The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(17)

“This pickup is nearly fifty years old.” He looks at me around Maisie, who is strapped in her car seat between us, munching her way through a baggie of Honey Nut Cheerios. “The radio’s been busted for decades.”

“This might come as a shock to you, but they make all manner of devices nowadays that let you listen to music wherever you go,” I say. “You probably have one in your pocket right now that you also can use to make phone calls.”

“What?” Mason slaps a hand to his chest. “Next you’re going to tell me this gadget can give directions, too.”

I laugh. “You really don’t listen to anything?”

“I listen to podcasts.”

“What kind of podcasts?”

His eyebrows raise slightly, and he cocks his head like I should already know the answer.

“Oh,” I say, connecting the dots. “You listen to podcasts about beer, don’t you?”

“Yep.”

“That sounds … boring.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay, then,” I say. “Let’s listen to one.”

He scratches behind his ear. “So, um—they’re not really—they’re kind of—”

“Boring?”

Mason digs his phone out of his coat pocket and thrusts it at me. “Just play some music.”

I cue up a premade playlist from one of his music apps, and as the beginning strains of a song begin, a text pops up from someone named Jess: I think I left my pearl earrings at the house. If so, send them to me.

I quickly hand the phone to Mason. “I didn’t mean to see that. Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he says. “Jess is my ex.”

“It’s none of my business, though. You’re my boss.”

The cab descends into quiet, making it feel like we’re surrounded by Bubble Wrap. I’ve crossed too many lines today. I shouldn’t have teased him about his podcasts. Touching his phone was far too familiar. Our relationship is only days old—certainly not mature enough to be this informal. We make the rest of the crossing in an awkward silence, broken only when Maisie starts singing a made-up, off-key song about Barack Obama riding a dragon. Mason and I laugh, and the tension eases.

“So, I assume you were being hyperbolic when you said I have carte blanche with the hotel,” I say as we roll off the ferry deck onto the road in Marblehead. “Surely you have a budget in mind. I mean, the mattresses in the bungalows at Aquamarine were custom made for the hotel. Our guests claimed it was like sleeping on a cloud, but that kind of comfort comes with a very hefty price tag. Do you want that? Are you looking for high-thread-count sheets and L’Occitane minis in the shower? I need a baseline.”

“Those kinds of decisions were supposed to be my wife’s realm,” Mason says. “But we couldn’t agree on anything because her vision and mine were not aligned.”

“What was her vision?”

“Custom mattresses. And if L’Occitane is fancy soap, then yeah, she wanted that, too.”

“When I first landed on Kelleys Island, the first thing I noticed was how unspoiled by civilization it is,” I say. “I can understand how she might have wanted to surprise your guests with unexpected luxury. And having high-end clients would help the local economy.”

“That was exactly her point.”

“But there’s not a lot for high-end guests to do,” I continue. “People seem to come to the island for low-key activities like fishing, camping, and kayaking.”

“Exactly.”

“So you’re looking for something more laid-back. Like maybe … summer camp without the terrible metal bunk beds and having to wear flip-flops in the shower.”

Mason laughs. “Nailed it.”

“What I’m going to do is put together some design ideas—along with different price points for key items like mattresses and sofas and bathroom fixtures—and you can choose the one you like best,” I say. “From there, we’ll plan a budget, then I won’t have to constantly bother you for opinions.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Mason nods. “Perfect.”

As we drive along a waterfront road, I can’t help noticing that the view is not obstructed by condos and high-rise hotels. It’s almost startling to see normal houses—not multimillion-dollar mansions—with waterfront views. There are no intersections where Walgreens and CVS battle for dominance. No strip malls with vape shops or payday loan stores. We’re on the main highway I took to get to Marblehead and there’s barely any traffic. I can’t stop myself from laughing.

“What’s funny?” Mason says.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced I-95 between Fort Lauderdale and Miami, but it’s a nightmare,” I say. “During rush hour, it’s eight lanes, bumper to bumper, and even the middle of the night is busier than this.”

“Well, it’s Sunday morning and people are in church,” he says, which makes me laugh harder. “But I get your point. The only time Route 2 ever really gets backed up is when there’s an accident or Cedar Point is open.”

“What’s Cedar Point?”

Without warning, Mason’s hand shoots out and catches Maisie’s sippy cup the moment it slips from her fingers. Her eyes flutter closed and her head flops slowly sideways, resting against her car seat, as she tips into sleep.