But Kyle ... he’s so fucking clueless.
“You okay?”
I look up into Mason’s endless blue eyes. His eyebrows are drawn together in concern.
“Yeah.”
We’ve arrived at Pier Seven and he one-arms his tote to open the door for me, then follows me behind the counter. My staff are working hard and I feel guilty for leaving. And pissed that I picked up that call.
Every time I start to let that shit fade into the background, Kyle just has to stir it back up again.
We set the ice down and I take a breath, squeezing back hot, angry tears. But I haven’t cried over it yet, and I’m not going to. Ever.
“You’re upset,” Mason says, without even seeing my face.
I put on a smile and turn to him. “Much better now that I have ice! This will go a long way. Thank you. But I might have to come back for more later, if your machine can keep up.”
“No worries. Come over if you need more.” He lowers his voice. “You sure you’re okay? That was your ex on the phone, right?”
“I’m fine. Just busy. Congrats on kicking my ass, by the way.”
His frown deepens.
“I really have to get back to work.”
He eyes the lineup at the counter, and my employees hurrying about. “Yeah. Me, too.”
I dive back into work, and he leaves.
An hour later, he comes back to fix my ice machine.
It’s just past ten p.m. when I lock up Cutie Fruitie for the night. I’ve already lost Sophie somewhere around the popcorn stand, so I make my way along the beach walk, headed for the Cozy Cottage.
Families and couples are tucked in all along the sand in chairs and blankets, deep into watchingThe Princess Brideon a movie screen that’s been set up on the beach.
Sophie made plans to catch the end of the movie with Trish, then the last live music performance of the night at the main stage. But I have other plans involving my bed. I was up at five this morning after a restless sleep and went straight to work on festival business by six. I’m planning to turn in early so I can do it all again tomorrow.
But first, a quick stop along the way.
I head up the driveway at Sea Haven Orchard, smoothie in hand. The traffic gate is still open, but I know the cider house just shut down for the night. The hours are extended during the festival, same as at June’s cider house.
This is the first time I’ve ever walked into the Grant family’s cider house. The door is propped open to the night, and inside the front entrance is a small gift shop lined with shelves displaying products for sale. Dried apple chips and creamy apple butter and blackberry jam; bottles of jewel-toned berry liqueurs; crystal-clear and violet gin.
Beyond that, there’s a lounge area furnished with a mixture of cozy chairs, cushy loveseats, and high-top bar tables. The bar is along a side wall, facing the lounge, and along the other side several sets of bifold doors stand open to the night.
Unlike June’s cider house, which looks out over her orchard, the Grants’ looks out over the water. We’re up a small hill here, and the view is epic.
And Mason is right where I’d expect to find him. Behind the bar, holding court with the last customers of the night. Two fortysomething women stand at the bar, purses slung on their shoulders, like they’re on their way out, but they’re definitely lingering. Enjoying his attention.
I know that feeling. At this point, I openly thirst for it.
Not good.
I know this, and yet I can’t help myself.
I stand back, waiting for his eyes to find me. And when they do, an absolute thrill runs down my spine—and right through my core. I swear my ovaries throb.
Mason bids the women a good night, then says something to the staffer behind the bar; she sees the customers out as Masonstrolls over to me. I lean on one of the high-top tables and place the Cutie Fruitie cup on top.
