The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(41)

“We went on a family vacation once to the Grand Canyon,” I say. “I don’t remember much about the actual canyon, but I have vivid memories of the motel.”

“Yeah?”

“There were these desert landscape paintings hanging above the beds that—I realize now—were objectively terrible, but I thought they were beautiful. And it was so glamorous that they gave you shampoo and soap.”

Mason laughs.

“I’m not saying that’s where my desire to work in hotels began, but…” I give a little shrug.

“What was your go-to response when people asked what you wanted to be when you grew up?” he asks.

“Usually whatever my Barbie was doing at the time.” I tick them off on my fingers. “President. Ballet dancer. Polar marine biologist.”

“That’s … oddly specific.”

“I know, right? At one point I wanted to be an aerobics instructor because of Barbie, but not once did I ever say I wanted to scrub hotel toilets. I only ended up doing that because I graduated from high school without a plan.”

Mason clears his throat. “I called Cecily after you sent me your résumé. She said your talents were being wasted as a night desk manager.”

I slap the dashboard. “I knew it! You did call my references.”

“Only her.”

“Still, I knew you couldn’t be that trusting.”

“I trusted Cecily, though,” he says, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “And she wasn’t wrong.”





CHAPTER 15



Mamihlapinatapai

Yaghan

“a meaningful, but wordless, exchange between two people who both desire to initiate something but are hesitant to act on it”



I’m still feeling the warmth of Mason’s compliment when we park along a block-length row of shops and restaurants in the historic section of downtown Sandusky, where he’s booked a couple of rooms in a boutique hotel overlooking the bay. The hotel has only nine guest rooms, along with two bars—including one on the roof—and an adjoining taco restaurant.

After checking in, we take the elevator to the second floor. It’s a brief ride, but being enclosed in a small space with Mason makes me jittery. This is a business trip, and we have separate rooms, but when we make eye contact, I feel like I might spontaneously combust.

Our rooms are at the back of the building, across the hall from each other, and when I step inside, my hotel nerd heart swells with joy. The room is modern, with an exposed brick wall and white subway tiles in the bathroom. Through my window is a view of Jackson Street Pier—part ferry dock, part city park. Thanks to the warm weather, Sandusky is bustling. Cyclists pedal past the hotel on a bike trail. A busker plays guitar in the park on the pier. And a couple holding hands buys ice cream from a tiki-themed cart.

I take a quick shower and swap my jeans and T-shirt for a coral-colored wrap dress and leather sandals, then head downstairs to meet Mason at the hotel bar. He’s not there yet, so I order a glass of rosé and head out onto the narrow back deck. I’m leaning against the railing when he comes up alongside me.

“Hey.” He places a glass of beer beside my wine and rests his forearms on the railing. He smells like fresh soap and I’m almost afraid to look at him. When I finally work up the nerve, his hair is damp at the ends and he’s wearing an untucked dark denim shirt with rust-colored chinos and white low-top Chucks.

“Hey yourself,” I say, trying to keep my tone friendly, despite every nerve ending in my body lighting up with need. And desire. Definitely both.

“I like your dress.”

“Thanks. What are you drinking?”

“It’s a Dortmunder, which is one of my all-time favorite lagers,” he says. “I’ve never been able to pin down a recipe that tastes great. I’ve brewed it dozens of times, and it’s always completely drinkable, but—”

“Fine is not great.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Exactly.”

We fall into companionable silence as the sun sinks toward the horizon. The sunset is obscured by some buildings, so when our glasses are empty, we cross the street to the pier, where we can watch the sunset beyond the city coal docks. We both take pictures with our phones, and I text mine to Mom and Anna.

“Are you hungry?” Mason asks.

“I’m getting there.”

“The taco restaurant connected to the hotel is really good,” he says. “Usually when I come to Sandusky, I eat my weight in sushi to hold me over until the next time, but we can have anything you want.”

“Sushi sounds great.”

“The restaurant is in a taproom,” he says as we walk back down the pier.

I smile. “Of course it is.”

“You can take the boy out of the brewery…”

Which only makes me laugh. “Do you ever think about anything else?”

“There’s a quote that’s widely—and falsely—attributed to Benjamin Franklin that goes something like ‘Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy,’” Mason says. “Beer makes me happy.”

“I’m kind of surprised you didn’t go into viniculture given the history of the property.”