Page 108 of Letting Go at 40

Mason only smiles.

When Mason slows the boat, and we pull into a small cove, he checks some dials and cuts the engine, dropping the anchor.

“Where are we?” I ask, unfamiliar with this particular area while it looks like a typical Michigan shoreline. One marked by soft, rippling lake water, a curtain of green trees in various shades, and a lazy sun dropping in the sky.

My skin hums. The color of everything seems brighter, the textures more defined.

“Nowhere special,” Mason states. His twinkling eyes hint his words are clearly a lie.

“What are we doing here?” Curiosity has the best of me. I didn’t bring a bathing suit although the lake temperature would still be extremely cold, and at this time of night, nearly freezing.

“Having a picnic.”

Mason presses at my hip so I’ll slide off the bench seat. He drops below deck but quickly returns with a picnic basket and a blanket.

“Let me take this up front first and then I’ll come back for you.” He kicks off his flip flops and easily climbs up on the narrow ledge between the windshield and the front of the boat. He flicks the blanket outward, spreading it flat, and sets the basket down then returns for me.

Holding out his hand, he helps me upward after I kick off my sandals. He points out where to grab to traipse the thin edge to the bow of the boat. Guiding me with a hand on my hip, we reach the deck, and Mason sits. I follow.

The air is crisp with the slightest of chill but my skin is on fire. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more romantic setting, and I’ve definitely never had an evening picnic on a boat.

Mason pulls a bottle of wine from the basket, already opened, and pours each of us a glass.

He holds up his. “To first dates and fresh starts.”

“I like that.” I smile before lifting the glass and taking a sip. “This is good.”

“Michigan wine. Nothing like it.” He sips as well, and we sit in comfortable silence for a moment. The lull of the boat is relaxing. The quiet around us calming.

“What is this place?”

“There’s a sandbar beneath us. It’s a destination for boaters, but apparently, not tonight.” Mason chuckles as he looks around us.

“So you hadn’t planned for us to be in seclusion.”

“No plan. Just hope.” He eyes me over the rim of his glass as he takes another sip of wine.

“What do you hope for?” My voice lowers as if someone else might hear my question.

“Lots of things.” He arches a brow as I watch him.

I chuckle as I prompt him to explain. “Like . . .”

“I hope you enjoy the night.”

“So far, it’s lovely.”

“You’re lovely.” He takes another drink of his wine as he casually leans on one elbow, holding his upper body upright while his long legs stretch before him, crossing at the ankles. He watches me.

“This feels . . . romantic for a first date.” The wine. The picnic. The sunset.

“I want to impress you.”

I smile. “I’m impressed.” With him and how different he is than I’d originally thought. With how far he’s come with his child. With how supportive he’s been of me.

“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” I challenge.

Mason tips his head, eyeing me over his shoulder. “Seeing as you know my biggest secret . . . the night we first kissed—”