“So how do you two know each other?”
Neither of them answers immediately.
Mason’s jaw works. Dominic’s grin stays fixed, but something shifts behind those nearly black eyes—a quick calculation, a decision made and discarded in the span of a breath.
“Old friends.” Dominic hooks his thumbs through his belt loops, rocking back on his heels. The smirk that spreads across his face is equal parts charm and deflection. “Lost touch a few years back. You know how it goes.”
Mason says nothing to contradict him. Mason says nothing at all.
I look at the pair of them—the careful distance Mason keeps, the way Dominic’s body angles toward him like a compass needle finding north—and file away every detail for later examination.
“What a coincidence,” I say, reaching for my coffee and taking a sip before I remember it tastes like heated asphalt. I set it down with a grimace. “Of all the towns in Maine to crash-land in, we pick the one where Mason has an old friend.”
Mason’s hand finds his yogurt spoon again, fingers wrapping around it with the precise grip of a man reaching for a life preserver. “Dom and I went to school together. Ages ago. We were kids.”
The dismissal lands with a thud so deliberate I can almost hear it bounce off the checkered tablecloth.We were kids.As if that explains the way his pulse is visibly hammering in his throat. As if childhood friendships routinely drain the color from a person’s face and turn their voice into something flat enough to iron clothes on.
Dominic’s grin flickers—just a fraction, just enough for me to catch it—before he recovers. Whatever Mason’s words cost him, he hides it behind a shrug that rolls through his shoulders with practiced ease.
“Yeah. Long time ago.” He reaches over and plucks one of my abandoned strawberries from the plate without asking, biting into it and making the same face I did. “Christ, that’s bad. Who’s growing these, the devil?”
I almost laugh. Almost. But the discrepancy between Mason’s rigid composure and Dominic’s forced casualness sits in my chest like a splinter. Something isn’t adding up. The equation has too many variables and not enough answers, and I’m not nearly caffeinated enough to pretend I don’t notice.
But I also can’t interrogate Mason in front of a stranger. Even one who eats my fruit without permission.
Dominic tosses the strawberry stem onto my plate and leans against the back of an empty chair, crossing his arms in a way that pulls his sleeves tighter over those tattooed forearms. “So how long are you folks in town?”
“We leave tomorrow,” Mason answers before I can open my mouth. The speed of his response borders on rude.
“Another night, at least.” I correct him, keeping my tone light despite the irritation prickling along my skin. Mason doesn’t getto speak for me. Especially not when he’s clearly operating from some hidden playbook I haven’t been shown.
Dominic nods, gaze bouncing between us like he’s reading a book written in a language only he speaks. “Well, if you’re stuck here with nothing to do, you should swing by The Rusty Anchor tonight. I run the bar. Drinks on the house.”
“That’s really kind of you, but—“ Mason begins.
“We’d love to.”
The words leave my mouth before Mason can finish declining. His head swivels toward me, those storm-gray eyes narrowing behind his crooked glasses. I meet his gaze dead on, chin lifted, daring him to contradict me in front of company.
Something passes between us. A silent negotiation conducted entirely in eyebrow movements and jaw tension. Mason’s nostrils flare. My smile widens.
“What time does happy hour start?” I ask Dominic, sweet as antifreeze.
“Five. But things don’t really pick up till seven or so.” His dark eyes dart to Mason’s face, reading something there that makes the corner of his mouth twitch. “Kitchen does burgers and fries too, if you’re interested. Beats whatever’s happening in that chafing dish.”
I poke the oatmeal with my spoon. It wobbles back at me like it’s alive. “A low bar, but I appreciate it.”
“Phoenix.” Mason’s voice carries that edge—the one he reserves for when I’m about to do something he considers catastrophically unwise. “We should really use tonight to prepare for the rest of the press tour. There are talking points to review, and?—”
“We’re stuck here another night, Mason.” I fold my hands on the table, mirroring the posture he uses when he’s delivering bad news to studio executives. “Unless you have something better forus to do? A seven PM reservation somewhere? A screening? A conference call that absolutely cannot wait?”
His mouth opens. Closes. The jaw muscle jumps again—once, twice.
He has nothing. We both know it.
“That’s what I thought.” I turn back to Dominic and give him the smile I usually save for talk show hosts and magazine covers—the real one, the one with teeth. “We’ll be there.”
THIRTEEN
