Chapter 20 Mason #2
“He didn’t play any instruments, and neither did I, but he loved music and he taught me how to really listen.
It opened up a whole other world that I couldn’t have accessed any other way.
And it helped me to process my emotions, even when he died.
” She blinks at me, like she’s coming back to reality now.
“I guess you could say music saved me,” she sums up simply. “He saved me.”
But it’s not simple at all.
The first pop of fireworks goes off, and her face lights up. She gasps and looks out at the sky over the water, where bursts of white and blue fire sparkle, then fizzle out. Then burst after burst lights up her face, and I can’t look away.
I would’ve thought June turning down my offer to buy Pier Seven would be the worst thing that could happen. But when I look at Sierra, I know that’s no longer true.
I know that in so many ways, we’re different. Her life is in the city, mine will always be here, and maybe we’re not supposed to work. But we both know what it is to be abandoned. I want her to feel wanted, right now, more than anything else.
I touch her shoulder, draw the blanket down her arms. She looks over her shoulder at me and smiles.
I reach for her face, her breast, her waist. We meet in a tentative kiss.
Then it deepens.
I pull her into my arms.
She starts undoing my jeans, then tears my shirt off over my head.
I help her out of her little denim shorts, out of her panties. We meet again in a clumsy kiss, and she laughs against my mouth as she pulls my jeans down my hips.
Then the song changes, and an old April Wine ballad comes on. As the opening bars of “I’m On Fire for You Baby” starts, Sierra draws back a bit.
“Did you make this playlist for me?” she says breathlessly. “For this?”
“I might have.”
She grins at me.
Then I kiss her again, and she melts against me. I peel off her shirt and bra.
I pull her with me as I lie back on the pillows, drawing her on top. I hold myself back and submit to her as she takes over. Guiding me to her. Sliding me inside her.
Working her hips up and down, slow . . .
Then hungrily and fast, riding me with a desire that makes me lose my breath. My moans are broken and desperate as I try to hang on, long enough to let her explode first . . .
I shove my thumb between her legs, work her clit in quick little circles as she takes me, hard and hurried. Her moans mingle with the music. Her bare breasts bounce, nipples peaked in the evening air. Her soft hair glows all around her face, backlit in red and gold and violet glitter.
When she comes, she cries out. Then she whimpers my name.
She keeps fucking me until I come, filling her in a molten burst as the fireworks explode all around her.
I don’t close my eyes. I want to etch this into my memory.
Trails of glitter and sparkling stars, and the most beautiful, haunting eyes.
Sierra.
Afterwards, as we lie entangled in the back of my truck, half-clothed, I don’t feel any better.
How could I?
I’ve lost on every front.
I’m feeling all kinds of things for the woman in my arms that I’m not ready for. Have never been ready for, not from the moment she walked into my bar.
My parents died, suddenly and tragically, less than a year before that moment, and I’m only starting to realize now how deep I still was—still am—in the ugly process of grieving for them.
Finishing the renovations on our family home; getting my arms lavishly tattooed with apple blossoms and their names; burying myself in work—none of it has really helped me deal.
While I’ve plowed onward with my life, taking on more responsibilities and making my family and our business my top priorities, I’ve tried to keep everything under control, including my grief.
But just below the surface, I’m devastated.
The hole they left in my life is still so raw. I’m wounded, and some days, I’m a fucking mess of nameless emotions that seem to be pulling the strings even as I try to ignore them.
And maybe I haven’t been able to see things clearly.
When June invited a stranger to lease Pier Seven, denying me that right, deep down, it felt like a much worse betrayal than it was.
I had no real claim on the building, but it felt like my parents did, and June’s refusal to negotiate with me felt like a betrayal of them. That’s what really pissed me off.
And Sierra . . . I was so wrong about her, it hurts.
I’m just starting to recognize—to admit to myself—how deeply fucking wrong I was about her, her intentions, her reasons for coming here. Her reasons for every little thing she’s said and done in Orchard Cove.
Including the things she’s said to me.
The things she’s done with me, and every moment we’ve shared.
Even the most beautiful moments have been tainted by my lingering distrust. My unwillingness to admit that maybe I’ve been wrong the whole time.
I haven’t even manned up enough to tell her so. To apologize. To try to make it right—all the things I said and did to her that were just so damn wrong.
And now she’s leaving.
“I feel like I’ve fucked up,” I say to the night sky, breaking the silence. The fireworks have ended, and we’re lying on our backs, faces tipped up to the stars.
“Don’t blame yourself, Mason. Losing Pier Seven is not your fault. It was June’s decision to make.” Then she adds dryly, “And we’ve both met June. You are not going to change that woman’s mind if she’s decided.”
Maybe she’s right.
But that’s not the only thing I fucked up. Badly.
“I should’ve prioritized it more,” I say.
I should’ve prioritized you more.
“You did what you could. There’s a lot on your plate.”
I sigh, so fucking exhausted. “It feels like everywhere I am, I should be somewhere else. There’s always something more I should be doing. Someone who needs me, who I could be failing. Even if I don’t want to.”
There’s a long, fraught silence as maybe she considers that.
And how fucking exhausted I sound.
I hear it myself: the weariness in my own voice. The weight of the responsibilities I’ve been carrying.
I want to seize this moment, to tell her how sorry I am for all the mistakes I’ve made, but the truth is I’m scared.
And maybe I don’t want to ruin this.
This perfect moment with Sierra in my arms, not reminding her what an asshole I’ve been.
She pushes herself up on an elbow and looks down at my face.
“Have you ever, in the year since your parents died, just sat alone for a moment,” she asks me softly, “and asked yourself in the silence what it is that you want?”
I swallow, hard.
The truth is, I haven’t. Not really.
But I think I know the answer to that question now.
I look into those haunting green eyes.
Then I have to look away.
What I want is closure. They died so suddenly. So unexpectedly. And I know I’m having trouble letting go.
Because I don’t want to let go.
Just like I’m having trouble letting her go.
Even though I know I have to.
This wanting—which is just wishing that things could be different—is futile.
June was right. I need to face reality.
No matter what I say to Sierra, or don’t say, she’s still leaving.
She has a life to get back to in the city.
“I think I want to feel like their work isn’t done,” I say, my voice rough with emotion. “Because maybe that way, their lives aren’t really over.” I laugh without any humor in it. “Stupid, I know. I mean, I know they’re gone. And I know I can’t change that.”
Sierra lays her head on my chest. “Then why are you still trying to?”