Chapter 50 #2
“I think the office is over there near the slipways,” he says, casually turning to look around the almost vacant area.
I can’t see a sign for a company advertising any dinner or sunset sails, but then again, the rich like to hide something as essential as a pool drain, so perhaps this cruise is some contact of his from New York.
Or some connection to Mason? The hairs at the back of my neck bristle to attention before a whole-body shudder consumes the rest of my nerves.
“Are you cold, Bri?” His honey voice has a hint of uncertainty.
“No, I’m perfect.”
“Yes. For what I have in mind, yes, you are.”
We make our way toward the jetty, passing older bobbing boats with faded paint and splintering timber.
“Slipway seventeen,” he announces, gesturing further along the pier to where some impressive-looking boats are moored.
Trystan glances at his watch and stills.
“Shoot, I have to go grab something from the car. You go on ahead. Here, take this,” he says, thrusting an envelope into my hand that he dragged from the back pocket of his cargo pants.
“Slip seventeen, get on board and make yourself comfortable. If the charter or captain asks questions, give them the envelope. Deal?”
The whir of rotating helicopter blades increases just beyond the tree line; the thwuk thwuk thwuk is both rhythmic, soothing, and loud.
“Deal,” I call to his retreating back, passing eight, nine, ten and continuing my pace until a sleek, silvery blue and white yacht comes into view.
She’s tied to the jetty so I can’t see any name, but the number 17 is branded into the timber bollard she’s moored to, as well as the gate that allows access to the vessel.
I push it open and, steadying the envelope in one hand, plant a foot on the bow and haul myself on board by the railing.
I hope the food is served soon; I’m starving, I’m tired, and the prickle of unease from the parking lot won’t leave me.
It’s silent on board, only the squawking gulls overhead and the occasional clink of a cleat against the mast breaking through the silence.
And the thwuk thwuk that has changed in pitch from before.
The sun sinks lower to the horizon line, ready to dip below the curtain of pink, vermillion, and gold.
I sink down the stairs into the main cabin, hoping for confirmation of the booking and about to tear into the envelope when I hear footfalls along the duckboards, increasing in volume as the sprinter gets closer.
“What did you forget?” I tease at the same time a pair of brown leather boat shoes land on the cabin steps.
“Fucking helicopters!” The tone is low, sexy, and achingly familiar.
It’s not Trystan. As I blink to take him in, a helicopter rises from the helipad, turning a lazy circle as it increases in height.
From my periphery, I see it rise and rise until it banks and soars over the marina and off toward the orange curtain before it’s a mere black blip.
My pulse gallops out of control at the captain standing in the cabin doorway, an almost identical envelope in his sun-warmed hands.
Hands that used to hold my hair or lift my skirt and wash me in a penthouse shower with way too many jets.
“Mason.” It’s a wisp of breath. Not enough to power a sail or extinguish a candle.
“Sabrina.” He moves his envelope from hand to hand, studying me like one might judge an art show. On the wall behind him are the two charcoal portraits I gifted him for his birthday.
“We were supposed to be on a sunset dinner cruise,” I add, looking around for jacketed wait staff or even boat crew in crisp polos and starched pants.
“Is that what he told you?” he asks, scrubbing a hand down his chin. His skin is glowing with a warmed gold I want to lick the salt straight from. His hair is longer than ever. Curls bob beyond the collar of his polo, as he pushes the longer strands from the top of his head out of his eyes.
“He was going to meet me here for drinks. I had to collect an envelope from the office, which was unattended; that’s why I’m late.
” He lifts his toward me, the words open next scrawled across the front in neat, cursive writing.
Trystan’s writing. Peering down at the envelope, Trystan all but threw at me before he raced back along the dock, I see it has the same looping writing in bold masculine strokes.
Open first. Remembering his last instructions, I handed it to the captain.
With shaking fingers, he tears it open and pulls out the folded paper.
Dearest Mason and Sabrina.
You will by now have worked out this dinner cruise didn’t exist. Bri, I had to do something to get you to the marina, and Mas, I needed to get you off the yacht long enough so Bri could climb aboard. Don’t be mad.
Don’t be mad? There’s no food?
You may have noticed an annoyingly loud helicopter take off from the pad alongside the marina. Mason would have, I bet he’s still cursing.
“Correct,” he laughs. “Always the smartass.” His eyes find mine, and I can’t help but notice his grin reaches his eyes for the first time in… forever.
What you both need to understand is that I was a passenger on that heli, and the reason is in the other letter. Go on, sail somewhere private; just the two of you. Once you’ve dropped anchor and both have a drink in hand, open the other letter.
T
I stare at the words through the page as if they’ve offended me. What the fuck is he doing? “The blue Jeep in the parking lot?” I trail off.
“Was still there when I grabbed this,” he says, holding up the other letter. “Is that your ride?”
I nod. “What is going on?” Panic pulls at my ribcage. It twists and gnarls like a wounded animal ready to claw its way free. “He invited me on an all expenses paid vacation and then left. I don’t understand?”
Mason watches me with interest. Gray eyes flicking from the folded paper to me and up to the cabin stairs.
“Did you know about this?”
“No. Not really. I’ve been sailing for months now.
We’ve been in regular contact since we both left Mercer Media, and he said he’d meet me at one port I sailed into.
Grab a drink and catch up. I thought he’d be sitting on the pier with his feet in the water, waiting.
He doesn’t like boats, so I thought we could stay in port and get shitfaced. ”
“And you don’t like helicopters…”
“Rattling cans of death,” he replies before I fire a look that could melt metal.
“Except for that one. That one sounded big and meaty. Probably safe.” He holds his hands apart to show something large and capable. I’m not convinced, but his smile seals the deal.
By the time Mason sends the anchor into the inky brine, the sun is long gone, leaving behind only a hint of silver hues melding into the deeper indigo of night.
We motored out from the slipway past the catamarans and superyachts.
Mason’s yacht, Illusions, is a Swan 60 and still expensive, but more practical for a family and small crew.
It was the eighteenth birthday gift from Marin and, by default, Magnus gave it to their youngest grandson. And it’s perfect.
Mason pulls two beers from the refrigerator and pops the caps.
Beside him in the well-appointed galley, I cut chunks of cheese and meat from containers in the fridge and pull grapes and strawberries from another compartment.
He has half a baguette and half a box of crackers in another overhead cupboard.
“I guess that’s dinner,” he says with a shrug.
His casual indifference, not getting hung up on the minor details or perceived imperfections, is refreshing.
I guess when you’re on a boat sailing from port to port, you learn to make do with what you have.
Or you'll go hungry. A life lived under the umbrella of excess is now reliant on deli meat and crackers that weren’t sealed properly and aren’t as crisp as they should be.
“Thank you, Bri. It is so good to see you.” I feel his words dance over the top of my head and tickle my hair. “I missed you so much. I…”
“The portraits arrived, I see,” I say, gesturing toward the charcoal works.
He blows out an extended breath. “They did. I never got to thank you. I believe they are some of your best work yet. I might be biased.” He waves a hand toward the pair. “Velcroed to the wall, safety first. Thank you, Bri, they’re amazing. Just like… you.” He swallows thickly before looking away.
My stomach does a dip and whirl. Trystan Hynd, I want to hug you and slap you silly. I know you did this on purpose.
Both of us eye the remaining letter, scared it might explode or catch fire.
Trystan had been on that banking helicopter.
He’d left me at the slipway to a yacht owned by his former boss, our former boss.
Mason pops a grape into his mouth and chews thoughtfully.
“Do you want me to do the honors, or do you want to?”
“You do it.”
“Yeah? I opened the last one.”
“It’s your envelope; it’s probably for you, anyway. You open it, but read it aloud again, please.”
He takes another long draw on his beer and shrugs. This isn’t granite jaw, anxious Mason. This isn’t collapsed deal, angry Mason. Who is this relaxed, laid-back version of the man I used to worship, love, and fear for?
“Ready?” He wipes his hands on his shorts.
I nod. I couldn’t speak now if I wanted to. My feet sway under the table; at least that way the top half of me looks put together and placid.
Dear Mason and Sabrina,
First, let me start by apologizing for the open crackers. I got hungry writing these and needed sustenance to see me through to the end of them. You will both have questions, and I’ll do my best to answer as many as I can expect. If I fail, then one day, maybe, I can cover them too.
I left tonight not for some lighthearted prank only to return for breakfast, or a business matter; I left for a matter of the heart. Not just one, but three.