into the background, Kyle just has to stir it back up again.
We set the ice down and I take a breath, squeezing back hot, angry tears. But I haven’t cried over it yet, and I’m not going to. Ever.
“You’re upset,” Mason says, without even seeing my face.
I put on a smile and turn to him. “Much better now that I have ice! This will go a long way. Thank you. But I might have to come back for more later, if your machine can keep up.”
“No worries. Come over if you need more.” He lowers his voice. “You sure you’re okay? That was your ex on the phone, right?”
“I’m fine. Just busy. Congrats on kicking my ass, by the way.”
His frown deepens.
“I really have to get back to work.”
He eyes the lineup at the counter, and my employees hurrying about. “Yeah. Me, too.”
I dive back into work, and he leaves.
An hour later, he comes back to fix my ice machine.
It’s just past ten p.m. when I lock up Cutie Fruitie for the night. I’ve already lost Sophie somewhere around the popcorn stand, so I make my way along the beach walk, headed for the Cozy Cottage.
Families and couples are tucked in all along the sand in chairs and blankets, deep into watching The Princess Bride on a movie screen that’s been set up on the beach.
Sophie made plans to catch the end of the movie with Trish, then the last live music performance of the night at the main stage.
But I have other plans involving my bed.
I was up at five this morning after a restless sleep and went straight to work on festival business by six.
I’m planning to turn in early so I can do it all again tomorrow.
But first, a quick stop along the way.
I head up the driveway at Sea Haven Orchard, smoothie in hand. The traffic gate is still open, but I know the cider house just shut down for the night. The hours are extended during the festival, same as at June’s cider house.