Eliza
Some billionaire must be paying off the sky in Garnet Shores, because another pristine sunrise is putting on a show above the salt pond.
It’s so magnificently vibrant, every single garnet hue shows through the screen of my phone as I film it from the farm’s dock. The dew-damp wood soaks through my jeans as I sit, cross-legged, but it’s an easy sacrifice.
This isn’t a sunrise to snap a picture of and walk away. It’s one to savor.
And savoring is slowly becoming my new favorite hobby.
The long, relaxed morning swims. The sound of water softly splashing against the boats and docks when I wake.
The salt-tinged air that comes with skies like this.
Little details that have gradually woven themselves into my life and feel like a warm, weighted blanket over my constantly buzzing brain.
It feels indulgent to savor them. Like it’s distracting me from…me. My success. My forward progress. The next thing I should be doing.
But in about two months, I’ll be hustling my butt off again.
Sunrises will be replaced by early morning getting-ahead emails, quiet drives will become busy subway commutes, and those long, open swims will be a solid hour-drive away.
So maybe a little savoring is okay for now.
Besides, it’s not like I’m being lazy. I drove here before dawn to film the sunrise for part of this week’s content.
The farm is still quiet by the time the colors of dawn fade and I push to my feet. It’s Monday, so the warehouse and docks will be whirring with activity within an hour or two. For now, though, it’s completely peaceful.
Soaking in the blissful quiet, I head to the warehouse to film while no one’s there. But as I approach the massive sliding door at the back, it isn’t quiet anymore. There’s—is that…
Grunting?
The scrape of metal comes a few beats later, and then another low rumble of noise.
I only hear it because the door, which should be locked, is cracked open—just enough for a body to slip through.
All that peaceful savoring flips on its head, and my heart gallops into a fast drum. Oh, crap. Has someone broken in?
I peer through the cracked door, but a pile of red crates blocks my view of the far corner, where the noise seems to be coming from. Fingers tightening around my phone, I silently slip inside. My goal isn’t to be a hero, but to confirm the crime, slip out, and make the necessary phone calls.
But when I creep to the stacked crates and my vision wraps around the side, the only crime occurring is Grayson slapping my eyeballs with the sight of him doing shirtless pushups on the concrete floor.
And then I’m the criminal, because I don’t jerk away or close my eyes.
I stare.
I stare at the sinews rolling in his corded arms as he brings his chest to the floor and pushes up.
I stare at the thick muscles of his abdomen as he stands, bulging with every breath.
I stare at the backwards baseball cap holding his short, sweat-licked waves as he starts squatting, oblivious to my presence.
My body has been possessed by a horny, muscle-starved spirit, and for the life of me, I cannot look away.
“Quack.”
I jump, ramming the side of my body into the crates.
No no no no no.
I lunge behind them, spinning to see Dave. He quacks again for good measure, then ruffles his wings smugly as he waddles around the crates, toward the man I just visually assaulted.
The man whose footsteps are heading my way, judging by the rapid thud of his sneakers.
My phone almost slips from my hand as I whip it up, hit record, and start panning the camera around the wall of the warehouse. The blank, boring wall.
Dave, I’m going to kill you.
The footsteps stop just behind me. “You could just ask me to do pushups when you need a look.” I don’t need to turn to know he’s smirking. “Don’t need to take a video to save for later.”
The amusement in his deep voice rankles me. Or maybe it’s the fact that I just openly gawked at him. Either way, I let that rankling into my voice as I say, “Believe it or not, you’re not the most interesting thing in this warehouse.”
“You’re telling me that blank fucking wall in front of you is interesting?”
Calmly, I finish panning the camera to the door that I never should have entered. When I turn around, my focus is strictly on Grayson’s face, which glistens with sweat. Sweat I should find repulsive, but don’t, for some certifiable reason.
“It’s a behind-the-scenes thing. People like taking a peek behind the curtain.”
“Just like you.” He glances at the stack of crates. “Though I guess it’s more of a wall than a curtain.”
His expression is as smug as Dave’s stupid little waddle, and I berate myself for wearing a scoop-necked shirt, because a blush is crawling up my collarbone and neck.
I want to pretend I’m blushing from frustration, or anger at his audacity to think he’s so mesmerizing.
But I can’t, because even now, as I’m fighting for my ego’s survival, I’m thinking about how Kyle couldn’t hold a candle to him.
We’d worked out together from time to time, and while he was in shape, it was always so…
curated. Stiff. His muscles were shaped for looks, not function.
Looks he cared so much about, he’d never wear a backwards hat because it would mess up his coiffed hair.
Grayson Gold is anything but coiffed and curated.
And while I’ve known this since the moment I met him, right now, it’s laid bare right in front of my face, and it’s pricking at unbidden biological things low in my belly.
Knowing I have no good defense, I turn to insults. “You’re awfully full of yourself.”
“Now, that’s a mean thing to say, Boston.”
“Didn’t realize your feelings are so delicate.”
“If they were delicate, you’d have run me off by now.” He angles his head, planting his hands on his hips.
My eyes ache to track those hands, but I don’t let them, because I know what lines and dips they’d find, and they’ll want to cling there like the little traitors they are.
Grayson innocently continues, “It’s just that I’m going to do something very nice for you today, and you might feel bad about being mean when you find out what it is.”
My eyes narrow. “You, doing something nice, for me?”
The corner of his mouth hikes up. “Yes. Though you’ll be devastated to know it involves me fully clothed.”
“Thank god,” I blurt.
He chuckles and backs away. “Be ready at seven-thirty, sharp.”
“For…”
“You’re coming out with me.”
I blink. “A ride-along?”
“Yep.” At the corner of the crates, he winks. “Thought you might want to appreciate my presence up-close for the day.”
Then he disappears around the crates that are the same shade as my cheeks before I can come up with a desperately needed retort.
I turn all my annoyance to Dave, who wandered back and is happily sitting on the floor, wings tucked in tight.
“You know, people eat duck,” I tell him.
“Quack.”
As promised, Grayson is fully clothed when I meet him at the dock.
He has a new ball cap on, one with a sports team logo, spun forward to shade his face from the early morning sun.
His hair is wet, strands heavy against his forehead like he’s just come from a shower.
Loose waders that were once a bright orange but are now stained with dark splotches match the bundle in his hands, which he holds out to me.
“Suit up,” he orders.
I glance down at my outfit. Old sweatshirt, five-year-old-jeans, sandals already stained from last week’s coffee incident. It’s grungier than my usual work outfit, but at four-thirty in the morning, all I wanted was comfy, well-worn clothes.
“It’s fine if these get a little dirty.”
He shakes the bibs persistently. “It’s brisk this morning. Your clothes won’t dry quickly if they get wet, and we’re not coming back here until I’ve done what I need to.”
Giving in, I take the pile of rubber, find the straps, and shake it out. “Didn’t realize this was going to be a waterpark ride.”
The bibs don’t have boots attached like his, but they’re still heavy. Careful not to disturb the cut in my hand, I try to figure out which side is the front.
The weight is suddenly removed from my hands as Grayson takes the bibs back. He flips them around. “You say it like you don’t like waterparks.”
“I don’t like the idea of paying a hundred dollars to have my stomach flung into my throat,” I say as he squats in front of me, the bibs’ legs pooling on the dock.
“Well lucky for you, this ride’s free. Technically, you’re getting paid.” He jerks his chin toward his hands. “Now hop in.”
“I can dress myself.” Says the woman who couldn’t tell the difference between the front and the back.
Instead of pointing this out, Grayson says, “You’re injured. Can’t have you tripping and falling onto that hand.” He inclines his head and adds, “Liability and all that.”
“My hand is fine,” I argue, but lift my right foot anyway, aiming for the hole. My foot lands on a pile of fabric, the bib leg bunched beneath it.
“Lift your foot a little. Yeah, there.” He drops the straps and gathers the fabric trapped beneath my foot. My standing ankle wobbles. “Hold onto my shoulder.”
My eyes roll, and I’m about to tell him I’m fine when my ankle shakes again. Yoga’s never really been for me—too slow, too zen—but I’m quickly reevaluating its relevance, because my balance is apparently dismal.
His sweatshirt is a soft, thin cushion against his rock-hard shoulder as I give him my weight. He steers the bib over one foot, then the other, moving deftly like he’s done this before. Like he’s practiced with soft touches and attentive care, despite having such rough hands.
It must be from helping raise Lala.
The image of him swinging her around on the farm comes to mind, and just like that, my inner cavewoman activates.
“You’re good.” Grayson’s voice is low and soft. He’s looking at me again, face just inches from mine as I lean on his shoulder. If I shifted my weight, my lips would meet his, which I’m now paying attention to for the first time. They’re surprisingly smooth amid all that coarse facial hair.