“The bed and breakfast,” Mason responds, voice entirely flat.
“The Seafoam Inn is definitely your best bet.” Earl briefly glances at Mason before returning his gaze to the road. “Say, you look familiar. You from around here?”
“No.”
“You sure? You look just like?—”
“I’m sure.” Mason’s tone could freeze hell.
We go over a particularly dramatic pothole and I crash back into Mason’s chest, my elbow colliding with his sternum. “Shit, sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Mason murmurs despite his wince of pain.
For some reason, knowing that Mason is struggling with all of this makes it that much harder to tolerate.
“No, it’s not. None of this is fine,” I tell him. “We should be in Montreal right now, drinking overpriced wine and pretending the movie isn’t terrible.”
“The movie’s not terrible.”
I give him a look that could peel paint. “It’s terrible.”
“It’s…not bad.”
“It’s not good, either.”
His lip quirks the smallest amount. “I will give you that.”
“At least if we’d died in a plane crash, I wouldn’t have to read the reviews.”
He waits a beat to ensure I’m joking. “Critics can certainly be gigantic assholes.”
“They can also be right.” I stare at the crop of beech and pine trees at the side of the road, feeling suddenly morose. “I might just be a terrible actress.”
“You’re not?—“
“Oh, come off it, firebird. You’re fishing for compliments,” Atticus breaks in, sounding more amused than annoyed. “Mason is going to assure you that your acting is amazing and you’re going to refuse to believe it no matter how many times he repeats himself. Let’s fast forward to the next topic of conversation.”
God, he is infuriating. I consider slapping him fully across the face, but something tells me that’s exactly what he wants me to do.
Instead, I sidle closer to Mason until I’m fully on his lap. If the extra weight bothers him, he doesn’t say a word.
Finally, Earl breaks the silence. “So, you folks gonna be here for the Lobster Festival?”
“The what now?” Atticus asks.
“Harmony Harbor Lobster Festival. Biggest event of the year. Starts tomorrow actually. Whole town turns out. Lobster rolls, live music, craft booths. Real nice time.”
“Sounds like a grand old time,” Atticus drawls. “We should definitely stick around for the lobster party.”
“Phoenix is allergic to shellfish,” Mason mutters.
I wince. “Actually, I’m not.”
He turns me to face him. “I distinctly remember you saying you couldn’t have shellfish like a week after I started working with you.”
“The craft services girl wouldn’t stop offering me shrimp cocktail. I had to say something.”
He groans. “Phoenix…”
