The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(42)

“The winemaking thing was another branch of the family tree,” he says. “That line of succession died off in the 1950s, and the winery was already falling into ruin when my granddad had a chance to buy the property. It was just a summer place for our family until I bought it from my dad.”

“Do you ever miss Cleveland?”

“Nah, Jess was always more social than me.”

A tiny ha! escapes me, and I clap my hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I know,” Mason says. “But, like I said, I was a nerdy little kid and I learned at a pretty young age that most people weren’t interested in hearing the things I wanted to talk about. My interests have broadened since then, but I never completely got the hang of being social.”

“My life is divided into before and after Maisie,” I tell him. “I used to stay out all night partying with my friends, but when I got pregnant, everything shifted. I didn’t have time for anything but work and Maisie, and my single friends stopped having time for me.”

“That sucks.”

“Yes and no. It hurt, but clearly they weren’t particularly good friends.”

“What about Maisie’s dad?”

“I wanted to believe that Brian was the first guy who had any interest in me beyond sex,” I say. “But he yanked me around for years because he knew I would always take him back.”

“Why did you?”

“I didn’t think I could do any better.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Says the guy who looks like he fell off page twenty-four of the J.Crew catalog.”

Mason snorts a laugh. “Someday I’ll introduce you to my mom and she’ll show you pictures of the braces and blond highlights.”

“Oh God, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“With black hair? What were you thinking?”

“About getting girls.”

“Did that work?”

He levels a look at me. “What do you think?”

“Well, time has been your friend,” I say as we reach the entrance of the taproom/sushi restaurant. “Shouldn’t have that problem now.”

Mason holds the door open for me. “I hope not.”

I’m not sure if that was an implication, but my cheeks are warm as we take seats at the bar. I hang my purse on the hook below the bar top and change the subject. “This is definitely something we need to install.”

“Hooks?”

“A lot of women don’t want to put their purses on the floor, so they end up holding them on their laps,” I say. “Hooks are a convenience that cost next to nothing.”

“Okay. Done,” he says. “Do you want to try a flight of beer samples?”

“That sounds good, and since you’re the expert, you can choose.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

I laugh. “Just nothing with oysters in it, please.”

“Fair.”

He rattles off his choices to the bartender. She returns a few minutes later and places a wooden tray in front of us with five small glasses of beer, ranging from pale golden to a deep chocolatey brown.

“So this first one is a cucumber Berliner Weisse.” Mason picks up the glass and offers it to me first. Cucumber is not a flavor I’ve ever tried. I take a tentative sip.

“The watery cucumber-ness softens the tartness of the beer,” I say. “I like it, but I’m not sure I’d order it on the regular.”

“Cucumber-ness? That’s not an official beer-tasting term.”

“It is now.”

He grins as he puts the same glass to his lips, and an intense pulse of heat flashes through me, settling between my thighs. My throat dries up as I watch him swallow.

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s refreshing, but I like a little more oomph.”

“Yes. Oomph.” The words trickle out, feeble and a little wobbly.

“Are you okay?”

“Perfect. What’s the next beer?”

I attempt to stay present and offer relatively intelligent opinions as we taste a Czech-style pilsner, an amber ale, a Belgian double bock, and the seaweed stout Mason told me about. But it’s difficult when we’re facing each other at the bar. Anyone looking at us from the outside would think we were having a great date. It feels that way too. He’s animated as he talks about top fermenting and dry hopping, and I don’t understand everything he’s saying, but his passion is overflowing.

Like he’s held it in because no one was listening.

Losing Maisie would be unbearable, so I can’t blame his ex-wife for not listening when she was grieving. But I also can’t blame Mason for withdrawing into the one thing that brings him comfort when Jess was probably not equipped to offer it. No one is the villain here. They both deserve happiness.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was on a roll and couldn’t stop.”

“I don’t mind.”

“We, uh—we haven’t looked at the menu.”

“What do you usually order?”

“An assortment of sashimi and an ichiban roll that has spicy tuna and salmon,” he says, pointing out the roll description on the menu. “Seaweed salad to start.”