The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(50)

“What was she like?”

“She was this perfect blend of Jess and me,” he says, fishing his wallet from his back pocket. He hands me a photo of his family. “Smart. Goofy. Soft. Brave. Headstrong. Piper loved to go fishing with my dad, but she usually wore sequins and fancy shoes while doing it. She was curious about brewing and one time I took her to this beer event, and she told everyone in the room that her favorite beer was Dortmunder. She was like, three.”

The little girl in the photo has Mason’s smile and the same black hair. And I can’t help noticing that Jess is not perfect and thin, like I imagined someone as handsome as Mason might choose. She’s beautiful, with long brown hair and green eyes, and she’s bountiful like me, maybe even a little bigger.

“Piper is beautiful,” I say. “Both of them are.”

He smiles as he tucks the photo back into his wallet. “Thank you.”

“You, um—you don’t have a fat girl fetish, do you?”

“I’ve dated women of all sizes, so I wouldn’t exactly call it that,” Mason says. “But I’m not especially attracted to jutting hip bones and sharp clavicles. I tend toward soft and curvy. In general, though, I think having a type is limiting. I mean, sometimes I’m even a little hot for Pedro Pascal.”

“Statistically speaking, everyone is a little hot for Pedro Pascal,” I say. “So you’re not that special.”

“My ego says thanks.”

“You and Pedro would make a cute couple.”

He laughs. “What about you? Do you have a type?”

“I tend toward men who tend toward me.”

Mason shakes his head. “You need to stop that.”

“It’s been my experience.”

“You are beautiful and smart,” he says. “And any man who doesn’t appreciate all of you doesn’t deserve any of you.”

I want to kiss him. Or, better yet, grab his hand and drag him upstairs. But Maisie is right there, so I shift my hand enough to wrap my pinkie around his and give a little squeeze. “Thank you.”

With no cushions left on the couch, we sprawl on the rug on either side of the pillow fort. Mason pulls a small plastic bag out of the front pocket of his shorts and takes out a tiny cat treat. He puts it on the floor near Yōkai. She waits until she’s sure he’s not trying to trick her into something, then darts out a paw and pulls it close enough to eat.

“Can I have one of those?” Maisie asks.

“They’re cat treats,” Mason says.

“I’m a cat.”

“You’re a dingleberry.”

“What’s a dingleberry?”

“It’s a very silly person.”

“I’m not a person,” Maisie says. “I’m a cat.”

“You’re still not getting a cat treat. They’re gross.”

“How do you know?”

“I ate one.”

Maisie falls sideways with laughter, causing the fort to collapse. Yōkai bolts into the kitchen, and our little moment of bliss is scattered all over the living room. We put the cushions back on the couch and settle down to finish the movie. Mason sits at one end while I sit at the other, Maisie snuggled against me. By the time the end credits are rolling, she’s asleep with her head on Mason’s thigh, his hand resting on her back. And the cat is perched on the top of the couch, watching over them both.

I turn off the TV.

“That’s a pretty good movie,” Mason says.

“Glad you like it,” I say. “Be prepared to watch it at least a thousand more times.”

“Oh God. I’d almost blocked that part of toddlerhood out of my brain.”

I laugh, lifting Maisie from the couch. Mason switches off the lights and as I head up the front stairs, Yōkai streaks past to get to the bedroom first. I tuck Maisie into bed, then go out into the hall, where Mason leans against the door frame. He catches my hand and pulls me in for a kiss. It’s sweet and short.

“Would you mind if we took a rain check?” he says. “Tonight was … a lot.”

“It was, and it’s fine.”

“You’re great.”

“You’re right,” I say with a smile. “You’re still welcome to join me, even if it’s only so you don’t have to be alone. But I won’t take it personally if you say no.”

“I’d like that.”

“Come on in.”

Mason steps into the bedroom and stops just beyond the doorway. “Wow. This looks great.”

I’ve collected a few funky bits and vintage bobs from my antique shop treasure hunts, and some artwork from late-night scrolling on Etsy. A few more plants. Painted knobs to replace the drawer pulls on the IKEA nightstand and dresser. A cluster of paper star lanterns.

“Thanks,” I say, going into the bathroom to change out of my clothes. It’s not that I don’t want Mason to see me naked, but this is new and I’m nervous. When I step out into the bedroom, he has stripped down to his boxer briefs—the body-hugging, heart-pounding, dry-mouth kind. It’s a small relief that he doesn’t have six-pack abs or an Adonis belt, but Mason’s body is lean and fit. I want to run straight back into the bathroom and hide.

“You look cute in those pj’s,” he says, and I’m glad I chose the ones with pineapples on them. They’re not exactly sexy, but they’re my least schlumpy. “I’m guessing by the book on the nightstand that you like the left side.”