Eliza
“Boston? Did you just try to give me a nickname?”
I don’t care if neighboring tables can hear me. Grayson Gold just took my burger hostage and gave me a nickname like we’re good ol’ pals.
“Don’t forget your drink,” he says over his shoulder as he gives me his broad back and saunters away.
With my burger.
I stare at him, trying to decipher what is actually happening. First, the apology. Then the getting-to-know-you questions. Now a label and an invitation to join his little crew for a round of pool.
Maybe this is his way of trying to make things right, or maybe he’s finally accepting that no amount of terrible behavior is going to push me out of this job, because I’m planted on that boat until my contract is complete.
Or maybe he feels bad that I’ve been sitting over here alone like a loser when everyone else in this place is grouped in conversations or laughing together.
All these possibilities suggest Grayson isn’t the completely heartless ass he’s made himself out to be. But I’m not allowing one small moment of grace to change my impression.
I down the rest of my wine before shoving my laptop in my bag and following my food. He sets it on a high-top and slides right back into conversation, and I can’t help the self-consciousness that floods me as I make my way across the room.
It doesn’t matter that I’m an adult. There are few things more intimidating than inserting yourself into a group you’ve been outcast from. And I’m not sure Grayson’s kindness will extend as far as an introduction to his locals clique.
Get the burger and leave.
But Amanda’s familiar face appears in the crowd, and Grayson turns to track me with those golden eyes and a smile I know isn’t attributed to me. It’s the energy of this space and his friends. The kid I recognized from the farm and a few other guys turn with him.
“Social Media girl!” the kid exclaims with a goofy grin. He’s cute, with shaggy blonde hair and a face holding on to its boyishness. His flushed cheeks tell me the water in his hands has recently replaced something stronger. “Hey, Boss, this mean we can talk—"
“Kenny, shut the fuck up.” Amanda skirts a few people to join them, telling Grayson, “And, yes, I kept him away from his beer, so don’t blame me.”
“This is Eliza,” Grayson cuts in before Kenny can fire back. “Steve, Amanda, Kenny from the farm,” he introduces, nodding at each of them. “And this is Darian and Bob.”
The two new men tip their heads in a greeting. One of them, Bob, wears a ring, but Darian’s finger is free, and his face is…not a sore sight.
His blue eyes are bright and curious as he asks, “You vacationing here for the summer?” He reminds me of Grayson in his build, though he’s a little shorter, his hair closely cropped like his beard.
“No. I’m working on the farm for the summer. Social media marketing.”
Recognition sparks across his face. “Oh, is that, like, the little dances people do? People go viral from that stuff, right?”
I laugh. The assumption usually annoys me, because it’s typically spoken by men trying to belittle me. But Darian’s questions seem genuine.
“This isn’t that type of social media. It’s more strategic marketing via short-form content.”
He looks perplexed. “So no dances?”
“For certain businesses, a trending dance or two might work, based on brands and audiences. But I’ve never used them.”
Beer in hand, he nudges Grayson’s chest. “Man, oyster dances. Think about it.”
“No oyster dances,” Grayson and I say at the same exact time.
Our eyes meet, and my lips tip up. “Though Grayson could probably go viral if he was willing to get down.” Dark, salty hair curls around his baseball cap, while the bill shadows his face and the scruff running along his jaw.
There are women who’d go wild to see that shadowed face attached to some shaking hips on their phone screen.
His lips flatten. “Absolutely not.”
“Are you self-conscious about your dancing?”
“I just have self-respect.”
“Your dancing must be really bad.” I bet he’s starting to regret taking my burger captive, and I revel in it. “It’s all in the loose hips, you know.”
He inclines his head, something sparking in his eyes. “My hips are plenty loose. That’s not the problem.”
His double meaning isn’t lost on me. “Then it must be a grumpiness thing. Too busy scowling to let loose and have fun.”
“Grumpy?” Darian cuts in. His face scrunches in disbelief. “Nah, that’s more Anson. Gray’s the happy one.”
So people keep saying.
“And he’s the one who’s about to very happily kick your ass at pool,” Grayson says, the game behind him ending. “We’re up.”
My cheerful teasing disappears. I didn’t think his invitation to play was serious. I expected a stand-here-and-watch, jump-in-if-you-want sort of thing. But Grayson has already claimed a cue and is extending the other toward me.
Shit.
“I need to finish my meal.” It isn’t a total fib. Two bites of burger and a few fries are growing cold on my plate.
Grayson shakes his head, one side of his mouth slowly hitching. “Scared I’ll win?”
I snort. “I’m scared you’ll throw another tantrum when you lose.”
That one is a complete fib. I’ve never played pool a day in my life.
“I don’t think we need to worry about that, Boston.”
“That is not my name,” I grind out.
“And you’re not stalling as subtly as you think you are.” The half-grin hitches higher, flashing a row of white, straight teeth I’m close to knocking from his mouth.
“Not stalling,” I lie again. “Just giving you the chance to change your mind.” Before I can overthink the ramifications, I snatch the cue out of his hands.
He nods at the neat triangle of balls arranged at one end of the table. “Ladies get to break.”
I stare at the rack, feeling the weight of eyes on me. Not everyone in this corner of the tavern is watching our game, but a handful of people are paying attention, including Darian and Bob.
Which means my utter failure is about to be a show.
Bluffing my way through challenges is nothing new.
My career path has practically ingrained it in me.
When competition is high and impressing your superiors is tantamount to success, you never say “no” to unfamiliar tasks—you say “sure thing,” then stay awake until two in the morning figuring out how to get it done.
The problem here is I have no time to figure it out.
But it’s just hitting some balls with a stick and trying to get them in a hole. Can’t be that hard, right? I’ve watched people play pool before—in shows and in movies. I’ve got this. I just need…a quick refresher.
“Now you’re chivalrous?” I point out, squinting in confusion. “Not buying it. You break the rack.”
One of the bystanders whistles, but Grayson just shrugs.
“You can still back out, Boston.” The words come out a little tight, his torso stretching as he leans over the table and sets his free hand on the edge.
The narrow end of the cue is tucked under his pointer finger and braced on his thumb, like some sort of kickstand.
I watch as he pulses the tip toward the lone white ball in front of it, and my eyes trace his thick forearm up to the shirt sleeve wrapped tightly around a bulging shoulder. The entire display is a tapestry of veins, lean muscle, and tanned skin dusted with dark hair.
By the time I remember to watch his form, it’s too late. The cue hits the ball with a clap, and all I’ve effectively done is map the impressive sinews and dips of Grayson Gold’s arm. My focus rushes back to the pool table, where balls clatter against one another and bounce off the edges.
“Now, ladies first. House rules.”
You can do this.
I circle the table like I have some mysterious strategy, but I already know my target. It’s the solid red ball close to the white one, somewhat aligned with a hole in the corner.
Hit the white ball, so it hits the red ball and goes into the hole. Easy.
I picture Grayson’s hand as I lean over the table like he did. The position feels awkward, like something is bent where it shouldn’t be, another limb angled the wrong way, and I’m struck with the reality that this isn’t easy at all. I’m doing this horribly wrong, and everyone can see it.
But I’m already here. I can’t disappear into the wood floor beneath my sneakers. I need to follow through.
I set the end of the cue between my fingers, but it slips. I try again. Again, it slips to the side uselessly.
“Don’t know how to play?” Grayson asks. It isn’t mean, but it’s teasing, and it sends a hot blush crawling up my cheeks.
“Just been awhile,” I say lamely.
“Sure.”
“Not all of us practice handling our balls as often as you, Grayson.”
There’s a burst of laughter. It’s Darian, whose brows are raised so high they might launch into the ceiling. Bob and Amanda cough beside him.
I expect to find Grayson scowling, but he’s simply watching me like I’m an object of fascination.
Then his lips twitch. “Not about handling balls, Boston. More about small holes and working them with good technique.”
“Amen, brother.” Darian raises his beer, filling the silence, thank god, because I’m stunned.
His employees are within earshot.
He’s just trying to fluster you.
Recovering, I offer an unbothered smile. “Well, that’s not my forte.”
“Here,” Darian cuts in, handing his beer off to Bob. “Let me give you a quick refresher.” He extends a hand for the cue, and I hand it over.
He quickly shows me how to set up for my shot, then returns the cue and coaches me into position.
“Not quite. Move this back.” He nudges my back foot with his toe.
“Yeah, like that. And then your hands—here.” He applies gentle pressure to my bracing hand and helps me form my kickstand correctly.
It’d be a sleazy come-on if not for the fact that his fingers stay politely at my hand. “Yeah, there.”
When I try again, the cue rests comfortably on my fingers.
“Appreciate it,” I say as he backs away. Before my attention returns to the white ball, it snags on Grayson.
The levity on his face has vanished.
Probably because Darian just set me up with a chance to actually win.
I didn’t win. But I didn’t embarrass myself, either.
At some point, a beer made its way back into Kenny’s hands, and he ended up racing to the bathroom to throw up when we were only a few turns into our game. Grayson bailed to check on him, and left to drive him home soon after.
In some way, I owe Kenny a thank you, because in just three turns, Grayson demonstrated just how capable he was at whooping my ass into next Sunday. Had he finished, it would have been much more difficult to show my face at work today.
I’m not so na?ve as to think last night’s social invitation has changed the dynamic on the farm.
Grayson might have realized he needs to deal with my presence, but he still doesn’t like that I’m here, or trust me to treat his brand with respect and care.
So I’m surprised when Amanda intersects me before I enter the office, wearing a Gold’s sweatshirt in the chilly morning air.
“You’re coming with me today,” she calls out as she approaches.
I stop mid-step. “What?”
She grins. “I’m showing you what’s what here on land, and then you’re joining a farm tour I’m leading. Gray’s orders.”
So Grayson is carrying through on yesterday’s barter. I wasn’t sure he would.
“Part two of Gray’s orders is that you don’t wave your phone in our guests’ faces,” she tacks on. “They might not want to be on video.”
“Part two of Gray’s orders clearly doesn’t think I have a brain.”
Her wry exhale hints at agreement. “You know what? I can’t tell him that, but you can.”
A high-pitched giggle cuts across the parking lot, and we twist to see a Grayson Gold-shaped figure walking to the back of the building from a dock, a small human skipping beside him.
Oh my go—
“You could do it right now. Lala will probably back you up.” Amanda turns back to face me, like seeing Grayson with a child is an ordinary occurrence. “She’s a girl’s girl.”
Grayson Gold is a…a father?
Oh my gosh, is he a husband?
I think back to his fingers last night on the pool table. There was no ring. But he also does physical labor all day, most of it in the water. He might leave a ring at home so he doesn’t lose it.
It’s like the parking lot has dropped from beneath my feet as I watch the young girl, no older than seven or eight, bounce alongside him, giggling like a maniac.
He smiles back at her with adoration, then lunges and scoops her into his arms. There’s an eruption of squeals, and then she’s upside-down, dangling by her legs as Grayson swings her back and forth.
All the while, Dave the duck waddles behind them like he’s the second child in the family.
Biology is the only reason my ovaries tickle. A natural response to seeing a grown man being heart-wrenchingly adorable with a little kid.
But I don’t have an explanation for why I feel so entirely bewildered that Grayson has a child and wife. His personal life doesn’t concern me. I just…never considered it.
I force my attention away to see Amanda awaiting a response, one brow cocked high. What was she saying?
Talking to Grayson. Phone in guests’ faces. Right.
“Maybe, um, not right now,” I stutter out.
She nods slowly. Awkwardly. Then she informs me, “That’s his sister.”
I blink.
Sister?
The math struggles to compute, because according to Gold’s most recent write-up, Grayson is thirty. Besides, his parents passed away. When was that—five years ago? Ten?
This must all be written across my face, because Amanda continues. “She’s like one of those miracle children. His mom had her right before she passed. Anson’s her legal guardian, but Gray helps out a ton.”
The parking lot solidifies beneath me, but I’m still struggling to find words, because Grayson’s put her—Lala—back on her feet, and he’s half-heartedly running away as she tries to launch herself on his back.
“Um, you ready?”
I clear my throat, because wow, maybe I actually don’t have a brain. It’s a man and a child. Not a kangaroo in the middle of rural Rhode Island.
“Yeah,” I chirp, a little too brightly. “Let’s go.”
Amanda’s lips twitch as she leads the way to the dock. Gravel crunches underfoot as Lala’s giggles fade and the two disappear into the warehouse. A warm, salty breeze washes through the lot, and I welcome it, hoping it’ll wash the image of Grayson out of my memory.
“He’s single, by the way.”
My head jerks to Amanda. She says it so casually, like she’s discussing the weather. Like Grayson’s relationship status is as trivial as today’s humidity levels.
Because it is.
But if that’s true, why did a little jolt of energy zip through my chest?