“Cool.” I rub the back of my head. “Any chance you want to take a drive?”
I wait, heart thrumming, as she absorbs my offer.
Then I’m rewarded when she smiles.
Chapter 20
Mason
We drive along the water to one of the highest points along the cliffs at the northern end of the cove. I park along the grass, backing the truck up to the edge. Then I tell Sierra, “Wait there.”
I climb out and come around to her door. I open it for her, offer her my hand, and when she steps down, I walk her around to the tailgate.
From here, we have a sweeping view over the entire cove, and the glittering lights of the small town in the middle of the shoreline. Lights flicker on the beach below Orchard Cove, where people are waiting for the fireworks: cell phones, lanterns.
“Wow,” Sierra breathes. “It’s beautiful.”
“The fireworks should start soon.” I open the tailgate. “Just give me a sec.” I hop into the back of the truck and unroll the two sleeping bags I brought to create a nice, padded surface on the hard bed of the truck, then drape the cozy wool blankets overtop in case we get cold. I brought pillows, too, several of them.
And a couple of tall cans of Sea Haven Orchard Blush, a rosé cider with blackcurrant and wild cherry, which I pull out of a backpack.
When I offer Sierra a hand, her smile is like a beam of sunshine. She takes it, and I pull her up, catching her by the hips. I tug her to me and we stand there, pressed together, already breathing too heavily.
“This is cozy,” she says.
“Have to show you a good time,” I tell her, gazing down at her from hooded eyes. “So maybe you remember me when all those city slickers let you down.”
She laughs abruptly.
Then she pulls away.
We sit down, and her smile fades. She slips off her shoes to get comfy, so I do the same. The silence is heavy, almost uncomfortable between us, and not at all what I wanted.
But some things need to be said.
“June isn’t selling to me, Sierra. She rejected my offer. Said she’s keeping Pier Seven. She wants to open her own restaurant there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. So, I didn’t win after all.”
She takes this in.
Then she slides her hand onto my knee. “I’m sorry. I really am.” She sighs. Wraps her arms around herself.
The breeze coming off the sea is cool, and I drape one of the blankets around her shoulders. As usual, she’s not wearing much. A little tank top with inviting cleavage and denim shorts.
She glances at me. “I know how much you wanted it. And what it meant to you.”
“Yeah, well. Can’t always get what you want.”
With that, I fish the portable speaker out of the backpack and put on the Rolling Stones song. And she laughs again: that sound, the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.
“Where did your love of music come from?” she asks me as I crack open an Orchard Blush and hand it to her.
“I guess ... when I grew up, there was just always music on.” I open my own cider and tap her can in a cheers. We both take a sip and I get comfy on the pillows. “My dad would always be working in the cider house and the bar, and there was music on. My mom would be at the house or in the orchard with my little brother and then my little sister, and I’d be with her, or with different people who came to work at the orchard, or their kids, and there was always music. On the cider house patio, in the cidery where my grandpa was working, and in our house. My dad played guitar, too.”
I pause, clear my throat of the sudden lump that forms.
