Grayson
Eliza Attleburn is sitting in the corner, typing away on her laptop like she’s in a working café in downtown Manhattan and not Garnet Shores’ local joint.
I’m not the only one who’s noticed.
The only big shiny electronic screen that’s ever been in Dyl’s Den is the one on the wall showing local lottery numbers. Eliza sticks out like a sore thumb.
Doesn’t help that she’d catch eyes without the giant computer. Her hair, which was down earlier, is thrown into a ponytail that shows off her pert cheekbones and the straight line of her stubborn nose. Lips that I know are slightly pouty twist as her face wrinkles, her entire focus on that screen.
Like the laptop, that level of focus doesn’t belong here either. Not when Dyl’s is the type of place you go for a casual drink and comforting meal to unwind after a work day.
Then again, it’s that level of focus that’s responsible for the neatly typed words I’d read just before coming here. After hanging with Lala for the afternoon, I’d finally opened up Eliza’s resume.
I might not be as versed in marketing-speak as Anson, but it’s clear Eliza Attleburn has one hell of a track record.
Graduated top of her class. Worked in Boston, generating strategies that earned millions for clients in the technology sector.
Got promoted twice within one year at her first job, before making a vertical move to a new fancier-sounding company.
She still doesn’t belong on the farm, but Anson’s hiring decision makes more sense now.
And our earlier conversation in the oyster pickup room seems a little more egregious now, too.
Sure “conversation” is the right word for it?
I turn back to Kenny and take a long pull of beer to hide my grimace. Unfortunately, he saw exactly where my eyes just went.
He grins. “Checking out the video girl?”
“Social Media Director. And I’m not checking her out.” The cheery glint in his eyes tells me he’s just about at his alcohol limit. The kid’s young and still learning where it is, which seems to be at a whopping two beers.
“What then? Trying to scare her away with your eyes?”
Eliza Attleburn doesn’t scare.
Except when I barged in on her and she nearly split her head open earlier. Even then, she recovered like a feral cat and came back at me, claws extended.
Fuck, I owe her an apology. I knew it the moment she’d set me straight about what she was doing in the pickup room.
The guilt that’d been planted then has been growing ever since, and Lala piled on the fertilizer when she’d stared at me with her big green eyes and declared I was her “favorite big brother.”
Granted, she said it when we were pulling into Missy D’s Dairy Freeze, but dessert-motivated or not, it was a bucket of ice water to the face. I’m supposed to be her role model, and today I raised my voice at someone who didn’t deserve it. Even worse, that someone was a woman.
I’m better than that.
“Is it ‘cause she looks like…what’s her name?” Kenny snaps his fingers, attempting to jog his alcohol-impaired memory. “You know, that chick who fucked us over last—”
I pull the beer right out of his hands.
“Hey, man! Come on.”
I slap it on the high-top behind me and block his access with my body. I’d bought the beer for him as a thank you for helping so early this morning, but now, it’s fueling his stupidity. Kenny sure as hell wouldn’t be prodding his boss about last year’s fuck-up if he was sober.
Everyone on the farm knows what happened.
I’d had no choice but to sit them down and warn them that they’d potentially be out of a job on short notice.
A one-off accusation of unsafe storage temperatures might get you a simple inspection, but Mackenzie’s father—one of the waterfront mansion-owners who wants us off his front lawn—is buddies with a local official.
He piled on enough false allegations to make the situation into a solid clusterfuck, and it was only Anson’s connections that saved us from a suspension and investigation that would have destroyed our reputation.
We’d moved past it, but the whole thing was nearly disastrous, and everyone had the sense to know it was a sore subject they should stay the hell away from.
“There are different kinds of drunks in this world,” I tell Kenny. “Some get funny, some get quiet, some get sad. And some, like you, unfortunately get a little stupid. You’re going to want to get that under control.” Or he’ll end up getting smacked in the face by someone he offends at a bar.
He opens his mouth to protest, but Amanda saves him by butting in. “Someone’s mouth getting them into trouble?”
Kenny shakes his head and waves us off. “I’m gonna go kick Steve’s ass at pool, then I’m coming back for my beer.” He jams his thumb into his chest as he skirts away, and declares, “That’s my beer, Boss!”
Over his head, I catch an eye roll from Steve, my farm manager. Everyone knows Kenny sucks ass at pool.
Wednesday nights are when the team typically hits Dyl’s after work.
It isn’t some exclusive, planned occasion.
Just something locals tend to do around here, to break up the workweek and take advantage of the weekday dinner specials.
Some of the construction guys are throwing darts, and I recognize most of the residents scattered around.
“The kid needs a chaperone,” Amanda grumbles, taking a sip of her water.
I chuckle. “He just turned twenty-one. He’ll learn.”
“I’d pay to be there to watch that lesson.” Her eyes dart to the corner for a second. “Eliza’s here.”
“She is.” I’m way too aware of it.
“She looks lonely.”
“She looks busy.”
“Maybe she’s making herself busy because she doesn’t want to look like a sad, lonely puppy in a place where everyone has someone to talk to.”
“Or maybe she’s a workaholic who doesn’t know how to slow down and enjoy a quiet town like this.”
Amanda raises her brows. There’s something she wants to say, but all she gives is a lackluster, “Maybe.”
I steal another glance at Eliza. She has a glass of wine in hand now, the other furiously scrolling across her keyboard. She’s either incredibly busy, or doing a damn good job pretending to be.
I’ve made no introductions. I’ve warned my team against being distracted by her. I’ve officially outcast her. Another week or two, and she might finally leave.
Mission accomplished.
Except seeing the results of my actions—this pathetic picture of her sitting alone while everyone else is chatting together—has me feeling like even more of an ass.
Goddammit.
“You’re the keeper of Kenny’s beer,” I tell Amanda. She opens her mouth to protest, but I make my way across the room before a sound gets out.
My presence must shift the air, because Eliza’s head tilts up like she senses me coming. When her eyes lock onto me, her entire face falls into a scowl. Except that scowl is framed by a few pieces of hair that fell out of her ponytail, making it less mean and more like a disgruntled kitten.
I have a feeling she’d shank me if I shared that comparison out loud.
“That seat is taken,” she says as I pull out the empty chair across from her.
“By me,” I finish, plopping down and settling in.
“By my sanity, actually,” she fires back. When I don’t move, she blinks at me expectantly. “I’m afraid you’re squashing it right now.”
“Not squashing it. Replacing it.”
“With what—your giant propensity for assholery?”
I deserve that. “With an apology.”
She crosses her arms, and her lips tip up in a rueful smile. The bottom one is a little fuller than the top, and like the pieces of hair, the feminine detail softens the edge she’s trying to have.
Kara arrives with a tray of food. “Oh, perfect!” she exclaims, cheeks red from the dinner rush. “I have both your plates here. Was going to bring yours over after, Gray, but here it is.”
Before Eliza can say something, Kara drops a burger beside her laptop, steak tips in front of me, and breezes away like a tornado.
“You’re not eating here.”
I glance down at the steak. “Appears I am.”
“Then get your vision corrected.”
“I could move, but that would just dirty another table, and Kara’s already slammed tonight.”
That approach seems to work, because while Eliza’s jaw works over more words, nothing comes out. Instead, she closes her laptop, picks up her burger, and takes an enormous bite. She doesn’t even finish chewing before she takes another one, like she can’t wait to finish eating so she can leave.
I don’t mind, because I only need about thirty seconds. Cutting a piece of steak, I get right to it.
“What I did today was out of line.” Her jaw stops mid-chew, but I’m focused on her eyes, more brown than hazel in the tavern’s warm light. “I’m sorry for raising my voice at you like that. It was unacceptable. That isn’t something I normally do.”
I wasn’t planning on tacking on that last part, but I don’t want her to think I’m one of those men who gets off on power trips and bullying.
And while I’m far past the point of trying to impress other people—especially this woman I want gone—my gut twists at the possibility of being viewed as antagonistic scum.
Though from my recent behavior, I fit the fucking image.
Her face gives nothing away as she finishes chewing and takes another bite, bacon and ranch oozing out from the bun. I dig into my own meal as I wait, marinating in the awkward silence.
I have a feeling it’s intentional. A tactic to make me suffer a little. We both know I want her to accept the apology so we can be done, but she isn’t the type to let me off easy.
It’s both frustrating and respectable.
Another man would prompt her. Prattle on about how sorry he is. Desperately find a way to repair his ego.
I wait.
It’s at least two minutes before she breaks for some fries and finally responds. When she does, it’s not at all what I’m expecting.
“You don’t trust me.”
I didn’t come here to rag on her more, but I’m not a bullshitter. “I don’t.”
“I’m very good at what I do,” she says between fries.
“I know. I saw your resume.”
She considers this, like her mind is flipping through possibilities. She comes up empty. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. But I trust that you’re good at oyster farming, because of your track record.”
So why don’t you trust me with my job?
The unspoken question hangs in the air.
“You don’t have experience in this industry.”
“I didn’t have any experience in tech before I started, and that wasn’t an issue.” The statement isn’t cocky; it’s confident. Spoken by a woman who’s proud of her successes and owns it. From what I read, she absolutely should be.
I could give her another small part of the truth, but something tells me she’d find some way to challenge it. Poke holes in my careful construction. So I lay it all out—sans the part about her semblance to Mackenzie.
The more I learn about Eliza, the less of a likeness she has.
“We had an incident last year. Someone who I trusted came in and almost screwed us over. You’re not from here.
You might not respect the business, and you’re out of here in less than three months.
This is my baby. It’s just a few bucks and a short summer to you.
” I shrug. “Besides, we’ve been steadily growing without social media.
You’ve seen our awards and write-ups. Your position here is entirely unnecessary.
If anything, it has the potential to do more harm than good. ”
Part of me expects her to jump up in outrage. Maybe throw a fry at my face. But instead, she takes another calm bite of her burger as she mulls over my words.
“Not just a few bucks and a short summer,” she corrects once she swallows. “It’s a reference and possible introductions from a leader in a local industry, if I do my job well—which I fully intend to.”
“Not buying it. Based on that resume, you don’t need references or introductions from little Garnet Shores.”
“I don’t want to be a one-dimensional hire.”
“And I don’t want you to lie to me when we’re having an honest conversation,” I say, calling her bluff outright. A high-achieving woman like her wouldn’t go from the city to rural Garnet Shores amidst a successful career, just for more fucking dimensions.
The burger hits the plate.
“You and I are not buddies,” she says, waving her finger between us. “We don’t have heart-to-hearts over dinner. You’ll dislike my presence no matter what I tell you.”
“You want an official tour of the farm?”
She scoffs. “Are you seriously bartering with me right now?”
It’s worked for civilizations for years. “How about oysters? They’re award-winning, I hear.”
“I don’t want your oysters.”
“How can you work that social media magic if you can’t even describe how our oysters taste?”
She tilts her head. “Oh, so now you care about my work?”
Something tells me she can play this game all night. So I give her a flat smile and declare, “Tour tomorrow. Going once. Going twice.”
Her sarcastic mask drops, and I swear I see her cheek muscles spasming on a yes.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. And it’s about to be sold in two seconds to no one.”
Stubbornness keeps her mouth shut.
So be it. “And it’s so—”
“I needed to get out of the city,” she rushes out. Quietly, like it’s a confession.
“You rob a convenience store? Running from the mob?”
I watch as she visibly sets her shoulders back. “My position was cut from my previous job, and I needed a break from the people I know there. This fit the bill, and I liked the challenge of learning a new industry. It’s a reset.”
A break from the people I know there is vague as hell, and I want to press. But her shoulders are tensed up, and pressing would go beyond the professional boundaries of this conversation.
Her personal life is no business of mine. I’ve gotten the information I need. Yet I still find myself shoving down a niggle of curiosity.
“There are plenty of towns around. There weren’t other jobs with better potential? Something actually worthy of your resume?”
She shakes her head slowly. Resigned, almost. “Everything happened a little unexpectedly, so I couldn’t pre-plan anything. My options were limited. And now I’m locked into my summer rental here.”
In other words, she isn’t going anywhere until August, even if she wants to.
I nod at her closed laptop. “Working over dinner at a restaurant doesn’t seem very reset-like to me.”
Her eyes flick from the silver device to the people around us, and I’m reminded of Amanda’s words about her being lonely.
Her tight smile makes those words louder in my head. “I have wine. It’s relaxing to work at a slow pace.”
That’s the biggest pile of duck shit I’ve witnessed in a long time.
I’m acting before I can overthink it. I scoop her plate out from under her and grab mine, too.
“Hey, what are you—”
“Come on, Boston. Eat while you play.”