The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(44)

“I know,” I say. “I, um—I think it’s time to call it a night.”

Without a word, he takes my empty glass and I follow him through the bar. He pauses to return the glasses and we walk in silence to the elevator. His expression is impenetrable as I press the button for our floor.

“Do you need a wake-up call?” I ask, desperate to return to some sort of equilibrium.

“I’m good.”

The elevator reaches our floor at what feels like record speed, and in a matter of steps we’re at the end of the hall between his room and mine.

“Thank you for dinner,” I say, leaning back against my door. “And for the room.”

“Maybe we’ll find some good stuff tomorrow.”

“I hope so.”

“Rachel?” There’s a question in my name, but I can’t discern what it is.

“Yeah?”

“I would like to kiss you.”

My breathing grows shallow, but not from panic. This moment is the penny at the bottom of the fountain. “You would?”

“I have for a while,” Mason says. “But—”

“You don’t have to give any reasons. I understand,” I say. “And if you cross the hall and kiss me, I will kiss you back. But I’ll mean it, and I’m afraid you won’t. Not yet.”

“Wow.” His breath whooshes out like he’s been deflated. “That’s … not how I thought this might go.”

“Me neither.” I’m the one who closes the space between us, lifting my face to touch my lips to his cheek. “But it will be better for us both, when you’re sure.”





CHAPTER 16



Verschlimmbesserung

German

“something that is meant to be an improvement, but actually makes things worse”



Between the noise from the rooftop bar and the persistent regret, I spend the better part of the night tossing and turning in my bed. More than once I talk myself out of crossing the hall, knocking on Mason’s door, and telling him I’ve changed my mind. Instead I take care of my own needs and fall asleep when the bar finally closes.

A few hours later my alarm jolts me upright. I rush through my morning ritual, twist my damp hair into a bun, and put on a casual black dress with a denim jacket.

Mason is waiting for me in the lobby, looking as tired and sheepish as I feel. He hands me a to-go cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” I say lightly. “Good morning.”

He harrumphs. “Debatable.”

Not sure how to take this, I don’t respond. I follow him out of the hotel and down the block to where the truck is parked. We stow our bags in the back.

On the drive to Huron, we don’t listen to podcasts or talk about anything, and I don’t know what to say that will erase the awkwardness between us. The only consolation is that the elephant in the room is a lot smaller than it would have been if we’d slept together. Then again, maybe there’d be no elephant. Maybe we’d be happy.

The auction site is a warehouse at an industrial park, rather than at the resort. Even though we arrive fifteen minutes early, there are already a couple dozen cars in the parking lot.

“Have you ever been to an auction?” I ask Mason as we join a line of people waiting to get into the building.

“No,” he says. “You?”

“This is my first time too.”

“Hopefully, it’s not like in movies where someone inadvertently scratches their nose and ends up accidentally buying a million-dollar diamond bracelet.”

“Pretty sure that doesn’t actually happen in real life,” I say. “But don’t wave your paddle around unless you plan to use it.”

“My dad told me the same thing when I was eleven and we had the sex talk,” he says, and I bark out a loud laugh, making the people in line ahead of us turn around. Mason innocently sips his coffee, leaving me to catch their early-morning disdain. I elbow him in the side and when he grins, I feel the lift in my chest.

The doors open promptly at 8:00 A.M. and the line surges forward. At the door, a gray-haired man tells us the auction will begin at 9:00 A.M., and offers us paddles. Mason accepts one and waggles it at me, making me choke on my coffee.

Inside, the merchandise is divided into two rooms. The first is filled with folding tables, each one laden with textiles, small electronics, lamps, mirrors, artwork, artificial plants, metal luggage racks, and boxes of bulk hotel toiletries. All these items are marked for sale, and there is a line of red metal loading carts along the wall. The second room is arranged with folding chairs and an auctioneer’s podium. This room holds the more valuable pieces, including all sorts of furniture, larger paintings, animal skins, tapestries, several chandeliers made from antlers, and a pair of enormous wooden doors, intricately carved with woodland scenes.

“How do you want to do this?” Mason asks, grabbing the handle of a loading cart. “Stick together or split up and regroup? Some of these people have a real Black Friday look about them.”

“Let’s do this together,” I say. “If someone wants something that badly, they can have it.”

“Fair enough.”

We start in the sale hall, wandering the rows.

“A lot of these luggage racks are in great condition,” I say. “Should we—”