Chapter 17 Sierra #2
This is the first time I’ve ever walked into the Grant family’s cider house.
The door is propped open to the night, and inside the front entrance is a small gift shop lined with shelves displaying products for sale.
Dried apple chips and creamy apple butter and blackberry jam; bottles of jewel-toned berry liqueurs; crystal-clear and violet gin.
Beyond that, there’s a lounge area furnished with a mixture of cozy chairs, cushy loveseats, and high-top bar tables. The bar is along a side wall, facing the lounge, and along the other side several sets of bifold doors stand open to the night.
Unlike June’s cider house, which looks out over her orchard, the Grants’ looks out over the water. We’re up a small hill here, and the view is epic.
And Mason is right where I’d expect to find him. Behind the bar, holding court with the last customers of the night. Two fortysomething women stand at the bar, purses slung on their shoulders, like they’re on their way out, but they’re definitely lingering. Enjoying his attention.
I know that feeling. At this point, I openly thirst for it.
Not good.
I know this, and yet I can’t help myself.
I stand back, waiting for his eyes to find me. And when they do, an absolute thrill runs down my spine—and right through my core. I swear my ovaries throb.
Mason bids the women a good night, then says something to the staffer behind the bar; she sees the customers out as Mason strolls over to me. I lean on one of the high-top tables and place the Cutie Fruitie cup on top.
“For you,” I say ceremoniously.
“Wow. My first Cutie Fruitie smoothie.”
“Say that five times fast.”
His dimples flicker under his beard and my panties instantly flood.
Christ. Does he have any idea what he does to me?
Yeah. Maybe he got some idea, last night.
“I would’ve come over to try one sooner,” he says, “but I didn’t think the proprietor would want me there.”
“You mean, the proprietor you don’t like?” I say casually, recalling what he told me about not depriving Kaylie of a smoothie just because I don’t like the proprietor.
He cocks his head a bit, like he doesn’t understand.
Maybe he forgot he said that. But I definitely haven’t. It stung.
It still stings.
I change the subject. “I was just heading back to the cottage and popped into the bar, but you weren’t there. Figured you’d be here. I had to say thank you. For the ice. And for coming over to fix my ice machine like a hero, despite our little competition. That was cool of you.”
“No big deal. I’ve fixed those machines before.”
“Well, I appreciate that you were willing to sheath your sword long enough to help me out.”
My cheeks heat as his gaze darkens and drifts down to my lips. And I realize that “willing to sheath your sword” has an entirely different connotation. One I didn’t intend.
Because I am not hitting on him. Or inviting him to fuck me again.
Last night, I came to his house and basically challenged him to fuck me.
Brave, maybe.
And the result was excellent.
But I am never, ever doing it again.
If he doesn’t come back for seconds, I am over it.
I hope.
“I brought you an extra-large.” I fill the silence when he doesn’t take the smoothie. “In the expensive cup. You can keep it. It’s double-walled to keep it cold. Dishwasher-safe. Enjoy. I promise, it’s not poisoned.”
The corner of his mouth flickers with amusement. Finally, he picks it up and takes a sip. I wait while he savors.
His eyes lock with mine.
“Good?” I prompt, weirdly nervous about his reaction. Is this how he felt when I first tasted his cider, at his bar?
“I may have been wrong,” he says mildly. His gaze slides over my face. “About smoothies. Maybe you’re onto something with this liquid-fruit thing.”
I cock my head. “I mean, aren’t you also in the business of liquid fruit?”
His eyes sparkle. “Good point.” He takes another sip, then says seriously, “It’s really good, Sierra.”
“I know. I just whipped that up tonight, for you. I’m thinking of adding it to the menu. It’s called Cherry Pie.”
A small laugh bursts out of him, and warmth shivers across my skin. “Layne mentioned you name them after songs.”
“Yeah. People identify with the songs so much that they’ll try a flavor they wouldn’t have otherwise.” I shrug. “It’s fun.”
“It’s more than fun. It works, so, it’s brilliant marketing.”
“Do what you gotta do to make those sales.”
“Speaking of which . . .”
I sigh. “It’s fine. You won, fair and square. It was my stupid idea. I’ll tell June the results.”
“You really don’t have to tell her about our little contest.”
“She’s not dumb, Mason. It’s pretty clear who was busier. Alcohol or no, your bar outsold me by miles.”
“We have a way broader menu.”
“Don’t start making excuses for me.”
He’s silent for a moment. “I’m sorry. I know you really wanted to win.”
“Oh my god, do not feel sorry for me. Major ick. I’m leaving before this gets embarrassing for both of us.”
I hear his warm chuckle behind me as I head for the door.
“Hey,” he says. “You wanna take the shortcut?”
Mason walks me down the grass behind the cider house and along the edge of the orchard. We walk in silence with only the moonlight to show us the way. The night air is warm and fresh on my skin, and butterflies flit happily in my stomach.
Mason is quiet, in his thoughts, and so am I.
I almost don’t care where he’s taking me.
I’d probably go anywhere with him.
Sad.
After passing many rows of trees, light spills across the grass from the back of Layne’s cottage.
And a definite path is revealed. A very old path, the gravel now embedded in the dirt, grass overgrowing much of it.
It leads down from Layne’s cottage and skirts along the edge of the orchard . . . then disappears into it.
I follow Mason’s lead as we take this path, moving away from the cottage, and definitely in the direction of June’s property.
“What is this?” For some reason, I whisper it.
“This, Sierra Daniels,” he whispers back, “is the secret passage between the Grant family’s property and the Spencers’.”
I let out a gasp, which is half fake-dramatic and half real. “Secret passage? This is scandalous. How many people know about this?”
“Not many. Besides the families, just the few employees that need to access this area.”
We pass through the rows of apple trees.
“Where does it go, exactly?”
“It leads all the way from Layne’s cottage to the cottage where you’re staying.”
“No.”
“Yup.”
“Interesting. How the hell did I not know this path is here?”
“I guess you never asked.” I give him an unimpressed look and he shrugs. “It wouldn’t be much of a secret if I told everyone.”
“Who uses it?”
“We are. Right now.”
“Seriously, though. What’s the deal? You have dueling orchards, right next to one another, and you both have a cider business. And you hardly speak to one another. How does that even happen?”
“Well, the answer to that is both complicated and simple. Kind of depends how you look at it. Our families have been fighting over this orchard for decades, and at some point in history, they split it into two, literally, by putting a fence down the middle. That’s the complicated part.
It started way back, with my grandpa Tommy’s father.
He and June’s father were friends, as I mentioned, but became enemies.
Legend tells it that they fought over a girl.
” Mason glances at me. “Maybe that’s the simple part. ”
“A girl? You’re telling me . . . there was a freaking love triangle? And now there’s a fence down the middle of the orchard?”
“So the story goes.”
“Okay, I really, really need this story.”
“Wish I could tell you, but that’s all I know. Kind of hard to get the story when no one who was there is alive anymore to talk about it.”
I consider that. “Oh.”
“It just becomes a rumor. An anecdote.”
“Bummer.”
“What’s really interesting,” he says alluringly, “is how history has a way of repeating itself. Rumor has it . . . that my grandpa and June were once an item, too.”
“No!”
“Again, just a rumor. But Tommy was friends with June’s former husband, originally, and I guess they fought over her or something. I’m not exactly sure how it went down. Because again, no one talks about it.”
“And what happened?”
“Well, I guess my grandpa lost.”
“And then . . . he married your grandma?”
“Guess so.”
“And she . . .”
“Passed away about fifteen years ago.”
“I’m sorry. What happened to June’s husband?”
“They divorced, years ago. Never seemed like the best match anyway.”
“Why?”
“Well, she runs her family’s alcohol company and he had a real drinking problem. Pretty easy math on that. I hear he moved to the mainland, somewhere way up north.”
“And they never had children?”
“Nope. Her sisters had kids, some of them grew up here, even had kids here. I imagine she’s still in touch with them, even though they’ve all moved away now.
Lee is the only one who stayed. He’s managed the orchard for June for years, but they’ve had to hire on every other position, including cider master. ”
“Huh. You’d think that June, and Lee, would be even more interested in knowing their neighbors, getting along and maybe even supporting each other, since their whole family is gone.”
“You’d think.”
“That’s a hell of a grudge. Like, imagine how much energy it takes to maintain it.”
“Yup. Kinda seems like . . . a waste.”
Our eyes meet, entangle for a moment in the moonlight.
I look away. “Do you think the grudge is more on June’s side or Tommy’s?”
“Hard to say. It’s just always been there, long as I can remember.”
“Do you think there’s something more going on between them now? Like . . . old feelings, still there?”
“Fuck, no.” We glance at each other. “You think we’re enemies?” he says. “You should see those two when they cross paths.”
“I haven’t seen it.”
“There’s a reason.”
I consider all this, and how fucking weird it must be to live so close to your enemy. To be at war with your neighbor for so many years.
A neighbor you once maybe cared for?