“It was a major decision for me to uproot my life and take Maisie away from her father, and that can’t be brushed aside with a simple apology.”
He pushes away from the counter, shoves his feet into a pair of suede desert boots, and grabs a navy down vest off one of the pegs. “Here’s my proposal. Come look at the property first. If you decide you don’t want to stay, I’ll reimburse the money you spent to get here and pay for your trip back to Florida.”
Maisie comes into the kitchen lugging a giant tortoiseshell cat. A gorgeous angry cat whose legs dangle almost to the floor as Maisie hugs it against her chest. “Mama, look what I found!”
Mason’s eyes widen with alarm. “Please put the cat down.”
“I don’t know if it’s a girl cat or a boy cat,” she continues. “But we’re friends now.”
“Put the cat down.” There’s a definite note of panic in Mason’s voice, and both man and cat look on the brink of freaking out.
“Maisie, remember what I said about picking up animals that don’t belong to you?” I say. “Please put down the cat.”
She bends over and places the cat gently on the hardwood floor. It bolts almost immediately, and Maisie’s eyes are glassy with tears as she waves goodbye.
“See you later, friend,” she says, then bursts into giant sobs.
Mason scrubs a hand down his face and looks up at the ceiling as he blows out a long, slow breath.
“I’m sorry,” I say, lifting Maisie, who buries her face against my shoulder. “She didn’t know any better. And she’s overly emotional because we’ve been driving for days and she hasn’t had her nap.”
“No, it’s okay,” he says. “Yōkai is a nightmare, so I’m relieved—and kind of shocked—she tolerated any of that. It could have gone very, very badly.”
“Would you, um—would you mind if I let her take a nap on your couch?”
His mouth twists a little, like he wants to say no. “I guess.”
I settle Maisie on the couch and cover her with the dark green fringed throw blanket folded across the back. Her eyelids are already half-closed. “I’m going to go outside with Mason for a few minutes, but I’ll be right back. If you wake up, stay on the couch, and don’t touch anything. Especially the cat.”
“Okay, Mama.”
She’s asleep before I’ve even buttoned my coat.
I follow Mason out the back door and we walk in the wheel ruts to the brewhouse, passing an older pickup truck on the way.
“I tried to keep as much of the old winery intact as possible,” he explains. “Some of it wasn’t structurally sound, but I built around it wherever I could, which is why some of the brewhouse is the original limestone and the rest is wood.”
He opens the door and we’re greeted by the scent of natural wood and warm barley. Or maybe hops. Either way, it’s inviting and delicious.
“This is where the magic happens,” he says, and for the first time since I arrived, Mason smiles. His face lights up. Softens. It feels like I’ve gotten a peek at something I’m not meant to see. Under any circumstances he’s a handsome man, but his smile makes my knees go weak.
Oh shit.
I try to turn off the thought as he switches on the lights.
The brewhouse is huge, with soaring ceilings and skylights that flood the space with light. The wood floors are dark and polished, and the creamy white walls are bare. A blank slate. A bank of beer taps has been plumbed through a wall with a metal drain tray beneath, but there’s no bar yet, no other fixtures, no furniture.
Along one wall, a set of wooden stairs leads up to what appears to be a loft.
“What’s up there?” I ask.
“Come look.”
As we reach the top step, I realize the upper level is an observation platform overlooking an array of gleaming stainless-steel vats and tanks, as well as racks of wooden barrels. Sacks of grain are stacked along one wall and the other has buttons and digital gauges.
“Most people, including me, have no idea how the brewing process works, so this is really cool,” I say, leaning my forearms on the railing. “It might be nice to have some infographics up here with the different steps involved.”
“That’s—” He looks at me. Blinks. “A really good idea.”
We go back down the stairs together and he stops at a spot beside the front door.
“Eventually this will be the lobby,” Mason says. “When guests arrive, they’ll check in at a reception desk right about here. Then they’ll be offered a sample flight of our beers and decide which one they’d like on tap in their cabin for the duration of their stay. But there will also be a bar open to the public, with traditional tables and lounge-style seating.”
“I love that idea.”
He opens the door and we head outside. Set about a hundred yards into the woods is a small clearing where a cabin is under construction. Concrete slab. Scaffold of wood framing.
“There are ten of these around the property. Some closer to the brewhouse, some more remote,” Mason says. “They’ll be self-catering and eco-friendly, but I don’t want them to be too rustic.”
“More like … glamping?”
“Ugh.” He grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose, but nods. “Yeah, maybe?”
Unable to stop myself, I laugh.
“I was hoping to be open before the summer season,” Mason continues. “But I got slowed down by some personal shit and then winter set in. Now I’m sort of flying by the seat of my pants with a loose goal of Fourth of July weekend.”
“That’s not much time.”
“I know,” he says. “So, here’s the deal. If you stay, you’ll have carte blanche over the design and functionality of the cabins and lobby, including the bar. I’m fucking tired of thinking about it.”
“I really don’t understand.”
His sigh sounds like it’s made of lead. “I bought this property as a project for my wife and me to build together. Instead our marriage imploded, so it’s only me.”
And suddenly the frat boy furniture makes sense.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but the crease between his eyebrows says otherwise. “It is what it is.”
“I, um—I’m going to need some time to think about this,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to own a hotel, so being given this much latitude is … Well, it’s practically a dream come true. But this whole situation has been kind of a bait and switch.”
“I know, and I’m sorry I did that to you,” he says as we walk back toward the house. “I can book you a room at a hotel closer to the ferry, or you’re welcome to stay upstairs. It’s intended to be an apartment, so I won’t be in your space.”
Once inside, I check on Maisie. She’s sound asleep on the couch. Fred the Giraffe has fallen to the floor, and tucked under her arm is the giant tortoiseshell cat.
“Holy shit,” Mason says, his voice low. “Yōkai hates everyone, including me.”
He pulls up the sleeve on his shirt, displaying a razor-thin scar that runs up the side of his forearm from wrist to elbow. “She did this to me when I was trying to feed her, so I don’t even know what to make of this.”