“It’s so similar to his brother’s situation,” Trish is saying. “Layne just needs the right woman to come along and fix him right up, help him learn to love again, you know? Imagine raising a little girl all alone! That man just needs someone to take care of him.”
From the look on her face, I’m getting the sense that the “right woman” to do this for Layne Grant, in Trish’s estimation, would be her.
But what’s really got me reeling is:Left at the altar.
Mason was left at the altar?
When?
And by who?
This nugget of gossip definitely gives me some context for his perpetually crappy mood. I would love to get more info out of Trish, but she’s clearly more interested in talking about Layne to anyone who will listen, and I’m not about to ask.
My mind drifts to that first night we met. When Mason took me home and took care of me. When he was in a much better mood ...
How careful he was with me, never crossing the lines I drew. His hands roaming over my body, seeking out my soft, sensitive places, but never quite venturing between my legs.
The base of my spine.
The backs of my thighs.
The nape of my neck.
Skimming the sides of my breasts or drifting underneath, but never touching my aching nipples.
His big hand cupping the back of my head as he rasped in my ear:Promise me this isn’t all.
Promise me that I get to see you again.
“So, what can Sierra do to get involved around here?” Sophie asks, startling me back to reality, what must be several conversation topics later. The finger sandwich in my hand is drying out. “You mentioned something about a festival committee, Pam?”
“Oh, we’re all on the Sunshine Fest planning committee,” Power Mom says.
“That would be a great way to get involved,” Hot Mom agrees.
“That soundssointeresting,” Sophie says, then cocks an eyebrow at me.
I shove the sandwich in my mouth. How many times do I have to tell this woman that I amnota joiner?
“We can always use more help with the festival,” Bev says. “There’s still so much left to do and less than two weeks to do it. You’d be a natural fit for helping out with the food and drink area, Sierra! Wouldn’t she, Pam?”
“Oh, yeah.” Power Mom looks up from where she’s hovering at the dining room table over a charcuterie platter. She still hasn’t sat down. “Totally. You can meet up with us tomorrow morning. Eight a.m., right by the pier.”
“Well ... okay. Sure. I’ll be there.”
How bad could it be, right? Helping organize a festival and getting to know more of the locals ... I’m good with organizing stuff.
“As long as there’s no nature involved,” I quip, “I’m in.” I pop a breaded shrimp into my mouth.
“Wonderful,” she says. “Mason and I can really use the help.”
It takes a few minutes for me to completely finish coughing after I choke on the shrimp—which I failed to realize I’d dipped in hot chili—when Power Mom says “Mason.” As in, she andMason, and now me, are in charge of the food and drink area at the festival,together.
I attempt to douse the fire with ginger cider, which only makes it much, much worse.
“Oh, dear,” Hot Mom says, jumping to her feet. “That’s a spicy sawsawan.”
“What?” I cough.
