The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(15)
Oh shit.
I try to turn off the thought as he switches on the lights.
The brewhouse is huge, with soaring ceilings and skylights that flood the space with light. The wood floors are dark and polished, and the creamy white walls are bare. A blank slate. A bank of beer taps has been plumbed through a wall with a metal drain tray beneath, but there’s no bar yet, no other fixtures, no furniture.
Along one wall, a set of wooden stairs leads up to what appears to be a loft.
“What’s up there?” I ask.
“Come look.”
As we reach the top step, I realize the upper level is an observation platform overlooking an array of gleaming stainless-steel vats and tanks, as well as racks of wooden barrels. Sacks of grain are stacked along one wall and the other has buttons and digital gauges.
“Most people, including me, have no idea how the brewing process works, so this is really cool,” I say, leaning my forearms on the railing. “It might be nice to have some infographics up here with the different steps involved.”
“That’s—” He looks at me. Blinks. “A really good idea.”
We go back down the stairs together and he stops at a spot beside the front door.
“Eventually this will be the lobby,” Mason says. “When guests arrive, they’ll check in at a reception desk right about here. Then they’ll be offered a sample flight of our beers and decide which one they’d like on tap in their cabin for the duration of their stay. But there will also be a bar open to the public, with traditional tables and lounge-style seating.”
“I love that idea.”
He opens the door and we head outside. Set about a hundred yards into the woods is a small clearing where a cabin is under construction. Concrete slab. Scaffold of wood framing.
“There are ten of these around the property. Some closer to the brewhouse, some more remote,” Mason says. “They’ll be self-catering and eco-friendly, but I don’t want them to be too rustic.”
“More like … glamping?”
“Ugh.” He grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose, but nods. “Yeah, maybe?”
Unable to stop myself, I laugh.
“I was hoping to be open before the summer season,” Mason continues. “But I got slowed down by some personal shit and then winter set in. Now I’m sort of flying by the seat of my pants with a loose goal of Fourth of July weekend.”
“That’s not much time.”
“I know,” he says. “So, here’s the deal. If you stay, you’ll have carte blanche over the design and functionality of the cabins and lobby, including the bar. I’m fucking tired of thinking about it.”
“I really don’t understand.”
His sigh sounds like it’s made of lead. “I bought this property as a project for my wife and me to build together. Instead our marriage imploded, so it’s only me.”
And suddenly the frat boy furniture makes sense.
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, but the crease between his eyebrows says otherwise. “It is what it is.”
“I, um—I’m going to need some time to think about this,” I say. “I’ve always wanted to own a hotel, so being given this much latitude is … Well, it’s practically a dream come true. But this whole situation has been kind of a bait and switch.”
“I know, and I’m sorry I did that to you,” he says as we walk back toward the house. “I can book you a room at a hotel closer to the ferry, or you’re welcome to stay upstairs. It’s intended to be an apartment, so I won’t be in your space.”
Once inside, I check on Maisie. She’s sound asleep on the couch. Fred the Giraffe has fallen to the floor, and tucked under her arm is the giant tortoiseshell cat.
“Holy shit,” Mason says, his voice low. “Yōkai hates everyone, including me.”
He pulls up the sleeve on his shirt, displaying a razor-thin scar that runs up the side of his forearm from wrist to elbow. “She did this to me when I was trying to feed her, so I don’t even know what to make of this.”
“They must see something in each other that no one else can see.”
Mason’s dark brown eyes meet mine and linger. His expression is softer, less guarded, and heat rolls through me. I blink and the softness disappears, shuttered away like a house in a Florida hurricane. He turns and fixes his gaze on Maisie and the cat. There’s a huskiness in his voice as he says, “Maybe so.”
* * *
Maisie snores softly beside me as I lie awake in a bedroom on the second floor. The upstairs—like nearly everything else on this property—is not exactly what it was purported to be. There are three bedrooms and a bathroom, but there’s no kitchen. It’s not even close to being an apartment—it’s the second floor of Mason Brown’s house. And I’m certain my room is meant to be the master bedroom.
The furniture still has that fresh-from-the-IKEA-box smell, but the room is warmed by old-fashioned radiators—another thing I’ve never experienced in real life before—and the hardwood floor is darkened with age. Like the kitchen, it’s spacious and cozy, and for the first time in my life, I have a room I don’t have to share with my sister or my daughter.