The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(65)

“Because it can’t work any other way. Am I supposed to put my child on a plane by herself to Florida every other week? Or do I eat up all my savings driving her back and forth whenever it’s Brian’s turn?”

Mason shoves a hand up through his hair, telegraphing his frustration. “I don’t know, but there has to be something we can do. You need to talk to a lawyer.”

“Even if he doesn’t intend it, Brian is making it impossible for me to stay in Ohio.”

“What about us?” Mason says. “I said I love you today. And you’re just going to leave?”

“I don’t see how I have a choice.”

He picks up my phone and thrusts it at me. “Call Brian.”

My heart is lodged in my throat as I take the phone. My call goes straight to voicemail, but I don’t leave a message. I try again with the same result. On my third attempt, someone picks up.

“Our lawyer has advised us not to speak with you until mediation, Rachel.” It’s Brian’s mother, treating me like I’m an unwanted solicitor instead of the mother of her grandchild. “Please stop calling my son.”

“Rosalie, can’t we talk—” I begin, but she’s gone. “She hung up on me.”

Mason sits quietly for a long time, worrying his lower lip between his fingers. Finally he says, “I’ll move to Florida with you.”

I start to laugh, until I realize he’s serious. “What about the hotel?”

“Do you think it matters that much to me?”

“It should,” I say. “You’ve invested so much time and energy and money, and I don’t want you to throw away everything we’ve accomplished. This place is special.”

“This place is special because of you.”

“I love you,” I say. “But—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” He cuts me off as he heads toward the door. “I really don’t want to know what you’re going to say next.” He steps into his sneakers. “I’m going to the brewery. Need to clear my head.”

I go to the living room and sit on the couch, thinking about how Mason made this room for me. Through the doorway I see Yōkai skittering across the sunroom floor as she bats around a fake fish in a room he made for her. When Maisie and I got here, this house echoed with loneliness, but now it absorbs our happiness. Our love. I don’t want to leave. I want to make this house—and Mason Brown—my home. I keep trying to think my way out of this custody problem, but the answer always returns to the same place: I have to go back to Florida. There’s no fairy godmother. The cavalry is not coming.

“Mama, look. I made a hops,” she says, climbing onto the couch beside me. Her ball of modeling clay is now elongated and covered with a three-year-old’s idea of leaves. It’s not a bad interpretation of a hop cone, and I laugh that of all the things in the universe my daughter could sculpt with the clay her father gave her, she chose something to do with Mason.

“What are hops for, Maisie?”

“You put them in the beer to make it taste and smell good.” She presses the sand sculpture into my hand. “Here. I’m gonna go play with Yōkai.”

She runs off, and I stretch out on the couch. My earlier panic has subsided, but my chest hurts as if I’ve been punched, and I can’t tell anymore whether it’s anxiety, a broken heart, or both. My eyes sting with tears, so I close them, slowly breathing in and out until they go away.

At Maisie’s bedtime, I take her upstairs and give her a bath. Mason hasn’t returned from the brewery. I humor Maisie when she wants three bedtime stories and snuggle beside her until she falls asleep, but when I go downstairs, Mason still isn’t back. I try to watch TV, but I can’t concentrate. I try to read, but the words don’t stick. Eventually I go to bed alone.

I wake when I feel the bed shift under Mason’s weight. I roll over. “Hi.”

Without a word, he kisses me. His mouth is demanding. He slides his hand between my thighs. I wonder where this urgency is coming from, but when I feel the friction of his fingers against my underwear, my brain leaves the rational world behind. Mason takes me over the edge, leaving me gasping as he removes my pajamas completely. There are no tender words between us. No whispering or laughing. But my need for him is incomplete. His eyes are fixed on mine, asking silently for consent, as he takes a condom from the nightstand. I nod. He quickly rolls on the condom and moves over me. Then inside me. He is not gentle, but our appetites are matched, and when my body is shuddering with release, he comes with a ferocious groan.

“Fuck.” Mason buries his face against my neck, his breathing ragged. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He eases himself off me, kissing my shoulder. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Not even a little.”

We go to the bathroom together, where he cleans himself while I use the toilet. It’s not nearly as romantic as pillow talk, but we learned early on that neither of us likes feeling squishy after sex. Back in bed, he spoons up behind me.

“I don’t want you to go,” he says. “I still think there has to be another way. But I get it. Maisie will always be your priority and if I understand nothing else, I understand that. Just know, my feelings are not going to change. If you ever want to come home, I will be here.”