I take a look at the cider can in my hand.Twisted Tree Cider Co., it says—Bramble Berry Cider, with a twisted-tree logo. June’s cider. I take a tentative sip, treating my tongue to a refreshing blend of sweet blackberry and crisp, tart apple. Unfortunately, it’s as delicious as Mason’s cider.
I wonder how he feels about that.
“What Mason said to me tonight,” I admit in a small voice. “Offering topay meto leave town. That hurt. But it shouldn’t.”
“Why not? You liked him.”
“But he’s not Kyle. I didn’t give him three years of my life. He doesn’t know me well enough to knowhowto hurt me purposefully. And he definitely doesn’t owe me anything.”
“And it still hurts. That’s fair. You were into him.”
“Yeah.Ugh.I forgot to thank you for not even batting an eye at his hotness. His ego clearly doesn’t need it.”
She shrugs. “All in a day’s work.” And it is. For her. Not only is she happily married, she and Pete work as merchandise managers for Dirty, the hottest rock band to ever come out of Vancouver, so she’s constantly surrounded by beautiful VIPs, both male and female. Which means Mason and all his hot “swinging dick” friends are not going to faze her.
Me, I’m just a regular girl. And sure, I’ve met some VIPs, in passing, whenever Sophie’s dragged me to some party that’s filled with them, but that is so not my scene. I’m way too socially awkward for high-level mingling—unless I’m sucking back shooters or something. And I’m too much of a music fanatic to be chill around a rock star.
Mason, I thought I might actually be able to handle. We had a vibe. He even claimed to love music, just like I do. We made each other laugh.
But now that he apparently hates me?Shit.
“I am really gonna need your help thinking straight in the face of that fuck-hot bar owner,” I warn her. I’m so fucking grateful she was able to come here with me for a few weeks while the band is on a break in their current world tour. What would I do without her now? “Beardanddimples? Fuck me.”
“I’m here for you, babe,” she says solemnly.
“I just don’t understand his extreme change in attitude toward me. Even with the Pier Seven thing. Last night felt ... magical. But maybe it was only me who felt that way.”
“Youwereincredibly drunk. Maybe he just isn’t as much of a teddy bear as you thought?”
“Yeah. Maybe. Today he sure turned into a raging grizzly. And he seemed to believe, so easily, that I’m in league with the devil.”
“Maybe you are,” Sophie jokes. “You may be right about June. Though I’m getting more of a ‘forest witch’ vibe than Lucifer.”
“Maybe so. Or maybe she just lives with too many cats. Maybe one too many men screwed her over, and she went crotchety old lady?”
“Interesting theory.”
“On the other hand, Mason is, what? Mid-thirties? Hot, presumably wealthy, owns property and businesses, has every reason to be loving life. And he was cold as hell today. Mean, hurtful, downright rude. He made it grossly clear that he wants me gone.”
“He wants the smoothie bar gone,” Sophie corrects me. “Maybe it wasn’t as personal as it felt.”
“Maybe. And maybe there’s no financial reason to be here if he’ll pay me for the lease and lost income, and I call it a day.”
Sophie looks worried. “Do you really want to do that, though?”
I groan. “I don’t know.”
At this point, I don’t know if there would be a point in leaving, when I really have nothing to go back to.
Whoever actually putsI love long walks on the beachon their dating profile is a fucking psycho. Or has never actually walked on a beach. Or has no feeling on the bottoms of their feet.
Or maybe just hasn’t walked on a beach on the Canadian West Coast.
Early on Monday morning, after a terrible, restless sleep, I make the mistake of heading down to the beach at the end of Honeymoon Lane with my yoga towel. I actually check my delicate city-person soles several times for cuts as I stagger painfully over the sharp shards of hell dust that I guess we’re calling sand.
I brush it off my feet and put my shoes back on, but there’s still so much sand on my skin, now it feels like I’m wearing sandpaper socks.
I pick a spot and roll out my yoga towel, kicking off my shoes again. But it feels like I’m doing my morning sun salutations on rough concrete. The seagulls cry in the distance, probably harassing people walking on the pier and dive-bombing them for food, and it’s weirdly hard to concentrate.
