Page 3 of Take Me (Cherry Blossom Lake #5)

Erika

M y wipers slosh through the river of raindrops slicking my windshield. I squint at the road, guiding my truck through a puddle the size of a lake. This downpour came out of nowhere on my way home from Lucy’s.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Lucy asked me back on her porch, her eyes filled with kindness as we said our goodbyes. “This thing with Mason?—”

“It’s really new.” I flashed her a smile that I hoped looked sincere before pulling her into a hug. “I promise I’m fine. We’re fine.”

I was speaking for Mason as well, since he set this fake dating thing in motion. I didn’t miss his twin’s look of doubt as she released me.

“It’s weird he never mentioned it. You guys dating, I mean.” Searching my face, she smiled. “It’s great, though. You guys kinda fit.”

We fit? “Uh, yeah. Your brother’s quite a catch.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “He’s such a clown, but he’s got a tender heart. You know how he is.”

“He’s tough.” I knew I shouldn’t contradict her, but Mason hates people feeling sorry for him. “What are you wearing to Max and Sam’s wedding?”

Lucy latched on to the subject change, and I sagged with relief that I could quit pretending to fawn over Mason. It’s like ogling my brother or something.

I mean yeah, he’s good looking. Not really my type, but he wouldn’t take it personally if I said so. It’s not like the town’s most affable playboy would date a mechanic who last wore a dress to her high school prom.

And like I said, Mason’s not my kinda guy.

That prom I just mentioned? I went with Neil.

He looked dashing in his Navy whites, driving us up to Puffin Point so we could fool around in the town’s favorite makeout spot.

He’s more my speed: the strong, silent type who’s deployed all the time.

I prefer to have freedom and space for hiking or working on cars or hanging with friends.

“Ooof.” A pothole pulls my attention back to the road.

Off to the right, I spot Mason’s truck in a puddly parking lot.

Curious about the new kombucha place, I make a split-second decision to stop.

It’s bustling and bright for a Sunday evening, the pink and orange paint a cheery contrast to Spencer-King Auto just up the road.

There’s Mason, alone at the bar. As I peer through the tasting room window, I spot his niece and her pals sitting and laughing at something a teenage boy pantomimes with goofy gestures and a napkin.

Mason’s got one eye on Harper, attention trained on his niece as she punches the boy’s arm in awkward flirtation.

Maybe I’m projecting. Punching’s more my form of flirting.

I slide out of my truck and jog through the rain to the front of the shop. A jingle of bells jerks Mason’s attention to the door as I shake rain from my hair like a dog.

“Hey!” He looks happy to see me as I pick my way through the tables to the bar.

“Hey yourself.” I sling myself onto a cheery yellow stool beside him. “You’re still here, huh?”

“Yeah.” He glances at Harper, who looks up and waves when she spots me.

“Hey, Erika.” She’s such a polite kid. “I like your shirt.”

“Thanks, Harps.” I look down at my purple tee that reads Radicalized by basic decency . “I like yours, too.”

“Thank you.” Hers is hand-painted with bright, swirly brush strokes that I heard her tell Lucy were titty twisters . I know she said it to get a rise from her mom, and to Lucy’s credit, she smiled calmly and told her daughter she loved the colors.

As Harper’s attention swings back to her friends, Mason lowers his voice. “Apparently fourteen-year-old boys are way more exciting than thirty-three-year-old uncles, even with kombucha to sweeten the pot.”

“Don’t take it personally.” I don’t get the sense that he is, though it’s tough to tell with Mason. “As a former fourteen-year-old girl, I can tell you right now that cute dimples trump even the coolest uncle.”

One edge of his mouth quirks, popping the dimple in his right cheek. “As a former fourteen-year-old boy, I can tell you we don’t confine our interest to dimples.” His grin gets wider, the cheek dent deepening to a crater. “Cute kneecaps. Nice toes. Even a shapely elbow would’ve caught my eye.”

I anchor my non-shapely elbows on the bar and survey the space. It’s modern and bright, filled with potted plants and driftwood-inspired décor. “How’s the kombucha?”

“Great! Try some.” He nudges the teal wooden taster tray toward me, rattling the half-empty glasses resting in round holes. “We already did a full flight of their flagship flavors. These are some of the experimental ones they’re letting me try.”

I pick up a glass, swirling some cloudy pink liquid. “Which flavor is this?”

“Huckleberry vanilla, I think.”

“Hmm.” I set it back in the tray and reach for the tower of plastic cups stacked by a water cooler. I fill one to the brim as Mason watches.

“You don’t want to try the kombucha?”

“I’m good with water for now.” I sip from my glass as I study the snack menu. Cheese sticks sound good.

“I don’t have cooties.” Mason looks bemused, resting his arm on the bar beside me. “As my hot fake girlfriend, you probably shouldn’t look like you’re grossed out by the thought of sipping from the same glass.”

I laugh as my ego perks up. Hot fake girlfriend? “It’s not that,” I assure him. “Just not sure I’m a fan of kombucha.”

He gasps in feigned shock. “How can you not like kombucha? It’s fermented like beer, but it’s packed with probiotics and antioxidants.” He plucks the pinkish one from the tray again and chugs it down. Smacking his lips, he puts it back in the hole. “It’s also delicious.”

“Guess it’s not really my thing.” I do admire his passion, though. “I mean, admittedly, I’ve never tried it?—”

“Seriously?” He snatches a glass from the end and hands it to me. “Mango passionfruit. Try this one.”

Ugh. “You know I hate trying new things.”

“I’m aware.” He waves it under my nose like a jackass until I give up and grab it.

“Fine.” Knocking it back like a shot, I sputter and set the empty glass on the bar. “That tastes like feet.”

Mason’s mouth quirks. “You’re in the habit of sucking on toes?”

“Gross.” I stick the empty glass back in the tray, grateful Bethany Lopez is off at the other end of the bar. I don’t want the new owner hearing me badmouth her concoction.

Mason’s persistent. “You’ve gotta at least try the peach lavender one.” He plucks another glass from the tray but doesn’t wave this one in my face. Probably a sign it smells like old gym shorts.

“We’ve got more pressing things to deal with than your weird taste in beverages.” I wrap my hands around my water glass. “We’re dating now, huh?”

“Sorry.” His expression turns sheepish. “It seemed like a good way to save us both.”

“Thanks.” In an instant I’m right back in grade school, Mason grabbing my arm and steering me off toward a flag football game.

“Come on,” he grunted. “We need one more player.”

And I needed friends who wouldn’t keep looking at me like some sad little teddy bear left in the rain.

Did you hear about the accident?

Her dad’s in a wheelchair and her mom ? —

“We don’t have to fake like we’re dating,” Mason says now, dragging me back from the unhappy memory. “I can tell them I’m full of shit if you want. I doubt they’d be surprised.”

“That you’re full of shit, or that you wouldn’t really date me?”

“Everyone knows I’m full of shit.” He says it like he’s proud, then tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I date you?”

I snort into my water glass. “Please. We’ve been buddies forever. You don’t shit where you eat.”

“That’s sweet. I think I saw that on a greeting card.”

I give him a look, then wave to a waitress who’s dropping off fries and more taster trays at a table across the room.

I spot Mason’s mom, Sarah Lou, sitting with Zoe and Cassidy’s mother, Ruby.

They’re chatting like old friends, probably planning out wedding stuff.

Between the two of them, they’ve got an eight-month span with four of their offspring getting hitched.

“Hey.” My gaze snags on Sarah Lou’s nubby wool sweater. “Isn’t that the cardigan your mom wore for parent-teacher conferences the year we had Miss Anderson?”

Mason blinks like I’ve just licked his eyeball. “We had Miss Anderson in third grade.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you remember what my mom wore for conferences?”

When he puts it that way, I can see how it might sound weird to some people.

Mason’s not some people .

“Conferences are always in April.” He’s not looking at me when he says it. “The accident?—”

“Yeah.” I don’t need him to spell out the rest. How closely I watched all my classmates’ mothers back then. How aware I became that I’d grow up without one.

“I always thought that sweater was so pretty.” My voice sounds a little bit raspy. “The yellow sunflowers stitched around the top?”

“My grandma made it.”

“No kidding?”

“She was one helluva knitter.”

I laugh. “I loved how she’d let us play in her yarn basket.”

“Remember she gave us the brown yarn to make ourselves tails?”

Now we’re both cracking up, recalling the day we climbed up the tree in his grandma’s backyard. We cackled and whooped, scratching our armpits as we slung our monkey tails over gnarled branches.

“They kinda looked like giant turds,” I admit.

“That made them way cooler.”

“Totally.”

We leave it at that, a shared shadow of memory. There’s no whisper of pity, no kindly meant squeeze of my hand. This moment right here—this is why Mason and I have been friends for so long.

That, and our shared love of snacks.

“I’ll have an order of cheese sticks, please.” I hand my menu back to the waiter. “Also, a Coke.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Mason mutters. “Who comes to a kombucha bar and gets Coke ?”

I stick out a hand, and he shakes it. “Erika Gentry,” I announce. “I go to a kombucha bar and drink Coke. I also don’t share my cheese sticks with guys who bitch about my beverage choices.”

“Not just any guy.” He throws me a wink. “Your boyfriend, remember?”

“Gross.”