Chapter 3 - THE ONSLAUGHT AT THE VINEYARD
The ferry terminal at Friday Harbor was a madhouse of tourists, luggage carts, and white-robed wedding parties, but the Moretti-Bennett clan had bypassed public transit entirely.
A fleet of rented black Mercedes vans had met Mason’s chartered turboprop on a private airstrip near Roche Harbor, whisking them directly to the sprawling, cliffside estate of San Juan Vineyards.
It was a breathtaking estate—acres of rolling green grapevines plunging down toward the churning blue waters of the Haro Strait, dotted with multi-million-dollar modern glass houses and an enormous white reception tent billowing softly in the crisp island wind.
It was also a war zone of passive-aggressive family dynamics.
“Smile,” Mason murmured out of the side of his mouth as the Mercedes glided up the gravel driveway toward the main courtyard. His large, warm hand settled smoothly onto the small of Maya’s back, his fingers spreading across her spine with a proprietorial weight that felt entirely too natural.
“I am smiling,” Maya hissed through clenched teeth, her lips stretched into a rigid, terrifying grimace that looked more like a dental spasm than affection. “My face is going to lock into this position permanently and I’ll have to eat through a straw for the rest of my life.”
“Relax,” Mason said quietly, his thumb tracing a slow, reassuring circle against the fabric of her dress through the small of her back. “Your pulse is racing. If you keep this up, your family will think you’re having a cardiac episode, not falling in love.”
“I’m not falling in love, I’m having an out-of-body experience driven by sheer terror,” she shot back.
The van door slid open with a heavy thud.
Before Maya could brace herself, a shrill, enthusiastic voice cut through the cool island air.
“Maya, darling! You made it!”
Aunt Judith—a formidable woman of sixty with an impeccably ironed linen dress, oversized Gucci sunglasses pushed up into her teased blonde hair, and a glass of sauvignon blanc in one hand—descended upon them like a hawk spotting a field mouse.
Behind her trailed cousin Toby, a damp-looking man in a beige linen suit who looked like he spent forty hours a week arguing with Excel spreadsheets.
“Aunt Judith!” Maya managed, stepping out of the van into the gravel courtyard.
Before Maya could even introduce him, Mason stepped forward smoothly, his presence instantly shifting the atmospheric pressure of the entire courtyard. He extended a hand with effortless, old-world charm.
“Judith, I presume,” Mason said, his voice dropping into its most disarming, resonant register. “Maya has told me so much about you. I’m Mason.”
Judith stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes—trained over three decades of high-society charity circuits to appraise real estate, stock portfolios, and pedigree—swept over Mason from the crown of his slicked-back hair to the polished Italian leather of his shoes.
The wine glass in her hand wobbled slightly.
“Oh,” Judith breathed, her demeanor shifting instantly from predatory aunt to enchanted dowager. “Oh, my word. Toby, look at this. Maya didn’t tell me you brought a movie star.”
“Not an actor, Judith. Just a very lucky man,” Mason replied smoothly, pulling Maya closer against his side with an effortless, practiced grace that made her breath hitch. He leaned down and pressed a warm, lingering kiss against the side of her temple, right where her hair curled behind her ear.
Maya froze. The kiss was so real, so casually intimate, that her brain momentarily short-circuited.
“It’s so wonderful to finally meet you all,” Mason continued, looking at Toby with an expression of polite, unassailable warmth. “Maya has been talking about this wedding for months. She wouldn’t stop refreshing her calendar.”
Toby blinked, looking bewildered. “Really? Because last week she told me she forgot the date and had to buy a dress at a thrift store in Fremont.”
Maya felt her soul leave her body. Traitor. Absolute traitor.
Before Toby’s sentence could even finish landing, Mason let out a smooth, easy laugh, clapping Toby on the shoulder with a heavy, comradely thud that nearly knocked the wind out of him.
“Ah, that’s just Maya’s dry humor,” Mason chuckled, his gray eyes flashing with a silent warning that dared Toby to disagree. “She was terrified the dress wouldn’t arrive from Milan in time for the rehearsal dinner. Custom tailoring is such a headache, isn't it, Toby?”
Toby, whose suit looked like it had been bought off a rack at Jos. A. Bank during a clearance sale, swallowed hard, adjusted his collar, and nodded dazedly. “R-right. Milan. Of course. Custom tailoring. Very... very nice.”
Judith beamed, hooking her arm through Mason’s free elbow as if he belonged to her. “Come inside immediately! The rehearsal dinner is starting in twenty minutes, and I want you right at the head table beside the bride and groom. A handsome man like you needs to be front and center!”
As Judith towed Mason toward the glass pavilion, leaving Maya standing alone in the gravel with Toby, Maya let out a long, shaky breath.
She stared after the tall, imposing figure of the man from the corner table, who was currently laughing at one of Judith’s terrible jokes with the ease of a seasoned diplomat.
May you like
“Where did you find him?” Toby whispered in awe, staring after Mason’s retreating back. “He looks like he’s about to foreclose on our mortgage just by looking at it.”
“I found him,” Maya muttered grimly, “in a place where bad decisions go to die.”
