Eliza #2
It’s a dangerous combination—his blend of rough masculinity and composure.
Overhead, a seagull squawks, pulling me back to the feel of my feet on the dock, the bibs bunched around my calves, the fact that I’m staring at his mouth like it holds the answers to life.
I jerk upright, and he smoothly stands with me, pulling the bibs up as he goes.
His toes come to mine as he slips the straps over my shoulders, and his head lowers as he focuses on tightening the first strap.
The scents of soap and a warm, salty musk mingle in my nostrils.
A musk my brain has categorized as “Grayson” at some point, because as I stand here with my nose practically in his ear, it smells… familiar.
Fitting.
Nice.
Really nice.
Grayson shifts to my other side, fingertips tickling my shoulder as he toys with the clip. This close, I realize his eyelashes are darker than his hair. Maybe that dark contrast is why his eyes appear so gold.
He backs away and studies his handiwork. “They’re a little big on you, but you should be okay.”
I feel like that white, puffy tire mascot with rubber billowing around my waist and thighs. Except I’m neon orange.
“Wasn’t expecting to be walking in a fashion show this morning,” I joke.
Mom would have a heart attack if she saw this. Maybe even send me to a psychiatrist to figure out what could be so wrong with me that I’ve chosen this over pantsuits in a nice, clean office.
“You make us all look bad, Boston. We’ve got to tone you down sometimes.” The skiff gently rocks beneath him as he steps on and extends a hand. His gaze roves over my face as he murmurs, “Though I don’t think that’s even possible.”
Words stall in my throat, because this isn’t a dig. It’s a sliver of soft honesty that sounds a lot like a compliment, like Grayson thinks I’m—I don’t know—
I slap my hand into his so abruptly, his brows raise. But I desperately need to stop this overthinking before it jumps to conclusions—especially when those conclusions are the type to make my chest flutter.
He helps me in, and I busy my brain with filming as we set out on the water.
The docks are far behind us when Grayson’s voice floats over the soft hum of the engine. “Haven’t seen you here this early before.”
“Wanted to capture the sunrise from the farm,” I explain, cutting my video and cradling my phone against my thighs. “Plus, no morning swims for the next week, thanks to this.” I hold up my bandaged hand.
Day three into my water ban, and I already miss it.
Funny, considering I hadn’t thought about swimming once in the last few years before coming to Garnet Shores.
Swimming had been bucketed with water balloon fights, real campfires, and nights spent video calling friends until two in the morning.
Childhood. The good ol’ times. The pieces of you that a successful adulthood requires leaving behind.
Yet here I am, now, arms aching to power through the water.
It must be something to do with routine. A few weeks of starting my days with a swim, and my body’s come to expect it.
“You ever try swimming at the town beach?” Grayson throws the question over his shoulder. When I cock my head curiously, he continues. “I see you swimming out here some mornings. But there’s a local group that swims at the town beach every day.”
Here I was, thinking my swims were private. I rarely saw a soul, save for the occasional small boat beelining it for the channel. “Are you stalking me, Grayson?”
I catch a flash of white teeth before he turns back to his post. “No. I was just mighty curious when I saw a giant, awkward-looking fish flopping around in the distance a few weeks ago. Got my binoculars out and discovered it was you.”
“Yet you still let this giant, awkward-looking fish catch your attention in the mornings.”
“You’re out there swimming solo. Someone’s got to make sure you don’t drown.” His tone is cast in humor, but the words themselves aren’t.
“Have you been worrying about me?” The question doesn’t contain the snark it should.
“If you drowned, Anson would think it was me.”
“That’s your own fault.”
“Which is why I’m trying to prevent the scenario altogether,” he counters, before the engine’s hum settles over us again.
A few minutes later, the cages appear in the distance, a field of dark, boxy shapes bobbing on the water’s surface.
Grayson speaks again. “Your form is solid.”
“Thought you said I was flopping around.”
I get another flash of his strong profile, enough for me to see the lines crinkling by his eyes. “Your form is solid for an awkward fish,” he clarifies.
We both know that’s not true. “I was on the swim team in high school,” I find myself saying. “Competed at States and everything. Used to be a lot faster than I am now.”
“What happened?”
I shrug. “I just stopped.”
“Why?”
Isn’t it obvious? “I grew up. More responsibilities. Other priorities.”
He scoffs. “Boston, there are fifty-year-olds in that swim group at the beach. They’re a lot more grown up than you, they’ve got kids to worry about, mortgages to pay, and they’re still showing up every morning. They just make swimming into one of their priorities because it feels good.”
Whether he means to or not, his point prods at me. It’s the ignorance in it. The obtuse disregard for what I really mean.
Or is it the fact that it’s true?
“How long did Martha put you out for?” he asks.
“Ten days.” Which means I’m in for some boring early morning runs. At least it’ll increase my basketball stamina, if I’m ever bored and desperate enough to stare down a net again.
“There’s these special waterproof patches you could use,” he informs me, gently turning the boat. “They don’t let anything through.”
I nod, because I’m sure there are. Special order, probably.
Our conversation ends there as Grayson pulls up to the shallower side of the farm, cuts the engine, and secures the boat.
As he hops in, the water just below his chest, I can’t help but toy with the idea of spending a Saturday driving somewhere for an open-water swim when I’m back in the city. It would probably be the highlight of my week.
Then swimming becomes the last thing on my mind, because for the next two hours, I watch Grayson work his farm—harvesting oysters, hauling gear around, analyzing his product.
And he doesn’t slow. Doesn’t take breaks.
Just works with capable hands and muscles I know are flexing beneath his baggy sweatshirt and waterproof gear.
There’s an occasional grunt when he jerks something into place, or heaves a heavy cage up into the skiff, which rocks with the weight.
All I can do is try to ignore everything stirring at the sight of this man doing his physical job, and doing it well.
Kyle was a spreadsheet wiz. Capable with a laptop, knew algorithms like the back of his hand. But seeing him at his laptop did nothing for me. It was as stimulating as seeing a squirrel.
This is different. It’s inciting that strangely sweet tightening in my belly, the same sensation I felt when I saw him earlier in the warehouse.
This is…this is hot.
I tell myself it’s biology. A reaction to witnessing physical capability. The animal wiring that attracts you to your best chance of survival.
But the thing is, I don’t think it would be nearly as hot if it was anyone other than Grayson.