4. Bryony
Oh God.
All the newfound lightness I felt at being here vanishes, replaced with a tight, hard, angry knot in my stomach. It’s panic, fringed with anger. My parents are here. And this man just told them exactly where to find me.
“Yup, see you soon.” Mac hangs up the phone.
I grab his arm. “Why did you do that?”
Mac looks down at my hand on his forearm. It’s warm under my hand, the ropy muscles of his forearms a contrast to the soft hair. But I hardly notice. I’m gripping it tight enough my fingers make indentations.
“Your parents are looking for you. You’re here. Bryony.”
I’m upset enough that I hardly notice the way Mac’s thick eyebrow quirks, how he draws my name out.
I drop his arm. “How far is the station from here?”
“About a five-minute drive. Ten if you include walking to the car, getting in, putting on seat belts…”
I grit my teeth. Is he enjoying this? “Are you still mad I offered you money?”
“What?”
“I was trying to be nice,” I bite out.
“So was I, and I don’t charge for it. I’m starting to regret it now.”
As I see the way his jaw pops, I realize I’m being a jerk.
He doesn’t know telling my parents where I am is a bad thing. He doesn’t realize that they’re a huge reason why I jumped into the water.
I still didn’t tell him why I jumped into the water.
But I don’t have time to deal with anything except getting out of here before they arrive. “Do you have a back door?”
He looks confused. “I do. But it leads to the parking lot where they’re going to turn up in.”
Panic swells in my chest. “I can’t deal with them right now.”
“Aren’t you a grown woman?”
“What?”
“Is there a reason you can’t you just talk to them? Tell them you’re okay? Fred said they’re beside themselves.”
“You don’t understand.” I grip my hair with my hands, turning around and scanning the kitchen. Maybe I could hide. Then I spot my suit, hanging on a hanger next to some aprons. I rush to get it, balling it up in my arms. It’s still damp.
When I turn back around and see that big lumbering man staring at me, arms folded, I let out an exasperated sound. “Listen, my parents are hard to explain.” Guilt washes through me. There’s a reason they are the way they are. At least for my mom. But I shove that aside. “They’re not so bad, just… They’re part of the reason I jumped into the water.”
His confused expression deepens.
I think of my therapist’s words. The one I stopped going to when work got too busy. “You feel suffocated, Bryony, because you’ve spent your whole life valuing other people’s feelings over your own. Have you considered taking a step back?”
God, how I wish I’d listened to her earlier.
“They’re threatening to sue,” Mac says. “Though they haven’t said who.”
I groan. I can’t run away. They’re worried, of course. They’re always worried. I let my shoulders slump. “They’ve been through a lot.” Guilt squeezes my chest. Still, it’s true, it is suffocating.
Mac studies me like he wants me to say more. It’s a strange feeling. Richard always brushes me off when I get anxious about my family. When I try to open up about anything, he just looks uncomfortable. Sometimes he throws in a platitude. It is what it is, Bryony.
“Richard thinks I should consider myself lucky for how much they care. But they don’t care about me. At least, it doesn’t feel like that. They’re…important people. Achievements are everything to them. They care about my performance. Me hitting milestones.”
Because someone else never will.
I slump back on the stool, rubbing my temples with my fingers. “I jumped into the water because it was the fastest way I could think of to put something between the life I have and the life I want. It might not be the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I can tell you that before that phone rang just now, I felt happier than I have in months. No, years.” The words are shameful to me. But true.
Mac’s still looking at me intently. “So what’s your plan?”
Suddenly, I’m embarrassed.
I swallow hard. “I’m not entirely sure. I don’t hate everything about my life. I just…feel like no one really gets me. I’m tired of being the version of me everyone else wants.” I swallow hard. “There’s someone here, in this town, I think, who might be able to help me.”
His eyes stay on mine, and something dances over my skin; a tingling that reaches from scalp to toe. He looks like he’s about to say something, but a dull thump-thump-thump sounds from out in the bar.
My stomach fills with lead. “That’ll be them.”
“Bryony!” Mom’s voice calls.
“I thought I’d have a few days to figure this out,” I say, fighting the burn in my throat and nose.
“Can you just tell them you’re not going with them?”
Thump-thump-thump.
I laugh bitterly. “They’re not great listeners.” I rub my hands over my face, knowing I can’t hide in here forever. “I just wish I could have some time. That’s all I want. Time away from them. Away from my job, away from everything. Just until I figure things out.”
“I could tell them to come back later?”
I open my mouth to laugh. He has no idea who he’s dealing with. But with the next call from my mother, a thought tickles the back of my mind. A spark that feels dangerously hopeful.
I meet those seawater blue eyes. “What if I had a reason I couldn’t go back to my life at home for a while?” I drop my suit on the counter and grip his giant arms. I hardly even notice my hands don’t get anywhere near wrapping around his biceps. “You’re a genius.”
“What?”
“That’s the only way they’ll leave without me. If I have a good reason. I need…” I hesitate, but only for a second. “I need you to tell them you’ve offered me a job.”
Mac’s eyes bulge. He lets out a chuckle. Then he immediately sobers. “You’re serious.”
“Absolutely! It’s perfect.” I step back, tapping my chin as I think. “They’re very big on being true to your word. I can tell them you’re in dire need of help and I promised I’d help you out.”
He looks slightly insulted. “I’m not in dire need of help.”
They’ll think he is, but I bite my lip not to say that. Instead I say, “Really? Because I swear I saw a help wanted sign on that bulletin board out there when I was getting changed.”
He scowls. “That’s for a server.”
“I can serve.”
He full-on laughs this time. “Right.”
Irritation flares in my chest. “Just because I’ve never done it before doesn’t mean I can’t learn and be amazing at it.”
The door rattles under more thudding. “Mac?”
That must be Fred.
Thump-thump-thump. “Bryony, we know you’re in there,” Mom’s voice calls. I can picture it now, Mom banging on the door, Dad standing back on his phone, maybe talking to his lawyer to see about the implications of hiring someone to break down the door.
“Okay, fine, something else!” I say, knowing I sound a little desperate now. “But if I don’t hand my mother something concrete, she’s going to whittle away at me and then worse—use tears to get what she wants. And my resolve will fold like a cheap lawn chair.”
The thumping continues.
“Give us a minute!” Mac booms.
It stops. A little thrill goes through me at how powerful those four words were coming from this man. I let myself draw strength from the heat radiating off a person who has no problem telling people exactly where they can go.
But he still doesn’t look convinced. And why would he? This man has standards. The bar is impeccable, if not a little tired looking. That sandwich was the best thing—I snap my gaze back to Mac.
I’ve got it.
“That club sandwich isn’t even on the menu, is it?” I ask. “Or maybe it was, but nobody ordered it. Or they did, and they didn’t like it. They asked when the regular club sandwich was coming back.”
Mac’s nostrils flare. I’m right. My heart picks up speed the same way it does at work when I know I’ve clicked onto the perfect vision of the client’s business. Or when I used to do that.
“I can tell you love food. You love serving food and seeing people enjoy food, and you’re sick of making the same old stuff, but nobody wants to buy the good stuff you’re making either.” I’m shooting in the dark on this part, but the look on his face tells me I’m hitting the bullseye. “Mac, do you know what I do for a living?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “I build brands. I make little ideas turn into big, explosive, money-making ventures. I didn’t run away from my job because I’m bad at it. I’m the fucking best at it.”
I like it too, under all the stress. Or I used to. This is the raw, thrilling energy I’ve been missing since things got so busy I stopped doing direct client work.
I grin as I see something brewing under his brooding frown. It’s the slightest—slightest—hint of curiosity.
I go for the kill.
“CEOs of other companies pay me thousands of dollars to give them the kind of insight I could give you. When I told you that club sandwich was the best sandwich I’d ever had, I was telling you the truth. But a successful, thriving place like this isn’t just about the food being good.” I hold up my hands as his eyes narrow. “I’m not telling you how to do your job. I’m just telling you that you can have it all. You can serve your customers what they want, the way you want to, and the way they want it. If you give me a job here, I’ll help you revamp the whole place in time for…uh…”
I rack my brain. There was something Deanie was talking about on the ferry up here. A festival she thinks we should bring some VIP clients to.
“Scallop Fest!” I exclaim.
His jaw flexes. Is he intrigued but still slightly dubious? Or does he think I’ve lost it again?
“Oysterfest.”
“Right. When is it again?”
“End of June.”
Shit, that’s only two months away.
But that’s about how much time Deanie will be able to hold the fort without my business imploding. Hopefully. It’s also the perfect amount of time to search for a woman who doesn’t want to be found.
“Okay. Oysterfest. I’ll have your place updated by Oysterfest, and I’ll triple your profits that weekend.”
He still looks dubious, so I say, “Listen, Mac, I know potential when I see it. You can look up my credentials. My name is Bryony Shelby Jones. My company’s called Visionary Consulting. This is what I do. I don’t need anything from you except this job, because if I take you on as a client, they won’t be able to argue about me staying.”
Mac hesitates for a long time. Long enough that the phone starts ringing again. Fred or my parents.
Or Richard.
I touch his arm again. “I know you have more ideas, Mac. I want to hear them.” I squeeze my hand on his forearm like he’s my lifeline. “If you can’t tell, I’m…kind of desperate, but I swear this will work out for you the most in the end.”
He looks down at my hand, and I take it away, dropping it to my side.
Finally, he lets out a long breath. “You know, I thought you were a crazy person when you came out of the ocean in that suit.”
“Is there a but?”
His jaw tightens. The seconds seem to tick by agonizingly slowly.
Then he strides away from me, pushing through the kitchen door.
My heart sinks. Fine, it’s fine. I’ve had proposals rejected plenty of times. I’ll find some other way.
Still, my eyes fill with tears again. I turn to swipe them away fast. I can’t let them see me crying, for God’s sake. I smile, lifting my chin up.
But when I turn back around, I see Mac hasn’t let the kitchen door close behind him.
He’s holding it open.
“You coming?”
My heart lifts, just a notch. I don’t want to get my hopes up. I can’t.
As we cross the bar, he says, “The ‘but’ is ‘but I must be the crazy person, because I’m going to give you a job.’”
I shriek, wanting very badly to throw my arms around him but instead jumping up and down, lest any more physical contact makes him change his mind.
His jaw’s still tight. “I’ll be paying you.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine. I?—”
“It’s nonnegotiable, Miss Jones.”
I bite my lip, acting like I’m considering only because I get the feeling he won’t take no for an answer. Finally, I nod. “Okay, but only out of the increase in profits.”
He grunts, which I take for an “okay.”
When we reach the door, Mac goes to turn the deadbolt, but I freeze, putting my hand on his arm one more time. “Mac?” I say softly so we can’t be heard on the other side of the door.
He meets my eyes.
I hesitate. “Thank you. And…call me Shelby, okay?”
“Shelby?”
“It’s my middle name. I don’t want to respond to Bryony—not the way my parents have always said it. I love the name Shelby.” I tried to use it as a kid. Mom refused even to say it.
“Shelby,” I say. “That’s the new me.”
He looks at me for so long, those eyes fixed on me in the shadowy dimness of the bar, that I wonder if he’s changed his mind about everything. I wouldn’t blame him.
Finally he nods. “Shelby,” he says in a low voice, almost a whisper, and I swear sparks fly across my skin. It’s like he touched me with that voice.
Then he opens the door.