“Mason.” It’s a wisp of breath. Not enough to power a sail or extinguish a candle.
“Sabrina.” He moves his envelope from hand to hand, studying me like one might judge an art show. On the wall behind him are the two charcoal portraits I gifted him for his birthday.
“We were supposed to be on a sunset dinner cruise,” I add, looking around for jacketed wait staff or even boat crew in crisp polos and starched pants.
“Is that what he told you?” he asks, scrubbing a hand down his chin. His skin is glowing with a warmed gold I want to lick the salt straight from. His hair is longer than ever. Curls bob beyond the collar of his polo, as he pushes the longer strands from the top of his head out of his eyes.
“He was going to meet me here for drinks. I had to collect an envelope from the office, which was unattended; that’s why I’m late.” He lifts his toward me, the wordsopen nextscrawled across the front in neat, cursive writing. Trystan’s writing. Peering down at the envelope, Trystan all but threw at me before he raced back along the dock, I see it has the same looping writing in bold masculine strokes. Open first. Remembering his last instructions, I handed it to the captain.
With shaking fingers, he tears it open and pulls out the folded paper.
Dearest Mason and Sabrina.
You will by now have worked out this dinner cruise didn’t exist. Bri, I had to do something to get you to the marina, and Mas, I needed to get you off the yacht long enough so Bri could climb aboard. Don’t be mad.
Don’t be mad? There’s no food?
You may have noticed an annoyingly loud helicopter take off from the pad alongside the marina. Mason would have, I bet he’s still cursing.
“Correct,” he laughs. “Always the smartass.” His eyes find mine, and I can’t help but notice his grin reaches his eyes for the first time in… forever.
What you both need to understand is that I was a passenger on that heli, and the reason is in the other letter. Go on, sail somewhere private; just the two of you. Once you’ve dropped anchor and both have a drink in hand, open the other letter.
T
I stare at the words through the page as if they’ve offended me. What the fuck is he doing? “The blue Jeep in the parking lot?” I trail off.
“Was still there when I grabbed this,” he says, holding up the other letter. “Is that your ride?”
I nod. “What is going on?” Panic pulls at my ribcage. It twists and gnarls like a wounded animal ready to claw its wayfree. “He invited me on an all expenses paid vacation and then left. I don’t understand?”
Mason watches me with interest. Gray eyes flicking from the folded paper to me and up to the cabin stairs.
“Did you know about this?”
“No. Not really. I’ve been sailing for months now. We’ve been in regular contact since we both left Mercer Media, and he said he’d meet me at one port I sailed into. Grab a drink and catch up. I thought he’d be sitting on the pier with his feet in the water, waiting. He doesn’t like boats, so I thought we could stay in port and get shitfaced.”
“And you don’t like helicopters…”
“Rattling cans of death,” he replies before I fire a look that could melt metal.
“Except for that one. That one sounded big and meaty. Probably safe.” He holds his hands apart to show something large and capable. I’m not convinced, but his smile seals the deal.
By the time Mason sends the anchor into the inky brine, the sun is long gone, leaving behind only a hint of silver hues melding into the deeper indigo of night. We motored out from the slipway past the catamarans and superyachts. Mason’s yacht, Illusions, is a Swan 60 and still expensive, but more practical for a family and small crew. It was the eighteenth birthday gift from Marin and, by default, Magnus gave it to their youngestgrandson. And it’s perfect.
Mason pulls two beers from the refrigerator and pops the caps. Beside him in the well-appointed galley, I cut chunks of cheese and meat from containers in the fridge and pull grapes and strawberries from another compartment. He has half a baguette and half a box of crackers in another overhead cupboard.
“I guess that’s dinner,” he says with a shrug. His casualindifference, not getting hung up on the minor details or perceived imperfections, is refreshing. I guess when you’re on a boat sailing from port to port, you learn to make do with what you have. Or you'll go hungry. A life lived under the umbrella of excess is now reliant on deli meat and crackers that weren’t sealed properly and aren’t as crisp as they should be.
“Thank you, Bri. It is so good to see you.” I feel his words dance over the top of my head and tickle my hair. “I missed you so much. I…”
“The portraits arrived, I see,” I say, gesturing toward the charcoal works.
He blows out an extended breath. “They did. I never got to thank you. I believe they are some of your best work yet. I might be biased.” He waves a hand toward the pair. “Velcroed to the wall, safety first. Thank you, Bri, they’re amazing. Just like… you.” He swallows thickly before looking away.
My stomach does a dip and whirl. Trystan Hynd, I want to hug you and slap you silly. I know you did this on purpose.
Both of us eye the remaining letter, scared it might explode or catch fire. Trystan had been on that banking helicopter. He’d left me at the slipway to a yacht owned by his former boss,ourformer boss. Mason pops a grape into his mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Do you want me to do the honors, or do you want to?”
