The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(27)

“You got it,” she says. “You might already be aware, but Milan also has a few great antique shops. And I’ve heard that one of the resorts over in Huron is renovating and will be selling off all the old stuff.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I say. “If you ever come to Kelleys, look me up.”

“Same. Don’t be a stranger.”

On my way out of town, I stop to buy a bottle of wine for book club and grab a perch sandwich from a restaurant called Jolly Roger’s before heading to the island. I leave everything in the truck and go to the brewhouse in search of Mason. I find him in the office.

“I’m going to need—”

“Wait,” he says, a smile lighting up his face. “Come with me.”

I follow him to the brewery, where he pours two small glasses from one of the tanks. Correction: one of the maturation tanks. Which I know from listening to that brewing podcast. I take a sip. Even though I still don’t know what I’m supposed to be tasting, this beer is better than his last attempt.

“This is—”

“Great, right?”

“Better than great.”

“I knew it,” Mason says, more to himself than to me. “This is the one.”

“Hope you saved the recipe.”

“Crap.” His smile slips and I feel a shot of disappointment drop into my stomach. Until he bursts out laughing. “Of course I saved the recipe.”

“Jerk.” I punch him lightly on the shoulder. “That was not funny.”

“It was a little funny.”

“Fine,” I say as we return to the office. “It was … a little.”

At his desk, he folds his laptop into a tablet and holds it up so I can see the label for the new beer. It’s oval-shaped with a navy border. In the top part of the border, it says LIMESTONE BEER COMPANY, and at the bottom, KELLEYS ISLAND, OHIO. In the middle is a fish with bluish-silver scales and orange spots, intersected by an orange banner that says LITTLE FISH LAGER.

“I used to call Piper my little fish.”

His smile isn’t quite so wide as it was. It’s softer. Sadder. There’s no one on the planet more in need of a hug than Mason and I’m tempted to give in to the urge. But I’m afraid he’ll curl up emotionally, like an armadillo sensing danger, so I leave him alone. “It’s perfect. Fitting for the first beer of your new brand.”

“Thank you.”

“I bought a bunch of stuff today,” I say. “But there’s no rush to unload.”

“We can do it now.”

It takes us a few trips to carry everything into the taproom, and we agree to leave the lamps and chandeliers wrapped until the cabins are ready for them. Mason brings in the bear painting.

“Where did you find this?” he asks, holding it up for a closer view.

“At an antique shop in Port Clinton. What do you think?”

“It’s weird, but … I kind of love it?”

I smile. “I’m glad. Me too.”

The truck bed is empty, and it’s nearly time to pick Maisie up from school, but neither of us leaves the taproom. We stand there in silence and it feels like something more is supposed to happen. Like maybe, if he were someone other than Mason Brown, we’d be kissing each other’s faces off. But he’s him, and I’m me, and that doesn’t happen.

“I should go get Maisie.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Thanks for helping me unload,” I say, lingering at the door. “And the beer is … it’s really great. You should be proud.”



* * *



Mason is still at the brewhouse when Maisie and I are preparing to leave for book club. On impulse, I leave a foil-wrapped plate of cheesy orzo with asparagus and sun-dried tomatoes in the oven for him, along with a note on the counter. I grab the bottle of wine from the fridge on our way out the door.

“Mama, you look fancy,” Maisie says as she climbs into her car seat.

Every day at the Limestone feels like casual Friday, so I opted to go a little dressier for book club. I’m wearing a pair of rust-colored corduroy pants with a white tank top and a denim jacket. For the first time in weeks, I used a blow-dryer and put on makeup. Also, I’m wearing dangly earrings, which is why Maisie thinks I look fancy. I rub my nose against hers. “Ich liebe dich.”

As I climb into the golf cart, I notice Mason approaching the house, carrying a brown glass beer growler.

“There’s a plate in the oven for you,” I say, immediately realizing how weird that sounds. How weird it is when I’ve never done that before. We’re not a family. I’m not his wife making sure he’s fed before I go off to book club. Especially when he clearly knows how to take care of himself. My face is on fire. My whole body is on fire. I wish I could fall into a hole and stay there forever.

“Thanks,” he says. “You, um—you look nice. Not that you don’t normally look nice, but you look … extra … nice.” He thrusts the growler at me. “This is for book club.”

His clumsy sweetness does nothing to cool the flames. This is terrible. “Thank you.”

“Have a good fun,” he says, and his jaw twitches when he realizes what he’s said. “I mean, have a good time.”