“Or maybe you could buy some chairs.”
“Or that,” he says quietly. “How was your night?”
“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Must have been a wild time.”
“It was a good fun,” I say, teasing him about his earlier word gaffe.
Mason groans. “You’re fired.”
Laughing, I take my phone from my pocket and use the night sky app to identify the constellations. Leo. Virgo. Both the Ursas. The planet Venus is particularly bright. “Speaking of wild times, Rosemary tells me you were quite the feral child.”
“Pretty much,” he says. “There was a whole gang of us—including Avery’s husband, Daniel—and we built tree forts in the woods. Rode our bikes to the beach and stole grapes from the vineyard. Pulled pranks on the kids at the 4-H camp. And went swimming in the quarry even though it was strictly off-limits. Our parents never had to worry, though, because we always turned up in time for dinner.”
“Sounds idyllic.”
“It was,” Mason says. “And even though my family lived in Cleveland the rest of the year, coming to Kelleys for the summer always felt like coming home.”
“Is it too late to turn the cabins into tree houses?”
He laughs. “I’ve already considered it, but beer plus rope bridges equals a liability nightmare.”
“Good point.”
“Thanks for dinner, by the way.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, tucking my phone back into my pocket. “You know, Avery is kind of worried about you. She calls you Miss Havisham.”
“Havisham? I’d say I’m more Boo Radley.”
“She thinks you spend too much time alone in the brewery, and that your house looks like a thrift store.”
“Well, she’s not wrong.”
“People on the island care about you,” I say. “You should probably check in with them occasionally. And … on that note, I will return to minding my own business.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. It’s just—never mind.” He gets to his feet and the spot where he was lying feels conspicuously cold. “Night.”
My heart aches for him. He’s like a bottle of his own beer. Sealed up. Under pressure. How long before he explodes? Or makes himself sick? Or completely breaks?
“Good night, Mason.”
May
CHAPTER 11
Forelsket
Norwegian
“the indescribable euphoria you feel when you start to fall in love”
We’re two weeks into May when I get a call from my mom. We’ve spoken a couple of times a week since I moved to Ohio, but today she’s calling to tell me the house sold. Her new condo is an adorable tiny one-bedroom unit with a canal view. It’s within walking distance to restaurants and shops, and she’s transferring from her bank branch to one closer to the new place. It’s sad to realize I’ll never live in my childhood home again, but it’s probably harder for Mom. She hasn’t lived anywhere else since she left Germany. She raised two daughters and cared for her granddaughter in that house.
“Do you need me to help you pack up your stuff?” I ask, glancing over at Mason.
His eyebrows are furrowed as he looks at something on his laptop, his head cocked. Considering. He rarely spends much time in the office, but he’s been waiting for the label of his next beer to pop up in his inbox.
After Little Fish Lager, Mason dialed in on the formula for an India pale ale that he named Old Stone, but he’s been more tight-lipped than usual about his current project. He’s been staying late at the brewery every night, so leaving plates of dinner in the oven for him has become a habit. Each morning there’s usually a little cup of warm green tea waiting for me on the kitchen island in return. Today I tasted a hint of lemon and honey that may have been added especially for me.
He looks up from his laptop. The crease between his brows relaxes and he gives me an encouraging chin tilt—Mason Brown shorthand for go if you need to go. I open a browser window to research flights.
“It’s too expensive,” Mom says.
“Flights are cheap right now,” I say. “Tell me when you want me to come, and I’ll be there.”
“We could time it around Maisie’s birthday next week. Anna will be flying home too, so we could celebrate both of their birthdays.”
The tears that fill my eyes are unexpected, but I’ve missed my mom and I haven’t seen my sister in more than a year. “That sounds great. I’ll book a flight.”
“How long will you be gone?” Mason asks after I say goodbye to Mom and disconnect the call.
“Three or four days,” I say. “Long enough to pack up her belongings and hire a mover to do the heavy lifting. We’ll have a birthday party for Maisie while we’re there and give her a chance to see her dad.”
He nods. “Better make it five.”
“Are you sure? I haven’t worked here long enough for vacation time.”
“My hotel, my rules.”
Mason might be Boo Radley, hiding in his brewery so he doesn’t have to face the outside world, but his generosity never fails to blow me away. “Thank you.”
“You’ll need a ride to the airport.”
“I can ask Avery.”
“I’ll drive you,” he says. “I can visit my folks in Cleveland.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say. “Get the label for your new beer yet?”
The Old Stone label for the India pale ale features a drawing of Inscription Rock, a slab of limestone carved with Native American petroglyphs that was discovered on the island in the 1800s and has been a beloved tourist attraction for decades. The label has some of the same design elements as the Little Fish label and I’m dying to see this new one.
“Yeah.”
“Can I see it?”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Why are you being so secretive?”
“Because I’ve never brewed anything like this before,” Mason says. “I don’t want to talk about it until I know it doesn’t suck, so go do your job and leave me alone.”
“Please?”
He rolls his eyes but, after a couple of moments, says, “Okay, fine. Come ’ere.”
I wheel my chair across the room, and he moves to make space for us both behind his desk. This close, I catch a whiff of lemon soap and laundry detergent, and it makes me want to bury my face against his neck. It’s been so long since I’ve felt a man’s arms around me, and I can’t help thinking that Mason’s would be strong and warm and safe. The soft click of the trackpad brings me back.
The image opens and the label matches the others but features a yellow sun, blue water, and the name Sunshine Ale. Beneath the name, in smaller lettering, it says BREWED WITH JAPANESE GREEN TEA.
“It’s, uh—I made it for my mom.” He sounds nervous, which does absolutely nothing to dispel my unfortunate longing. His thoughtfulness reverberates through me like a bell. “Her name is Yōko. It can mean many things, but among them is sunshine, which is what my dad calls her.”
“She’s going to love this,” I say. “I mean, how could she not? Thanks for letting me in on the secret.”