Chapter 25 Mason
Mason
We spend the evening in Sierra’s apartment, just the two of us. I bring in the overnight bag from my truck. We walk hand in hand to the liquor store and pick up takeout pizza, and hang out on the balcony while the concert crowd gathers below.
I laugh when the concert starts and I hear the wall of muffled noise that greets us. Music, maybe. Power, definitely. And yes, you can tell what song it is, but it’s hardly front-row seats.
Still, we hang out for several songs.
Then we go inside, lie on Sierra’s couch, entwined, with the windows open, and just listen for a while.
We spend the rest of the night in her bed, fucking with a kind of wild abandon there’s never been between us before. The freedom of knowing that this isn’t the end.
It’s only the beginning.
I wake in the early morning to Sierra sliding over me, naked. I flip us over and we press together, skin to skin, hurried, wanting more.
Then slowing down once we’re joined, making love as the sun comes up, washing the sky in violet and gold outside the windows.
“I was so scared I’d lost you,” she whispers against my skin.
“I promise,” I whisper back, “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”
That day, we pack a few bags for Sierra, so we can drive back to Orchard Cove as an engaged couple. Layne knows why I’m here in Vancouver and what my plans were, and so does my grandpa, but I can’t wait to bring Sierra back, tell them in person that she said yes, and settle into the house with her.
But before we leave Vancouver, we have a video call with Sophie and her husband, Pete, to tell them the news. Sierra insists this is mandatory.
Sophie is ecstatic, and Sierra cries again.
Sophie tells me, “She never cries. You better make her smile, or I’ll have words for you.”
I promise Sierra’s best friend, “Always.”
She’s crying, too.
Then we go by my parents’ graves with flowers. Sierra lingers longer than I do; it’s still hard for me to see their names etched in stone and the years etched beneath.
But I hear her say, “Thank you for making such an amazing human. I promise, I’ll take care of him.”
After that, she has to drive us to the Horseshoe Bay ferry terminal up in West Vancouver because my eyes are a little blurry.
When we get off the ferry on Vancouver Island, I take over at the wheel, and we hold hands on and off as I drive.
We listen to music and talk the whole way, laughing and not really arguing but kind of breathlessly recounting so many of the moments we shared, or avoided, or passed each other by .
. . just fucking dying to touch. Or talk.
Or grab each other and blurt out, I fucking want you.
“I knew it,” she keeps saying. “I knew you liked me.”
“I thought you hated me,” I admit.
“There’s a very fine line between love and hate, Mason Grant,” she teases.
I clear my throat. “Do you realize that you haven’t actually told me you love me yet?”
“I haven’t?” She frowns.
“No, you haven’t. I told you. Which, for the record, is not the same thing.”
“Hmm. It’s not?”
Oh, I see. She’s playing innocent.
“No. And I know how competitive you are. So I definitely think we should keep score,” I tease back.
When I glance over, a small smile plays at her lips.
I know she loves me. She’s wearing my mom’s ring. She promised my parents, at their graves, that she’ll take care of me.
“But I should warn you,” I tell her, “if you don’t say the L-word between now and the time I undress you in my—our—bedroom and make passionate love to you again, I might have to do something drastic like point it out. There may even be pouting.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
I glance at her again and she bites her lip.
“Tease,” I mutter.
She laughs. “It’s not that I mean to deprive you of that word. It just hasn’t flowed out yet.”
“Uh-huh. And now you’re holding it in just to drive me crazy.”
“I love . . . the way you get worked up when you don’t get your way,” she says in a sultry voice.
I say nothing, just focus on the road ahead as my pulse beats in my cock. It’s crazy, how vulnerable I still feel. How much I want—no, need, viscerally, completely—to be loved by this woman.
My fiancée.
Those damn doves take flight in my chest as she laughs again, a soft, happy sound.
We’re nearing the turnoff to Orchard Cove when she says, “Hey, Mason. Did you make this playlist . . . for any particular reason?” Finally, she seems to clue in that every song that’s been playing has been for her.
“What? I can’t listen to an eclectic variety of totally random music?”
“Yeah, it’s just a total coincidence that you’re now listening to girly pop all the time. And romantic ballads. And a random mix of classics like ‘Harvest Moon,’ that just happen to factor into our story.”
“Do we have a story?”
“God, yes. We’re writing it now. In fact, we’re just getting to the best part. And I have a feeling . . . the best part’s going to last a while.”
I like that. I squeeze her hand.
“Almost home,” I murmur as we turn off the highway and wind our way toward Orchard Cove—but there’s a question in it, for sure.
I hope this place feels like home to her now, or will. Soon.
I hope she never wants to leave. The town or me.
When I look over at her, she’s smiling, gazing out the window at the passing farmlands as her hair blows in the wind.
So fucking beautiful.
And like some kind of melomaniac magic, “Sweet City Woman” starts playing.
Sierra laughs. “You did make this playlist for me,” she accuses.
“It’s just songs that make me think of you,” I admit.
She gazes at me like she did that first night we met, when she was nicely drunk, let her guard down, and seemed to like what she saw. A lot.
I could get totally lost in that look, but train my eyes on the road.
“That’s a sweet gift, Mason. I can’t imagine a sweeter gift than a playlist, made by you.”
“How about a diamond ring?” I say dryly.
She laughs. “It’s pretty sweet, too.”
“Oh, shit. I almost forgot. This is for you.” I reach into the console and pull out the new phone, handing it to her.
“What’s this?” Her delight makes my heart lift.
“Your new phone. It even works.”
“What?! Fancy.” She reaches over and squeezes my thigh. “Seriously? This is awesome!”
“Anywhere you want in Orchard Cove, you, Sierra Daniels, can now connect to the outside world.”
“Revolutionary,” she quips. Then: “You did this for me?”
I give her a look. “Woman.” Does she not know by now?
I’d do anything for you.
No. Maybe she doesn’t.
Good thing we have the rest of our lives for me to show her.
“I got it a few days ago,” I confess. “You know, when I was deep in the how do I convince her to stay without actually asking her to stay because I’m too chicken phase.”
“Well, this is amazing,” she says dreamily. “Although . . . it was actually kinda nice being disconnected so much. And just having some space. To take a break from worrying what other people think, and just live.”
“Good.”
“But thank you, so much, for the phone. This is so thoughtful.”
She slides it into her purse and undoes her seat belt, just as we turn onto Honeymoon Lane. She leans over to me. “Thank you,” she murmurs, nuzzling the hair behind my ear and inhaling my scent. Then she kisses my neck, sending warmth down my spine.
“You’re welcome. And if you miss the city . . .” I glance at her, worried that she will. “I’ll take you back to visit, any time. And we can go to Seattle, see my sister. We’ll get overpriced coffee and do that hot-yoga torture thing and go shopping at a mall.”
She snickers. “Can’t wait.”
We turn into Sea Haven Orchard, then take the fork in the drive. I pull up to the private gate and stop to get out, so I can open it and we can drive through. But Sierra follows me out.
“Wait,” she says. She jumps up into my arms and wraps her legs around my waist, and I catch her, pressing her back against the truck.
The truck is still running. “Sweet City Woman” is still playing. Somewhere, I hear my brother’s dog barking happily. Sierra kisses me with passion and hunger and a promise that takes my breath away.
And I couldn’t really ask for anything more.
Then she looks up into my eyes.
“I just wanted to tell you. The memories I have with Grandpa Alex, in the garage, listening to music . . . that was the best, warmest, truest feeling of home I’ve ever known. Until now.”
Her words hit me right in the heart.
I rest my forehead against hers and take a breath, overcome with emotion. I don’t even know if she understands . . .
“Did you know,” I say, my voice rough, “that is probably the most beautiful thing you could ever say to me?”
“Yeah? How about this . . .” she says softly. “I love you, Mason Grant.”