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

Mason shrugs. “It’s for Dad and Parker and Noah and anyone else who only makes it back here every few months. They can do one trip instead of two.”

It makes sense, though I think I’d prefer a little more limelight for my wedding. Even though I wanted to keep things simple with Neil, I loved the idea of a beautiful ceremony in the church where my parents got married.

The squeeze in my chest doesn’t hurt like it has for the past couple months, so maybe I’m really moving on.

Mason’s phone pings, and he picks it up. Scanning the incoming text, he rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake.” He sets down his phone as Harper bounds over with a triumphant grin.

“No cursing, Uncle Mason. It makes me want to dress like a vampire hooker.”

I burst out laughing as Mason grumbles. “Good ears, kid,” I tell her.

Mason slings an arm around his niece in a bone-crushing side hug. “I forgot to add the rest of the story.”

“Which story?” I ask.

“The one about Harper and the strapless red dress.” He ruffles her hair, and she shoots him a smug little smile. “Turns out Harps here actually wanted a below-the-knee blue dress with tasteful spaghetti straps.”

“Mom would have said no, since it’s winter,” adds the devious fourteen-year-old genius. “This way, we compromised.”

“I don’t think that word means what you think it does.” Props to Mason for the Princess Bride quote.

“So I can go to Ryan’s house?”

Mason grumbles some more. “Fine.”

“What did Lucy text you?” I ask.

He hands me his phone, which I know most guys wouldn’t do. But Mason’s not most guys, and the two of us even share our locations with each other. There’s nothing to hide, and it’s handy sometimes when we’re hiking or meeting for drinks.

Scanning the text from his sister, I laugh.

I’m okay with you sending my child to hang with some teenage lothario.

I snicker and read the next text from Lucy.

Ryan is a good kid, unlike my idiot brothers who used to threaten my boyfriends with bodily harm.

I am perfectly okay with you sending my child off to hang with a responsible young man who happens to already have a very nice boyfriend of his own and doesn’t need to date his female friends. Unlike SOME people I know.

“Nice,” I say, handing the phone back. “Your sister writes long texts.”

“My sister is a pain in the ass.” He gives Harper another quick side hug. “Be good, kid.”

“I will.” She doesn’t follow her friends, who are already trooping out the door to a waiting minivan. Harper stuffs her hands in her pockets. “Thank you for bringing me, Uncle Mason. I had fun.”

“You’re welcome, kiddo.”

“You’re sure it’s okay if I leave you?”

“Positive.” Mason glances at me. “I’m in good company.”

“I love you, Uncle Mason.” She hugs him again, wrapping her arms around his broad torso.

His expression goes gooey, and my heart melts a little. “Love you, too, Harps.”

“Sorry your girlfriend broke up with you.”

Mason stiffens. “How did you?—?”

“Katie’s aunt’s hairdresser’s cousin is friends with Dr. Hanlon.” Harper draws back with a deep look of sympathy. “Everyone in town knows.”

“Fucking small towns,” Mason mutters as Harper skips off toward the van.

As soon as she’s gone, I push my basket of cheese sticks in front of him. “You can finish these off if you want.”

“Thanks.” He stuffs one in his mouth, chewing as he plucks one more glass of kombucha from the taster tray. “Last one, I swear. If you try this and hate it, I will never again make you drink kombucha.”

I snort as he sets it in front of me. “Like you could make me do anything.” I really don’t want the kombucha, but trying it seems like a kindness. If I tell him it tastes like pond mud or dog food, he’ll laugh and we’ll shake off the funk of our breakups.

“What flavor is this one?” I pick it up and swirl it around.

“Salal berry, I think.” He squints at the glass. “She probably won’t mass produce that one, since the color’s so weird.”

The deep-purple hue is nearly black. I sniff, and the smell reminds me of the patches of wild salal berries Mason and I used to pick in the summer.

His mother made jam, and we’d eat it by spoonfuls in the treehouse in his grandparents’ yard.

This was around the same time Mason’s mom went off the deep end.

“What else is in here?” I swirl the glass, trying to place the unfamiliar scent. “Something besides salal berries.”

“Oregon grape.” Mason quirks one brow. “Since when do you have a super palate?”

Ignoring him, I take a sip. “Holy shit.”

He sighs. “Let me guess—it tastes like armpit? Mud puddle? Jockstrap?”

“Dude.” Bethany Lopez steps up behind him, crossing her arms. “Are you seriously dissing my kombucha to paying customers?”

Laughing, I take another sip. “I actually love it.” I give Bethany an apologetic smile. “I’ll admit some of the others weren’t my cup of tea, but Mason convinced me I’d fall in love eventually.”

“I call that one my Oregon Coast specialty.” Bethany smiles. “It’s the combination of the tartness of Oregon grape and the sweetness of wild salal berries—the flavors wouldn’t work on their own.”

“It’s fantastic.” I down the rest of it and set the bar on the glass. “Do you sell growlers to go? I’d love to take some home to my dad.”

“Absolutely.” Bethany beams. “You ready for your check?”

Mason pops my last cheese stick in his mouth and nods. “Yes, please.”

“Together, I assume?” Bethany glances between us. “I heard about you two. Congratulations. It’s about damn time.”

Mason’s mouth falls open. “What the?—”

“Two checks,” I say, putting a hand on his arm. “We prefer to keep our finances separate.”

“Gotcha. I’ll be right back.”

I wait until she’s out of earshot to stop touching Mason. “Who is she friends with from the group at Lucy’s house today?”

“Beats me.” Mason gets out his wallet. “Maybe it’s not the worst thing, huh?”

“You sure know how to sweep a girl off her feet.” I chug the last of my Coke and grab cash from my purse. “But you’re right—having everyone gossip about our hot, torrid love affair instead of our breakups is a nice fringe benefit of your ridiculous story.”

“Ridiculous, huh?” Mason lays some cash on the bar, enough to cover Harper and her crew as well as whatever he ordered. “Now who’s the sweet talker?”

Ignoring the question, I focus on logistics. “How do you want to work Sam and Maxine’s wedding this weekend?”

“Might as well carpool.” He scratches his chest through his Big One’s T-shirt. “Guess we could save a few bucks and cancel one of our room reservations.”

“Fine by me.” My room’s a double, and it’s not like Mason and I haven’t shared a room with two beds. “I’m at the Dewdrop Motel.”

“I scored a cabin at Sunridge Vineyards. That’s way closer to the wedding venue.”

“We’ll keep yours,” I decide, grabbing my phone to cancel my own reservation. “Tell me how much and I’ll Venmo my half.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Consulting the tab, he slides off his stool. “It’s the least I can do for setting this whole thing in motion.”

“I’m paying my share.” Maybe this won’t be so bad. “Let me know if you want to keep up the ruse for the other two weddings.”

“Might as well, right? They’re all stacked so close together.”

“Works for me. We can stage a nice breakup a few weeks after Lucy’s.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Mason hands me my coat, and we both check to be sure we’ve left generous tips before heading out into the Oregon Coast drizzle. I breathe in the scent of sea brine and wet moss and tire rubber from Spencer-King Auto.

Mason lopes off toward his truck. I follow, since I’m parked right beside him. “Is your dome light on?”

“Goddamn it.” He sighs. “Harper ran back to the truck to grab her sweatshirt. Twenty bucks says the battery’s dead.”

“Need a new one?” I grin and unlock my own truck. “I know where you can get a helluva deal.”

Mason opens his driver’s side door and sticks the key in the ignition. The engine sputters as I snatch my jumper cables out of the back of my cab. “Pop the hood,” I tell him as I lift mine. “You know the drill. ‘Red from the dead to red on the good; black from the good to under the hood.’”

“Yeah, yeah.”

We go through the motions like two teenage kids who’ve owned more than our share of shitty cars. Even though countless years and much nicer vehicles have filled in the gap, our muscle memory is strong. We need no more words as we stick the clamps in the right spots and I fire up my engine.

We’re letting it run, leaning on Mason’s right fender, when a pale-yellow Volkswagen zips by on Beachcomber Drive. Mason stiffens beside me.

“Was that Annabelle’s car?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t say anything else for a minute. “Wonder if she’s heard the news, too.”

“That you and I are madly in love and shagging each other senseless?” Given how news travels here, I wouldn’t be surprised. “Would that be a problem?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?” I hate when he’s hurting. “Like, if you’re hoping to get back together with her?—”

“I’m not.” He doesn’t sound very convincing.

I know better than to push, though. We stand there in silence, our shoulders touching as we lean on his shiny green truck.

“Know the shittiest thing about all this?” His question surprises me.

“What’s that?”

“How she looked at me when we split.” He lets out a breath and glances over. “Like when she ended things, she kept looking at me like a puppy she’d kicked or a dog she’d run over in the parking lot.”

“Considering she’s a vet, I hope that means she was compassionate and professional.”

He grunts and turns to unclamp the black cable. I walk to my rig and do the same thing before Mason detaches the red end from his. He walks it back over, keeping the two clamps apart as I unhook my end and slam the hood shut.

Mason hands me the cables. “Thanks for the jump.”

“No prob.” I coil them up and stuff them in their storage bin.

“I owe ya, Gentry.” He holds out his palm, waiting for me to slap it.

I do, then whack the back of my hand against his to bonk knuckles like always. We follow that up with an elbow tap, then two quick snaps and a fist-bump finale.

Mason laughs. “Nice.”

“Can’t believe we still remember that.”

There’s comfort in our age-old routine. Then the yellow Volkswagen cruises past again and I cringe at how childish it feels.

“Don’t look,” I tell him, which of course makes him look.

“Fuck,” he mutters as Annabelle’s car slows near the parking lot entrance.

“Call me crazy,” I murmur. “But two people who’ve been greasing the loaf pan would probably not say goodbye like twelve-year-olds at the bike rack.”

I watch him track Annabelle in his periphery. “Now what?”

“You’re asking me? She’s your ex.”

Mason winces and I feel like hell. Not to split hairs, but I’m guessing Annabelle wouldn’t agree she’d ever been Mason’s girlfriend. Friend-with-benefits maybe , but girlfriend? Not likely.

“Wait.” I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this. “I have an idea.”

“Let’s hear it.”

It’s completely nuts. And impulsive and wild and maybe a little bit weird. He’s my buddy, my pal, the guy who helped trim my toenails the summer I broke both my wrists falling out of his treehouse.

That’s the last thought I have as I hook my hand behind his neck, dragging him down for a kiss.