The Wednesday before book club, I’m buying more William Holbrook Beard prints online when the construction manager comes to the office to tell me the first cabin is finished. I drop everything and follow him out to the building site. The exterior of the cabin hasn’t changed significantly since the last time I looked, but inside, the bathroom has fixtures and the kitchenette is complete. The first bed—the old-fashioned double from Vivian’s shop—is assembled with the mattress and box spring in place, and there’s a sleeper sofa in the middle of the room, waiting to be positioned.
“I’ll make Keith available tomorrow and Friday to help with anything you need when it comes to arranging furniture and hanging pictures,” he says. “And we’re just about done assembling the chairs.”
“I appreciate that so much. Thank you.”
As much as I’d love to dive straight into decorating the cabin, I force myself to return to the office and finish up my artwork order before picking Maisie up from Avery’s house. I’m serving up dinner at home when Mason comes in from the brewery. With the opening drawing near, we’d reverted to our plate-in-the-oven/tea-on-the-kitchen-island routine, so I’m surprised to see him.
“Smells great. What is it?”
“I just threw some orzo, black beans, corn, and green chiles in the Crock-Pot with a little enchilada sauce and spices,” I say. “It’s nothing special, but it’s tasty.”
He fills a bowl and joins Maisie and me at the table.
“I hired a couple of bartenders today,” Mason says, dredging a flour tortilla through his bowl. “Tomas is from Slovakia, Lenna is from Estonia, and they both have bar experience. Once we’re booking the cabins, I’d like to hire a couple more people for table service, but for now I think we’ll be okay with just two. How was your day?”
“The Adirondack chairs are ready for book club,” I say. “And I get to start decorating the first cabin tomorrow.”
“Need any help?”
“Not from you. I want it to be a surprise.”
He laughs. “Fair enough.”
After dinner, he loads the dishwasher so I can give Maisie a bath. Once her wet hair is combed and she’s in her pajamas, I let her watch Moana for the 6,521,943rd time.
“Do you have a minute?” Mason asks. “I want to show you something in the taproom.”
“Yeah, sure.”
The walk to the brewhouse is so different from when I first arrived on the island. The wheel ruts have been paved over, and the unruly grass has been tamed. There are flower beds along the driveway waiting to be filled with marigolds, red geraniums, and pink impatiens. Spotlights illuminate the front of the brewhouse and the sign by the front door that matches the one out along Division Street.
“That first day I pulled into the driveway, I would never have been able to envision this,” I say. “But now … it’s beautiful.”
“You did this.”
“We did this.”
Mason opens the door for me and switches on the light. The chandelier illuminates, casting sparkles on the sloped ceiling. The leather couches have been arranged into a lounge area, with the kilim-style rug creating a kind of boundary. There’s a wooden coffee table and a pair of end tables accented with the stained-glass lamps. Hanging on the wall over one of the couches is the old-fashioned Kelleys Island map.
“That looks so welcoming,” I say. “I love it.”
He grins as he gestures toward the bar. “There’s more.”
Attached to the wall behind the bar is the black menu board. Mason fishes his phone from the back pocket of his shorts and touches the screen a couple of times. Suddenly the menu board begins to move, shuffling the letters into place—like an old-fashioned departures board in a train station—until the names and prices of the beers are spelled out. Little Fish Lager. Sunshine Ale. Old Stone IPA. Porch Swing Kölsch. Stargazer Berliner Weisse.
“That is amazing, but—Wait. How did I not know about the Berliner?”
“Damn it.” He runs his hand up through his hair. “You weren’t supposed to see that. Can you pretend you didn’t see that?”
“Did you—You made a beer for me?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the flavor?”
He goes behind the bar, takes down a glass, and fills it from one of the taps. The beer that pours out is slightly pink. I lift myself onto a barstool as he slides the glass to me. “It’s hibiscus.”
“Really?”
The flavor of hibiscus is reminiscent of cranberry, both tart and sweet, followed by the puckery tang of the Weisse beer. Mason worries his lower lip between his teeth as he watches me. “Do you hate it?”
“I love it.”
“I struggled to find the right flavor.” He reaches beneath the bar and hands me a bottle with the label. In the center of the oval is a night sky with the familiar Y-shaped constellation of Cancer. My constellation. My sign. “Eventually I figured out that I needed something more unique. More … Floridian.”
An ache blooms in my chest. Not painful, but warm and deep and possibly life-changing. “You did?”
“I do.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods, his eyes locked on mine. “Absolutely.”
I stand on the rung of the stool and lean across the bar. Mason leans from the opposite direction. But there’s too much real estate between us. Our lips barely touch, and the edge of the bar is practically cutting me in half. We both burst out laughing.
“Worst first kiss ever.”
“Definitely a contender,” he says. “Should we give it another shot?”
“I think we should.”
Mason comes out from behind the bar and stops in front of my barstool. With no preamble, he takes my face gently in his hands and the feel of his fingers on my skin sends a cascade of shivers down my spine. He grins, pleased with the effect he has on me, and leans in. This time, our mouths come together perfectly.
One kiss leads to another and another, each one hungrier than the last. Now that we’ve had a taste, neither of us can get enough. The back of his shirt is bunched in my fists as I pull him closer. He shifts me forward on the stool and I wrap my legs around his thighs. Even with our bodies touching in so many places, I want more of him. All of him. On the floor. On one of the new leather couches. On the bar. Anywhere. Everywhere.
Mason pulls back suddenly, his breathing ragged. “We forgot about Maisie.”
“Oh God,” I groan. “I’m a terrible parent.”
He leans forward and kisses me softly. “Not even close.”
“Do we have to go?”
“Okay, now you’re a terrible parent.”
I fake-punch him on the shoulder as I lower myself off the barstool. “I was going to invite you to my room after I put Maisie to bed, but now…”
Mason kisses me so thoroughly, my knees wobble. “Invite me.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not in love with Jess anymore, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says, pausing to switch off the lights and lock the door as we leave the taproom. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over losing Piper, but you’ve pulled me out of a rut, so—”