Page 10 of A Little More Hope

I guessed someone had recognized the potential of a building right on the harbor, as today the updated former warehouse should be featured in a magazine. In my worn denim jeans, Hawaiian shirt, and old purple baseball high-tops, I looked decidedly underdressed. The place was newly renovated with soft-white, painted wood-clad walls and roof beams, and with the previously boarded-up windows uncovered, the warm evening sunlight now flooded the place. Tan leather booths sat alongside the windows looking out over the harbor. Old wooden tables with metal chairs filled the open floor area, and the bar that ran along the length of the far wall, with high metal bar stools lined up the whole way along, gave the impression of a highly varnished ship deck.

I idly wondered where the locals went now as this place was stuffed full of tourists from the city, likely up for the weekend. Melrose Bay was quiet, mostly undiscovered, but slowly and surely more and more people were discovering this pretty town, and the busy weekends showed exactly how much.

I whistled.

“Yeah,” Cam said. “Bit of an upgrade.”

“A bit.” I gawped at him. “How about a whole hell of a lot?”

He grunted as a host—a host for goodness’ sake—arrived to assist us, while surreptitiously giving Cam the once-over. My friend scrubbed up nice, and the navy shirt, dark jeans and tan work boots looked good on his large frame.

“We booked already,” he told her, not noticing the girl melting in a puddle at his feet in the least. “Cam, four people, seven o’clock.”

We were swiftly taken to a booth overlooking the water. We all slid in, me and Sawyer on one side, Flynn and Cam the other. We ordered drinks from the waitress, and after checking out the extensive menu, our food too.

Looking around, I still couldn’t quite believe how swanky the place had become, and my thoughts, as they had all day, returned to Mason, wondering what he was doing back at the beach house. I decided he’d like it here and wanted to bring him one day soon. Maybe through the week when the town quieted down a bit. We’d eat the locally caught fish, share a bottle of wine, and talk about nothing in particular, just enjoying being in each other’s company.

A screwed-up napkin hit me square in the face, and I glared at Cam and his shit-eating grin. “You gonna sit there staring into space all night,” he drawled, “or make an effort to contribute to the conversation?”

I pulled my head out of the clouds and tried to focus. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

He shook his head. “What’s with you tonight? Anyone would think you didn’t want to be here. You have somewhere else you need to be?”

I didn’t, no, but picturing Mason alone in his beach house while I had a good time with my friends stirred uncomfortable feelings inside me. Thinking of him by himself with so much time on his hands, stewing, didn’t sit right. I hated the thought of anyone suffering, and he was most certainly suffering. The evidence was there, plain as day. The pain easy to see in the depths of his eyes.

“I’ve got a neighbor,” I answered, ignoring Cam’s question.

Flynn immediately perked up, and my gaze turned to him, his white shirt a stark contrast to his auburn hair. “Male?” he asked.

“Yep,” I confirmed.

“Good-looking?”

Hell yes. “He’s okay.”

His eyebrow shot up. “Single?”

Was he? I hadn’t noticed a wedding band on his left hand or seen any signs of female company when I’d checked out the main living area.

“I think he’s there alone,” I said cautiously, immediately holding up my hand as Flynn scooted forward in his seat, getting interested. “Which doesn’t mean he’s single, or there isn’t anyone special around somewhere.”

“Or it could mean exactly that,” he replied eagerly. “Maybe he’s getting over somebody.”

“Or something,” I responded quietly, my thoughts returning to when I’d sat on his couch. He’d done his best to hide his injuries, I’d give him that. Making sure not to face me straight on to conceal the bruising barely visible in his hairline on his left temple. And I wouldn’t have seen anything if the sun hadn’t hit at exactly the right angle, highlighting the slight bump and the difference in coloration on his skin. I’d had more than my fair share of wipeouts while surfing, had my board hit my head often enough to know a beat-up face when I saw one.

Flynn hummed. “So, he might well need some comfort to help him heal.”

I knew exactly what he meant by the word comfort, and the mere thought of Flynn with his hands all over Mason had me seeing red. “No!” The word flew out of my mouth before my brain kicked in, stunning him into silence.

A low chuckle had my eyes flicking to Sawyer, who sat quietly, listening. Dressed in his usual black, the trademark backward cap remained, but at least he’d worn a shirt and not a tank.

“What?” I snapped.

“Someone’s getting territorial,” he said, his tone teasing. “You staking your claim on the guy, Ash?”

Yes. “No, of course not.”

“So, it’s okay if Flynn goes and helps”—he used his fingers to add air quotes around the last word—“the guy to get over whatever it is he needs to get over.”

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