The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(14)

“Me too,” she says happily.

Mason’s expression doesn’t change. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else right now. The wooden screen door creaks as he pulls the handle, holding it open so Maisie and I can go inside first.

The kitchen is updated and modern, with thick butcher-block countertops, stainless-steel appliances, and a white subway-tile backsplash. The room is spacious and cozy at the same time. My mom would love cooking in this kitchen. It even makes me want to be a better cook. Beyond the island, an archway opens to a living room that’s startlingly different. More like frat house meets garage sale, with a worn brown couch and an avocado-green armchair. Like Mason’s not fully moved in yet … or like someone has recently moved out. This house feels like one more piece of a large, confusing puzzle.

We shed our coats and after they’re hung on wooden pegs next to the side door, Mason shows Maisie to the bathroom.

“Most people who applied for the manager position were scared off by the idea of winter on the island, but you were unfazed,” he says, coming back into the kitchen. “So when you said you wanted the job, I didn’t tell you the hotel was unfinished because I didn’t want you to change your mind.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m completely in the weeds when it comes to running a hotel, much less building one,” he says. “I thought … well, I hoped … that if you saw the place and understood the vision, you might want to stay and oversee the construction.”

My brain has a whole argument prepared about false pretenses and pulling up stakes, but—“Wait. What?”

“You worked at one of the best hotels in the country,” Mason says. “I figured you’d know better than anyone what quality looks like and the amenities that guests really want.”

“Why didn’t you say all this in the first place?”

“Probably because I’m an idiot.”

“Not going to correct you,” I say. “Lying was shitty and underhanded.”

Mason nods. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“It was a major decision for me to uproot my life and take Maisie away from her father, and that can’t be brushed aside with a simple apology.”

He pushes away from the counter, shoves his feet into a pair of suede desert boots, and grabs a navy down vest off one of the pegs. “Here’s my proposal. Come look at the property first. If you decide you don’t want to stay, I’ll reimburse the money you spent to get here and pay for your trip back to Florida.”

Maisie comes into the kitchen lugging a giant tortoiseshell cat. A gorgeous angry cat whose legs dangle almost to the floor as Maisie hugs it against her chest. “Mama, look what I found!”

Mason’s eyes widen with alarm. “Please put the cat down.”

“I don’t know if it’s a girl cat or a boy cat,” she continues. “But we’re friends now.”

“Put the cat down.” There’s a definite note of panic in Mason’s voice, and both man and cat look on the brink of freaking out.

“Maisie, remember what I said about picking up animals that don’t belong to you?” I say. “Please put down the cat.”

She bends over and places the cat gently on the hardwood floor. It bolts almost immediately, and Maisie’s eyes are glassy with tears as she waves goodbye.

“See you later, friend,” she says, then bursts into giant sobs.

Mason scrubs a hand down his face and looks up at the ceiling as he blows out a long, slow breath.

“I’m sorry,” I say, lifting Maisie, who buries her face against my shoulder. “She didn’t know any better. And she’s overly emotional because we’ve been driving for days and she hasn’t had her nap.”

“No, it’s okay,” he says. “Yōkai is a nightmare, so I’m relieved—and kind of shocked—she tolerated any of that. It could have gone very, very badly.”

“Would you, um—would you mind if I let her take a nap on your couch?”

His mouth twists a little, like he wants to say no. “I guess.”

I settle Maisie on the couch and cover her with the dark green fringed throw blanket folded across the back. Her eyelids are already half-closed. “I’m going to go outside with Mason for a few minutes, but I’ll be right back. If you wake up, stay on the couch, and don’t touch anything. Especially the cat.”

“Okay, Mama.”

She’s asleep before I’ve even buttoned my coat.

I follow Mason out the back door and we walk in the wheel ruts to the brewhouse, passing an older pickup truck on the way.

“I tried to keep as much of the old winery intact as possible,” he explains. “Some of it wasn’t structurally sound, but I built around it wherever I could, which is why some of the brewhouse is the original limestone and the rest is wood.”

He opens the door and we’re greeted by the scent of natural wood and warm barley. Or maybe hops. Either way, it’s inviting and delicious.

“This is where the magic happens,” he says, and for the first time since I arrived, Mason smiles. His face lights up. Softens. It feels like I’ve gotten a peek at something I’m not meant to see. Under any circumstances he’s a handsome man, but his smile makes my knees go weak.