“I should also mention, every month we each kick in ten bucks and make a donation to a charitable cause,” Avery says as we step outside. “It’s not a requirement, so don’t feel obligated.”
My first paycheck had been larger than I’d anticipated. When I got it, I sought out Mason in the brewhouse to double-check that he’d done the math correctly.
“Don’t question it,” he said.
I laughed. “Have you met me?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, like he wanted to laugh. “It’s a raise.”
“But—”
“Look, if Jess had stuck around, she’d have done everything for the love of it,” he said. “But it’s not fair to expect you to be a Web designer, interior decorator, project manager, accountant, and all the other random tasks that will fall to you when we open, and not pay you accordingly.”
“Oh.” My previous employers paid as little as they could and our yearly raises were never enough to really make a difference, so Mason’s generosity was unexpected. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “You’re welcome.”
I sent a portion of my check to my mother to help with the mortgage until she can sell the house, but with a lower cost of living and a higher paycheck, I have enough left to contribute to a charitable slush fund.
“I’d be happy to help,” I tell Avery. “Will you be teaching the beginner’s yoga class I read about on the notice board?”
“Yeah,” she says. “You’re welcome to join us for that, too.”
Even though my anxiety has been held at bay since I’ve been here, yoga might help it stay there. And it’s been a long time since I’ve connected with people who weren’t family members or coworkers. Since I’ve had friends.
“I think I will.”
“Good. I’ll text you soon.”
I get into my golf cart and Avery into hers, and we both turn onto Division Street. I realize we’re heading to the same place when she pulls into the school parking lot. She grins as we park next to each other. “Are you stalking me?”
“Absolutely. Next I’m going to assume your identity and steal your husband.”
Avery laughs. “I give it about six hours before you’re begging me to take him back.”
“So much for my evil scheme.”
“I assume you’re picking up,” she says.
“Yes. My daughter, Maisie, is in preschool.”
“Oh, I have heard all about Maisie. She’s from Florida, she has a real giraffe called Fred and a giant cat who sleeps in her room.”
I laugh. “All true, except Fred is plush and the cat is just big. It’s Mason’s.”
“Wait, Yōkai sleeps with Maisie?”
“Yeah, we don’t understand it either.”
“That’s incredible,” Avery says. “Anyway, Daniel usually picks Leo up from school or we’d probably have met by now.”
“Your son is Leo?” I say. “According to Maisie, he looks like Flynn Rider and they’re getting married on July thirty-ninth.”
Avery cracks up. “Flynn Rider? From Tangled?”
“She’s not quite four, so her knowledge of hot guys is basically limited to Disney,” I say. “But congratulations, I guess.”
The kids come out of the building—all seven of them at once—and Maisie flings herself into my arms. She cups her hand around my ear and whispers loudly, “Mama, that’s Leo.”
“I know.”
Leo’s shaggy haircut is more surfer boy than Flynn Rider, but with brown eyes and the same dark hair as Avery, I can see why Maisie would reach for the comparison. Even though she’s probably played with Leo all day, she turns shy, burying her face in my neck.
“We should probably coordinate,” I say to Avery as I strap Maisie into her car seat, “so we don’t wear the same color at the wedding.”
She’s laughing as she backs her golf cart away from the building. Leo and Maisie wave wildly at each other, screaming “Bye! Bye! Bye!” until Avery turns left out of the parking lot, heading toward downtown, and we go the other direction to the hotel.
* * *
Most mornings, Mason has already gone to the brewhouse by the time Maisie and I come downstairs for breakfast. I can tell how early he leaves by the temperature of the blue teapot on the kitchen island. If it’s warm to the touch, we’ve missed him by minutes. If it’s room temperature, he left the house before sunrise. If there’s no teapot, he probably spent the night in the brewhouse, fretting over beer recipes.
The following Monday morning, after I drop Maisie off at school, Mason and I meet in the brewhouse office to discuss my design ideas and their corresponding budgets. The teapot was warm, so I’m hoping that’s a good omen.
“So, what have you got?” he asks.
I hand him the first design board, covered in magazine clippings and fabric samples I ordered from vendors. It leans toward modern, with neutral tones on the floors and walls, and textiles in pale shades of woodland colors. The design is copied almost straight from the bungalows at Aquamarine, and I know Mason hates it by the tiny shift of his eyebrows.
“This is too fancy.”
“I know,” I say. “But is there anything you like from this design?”
“Not really.”
“Okay.”
I hand him the second board. This design resembles the inside of a Bass Pro Shops store, with lodgepole pine, striped wool blankets on the bed, and a campground vibe. It’s more outdoorsy than the first one, but I think he’ll find it too rustic.
“This is more deer camp than summer camp,” Mason says. “But I like this direction a little better. The bedding is cool.”
The third design is an eclectic mix of tile, wood, and textiles meant to feel like the first day at a lake house that’s been in the family for generations. The ceiling lights are chandeliers, but the bedding is the same Hudson’s Bay style as the last design. The sleeper sofas are made from durable fabric with throw pillows that look like they were made by someone’s grandma. The lamps are mismatched, and the artwork looks like it might have been unearthed from someone’s attic. It’s not even remotely summer camp, but as his eyes rove the design, I find myself holding my breath.
“This is not what I was expecting,” Mason says, and I’m afraid that I’ve struck out until he looks up and gives me the biggest smile. “But this is exactly right.”
Hearts don’t literally skip a beat, but I do feel a sensation in my chest. Less anxiety, more kick drum. A visceral response to that smile. To him. I sit down suddenly, hoping none of this is being telegraphed across my face. I do not want to be attracted to my boss, but I am. “I, um—I thought this would appeal equally to men on fishing trips and women doing girls’ weekends with friends. I wanted it to feel like—”
“Home.”
I nod, feeling the thread of excitement that connects us. “Exactly.”
“It reminds me of when my grandparents owned the house,” he says. “They had stacks of old National Geographic magazines everywhere, board games from when my dad was a kid … How do we make this happen?”