Grayson
It’s the first message in our brothers’ group chat since April that involves something other than wishing Dawson good luck at a game. Setting my paperwork down, I reply right away.
Me: I’ll be there
Anson: Daw, you need to answer this one.
Even with that message, it’ll be a miracle if we hear from Dawson without two reminders and a phone call.
The fact that this doesn’t disappoint me shows just how bad it’s gotten. We’ve had this group chat since we got phones in high school. Used to text in it every day without fail. Through breakups, graduations, girlfriends. Mom’s funeral, then Dad’s.
Then two years ago, Dawson slowly fell off, at about the same time as his all-star career blew up—along with his reputation for partying, women, and other stupid shit people do when they’re famous and rich.
I used to blame Anson for it. He would send screenshots of Dawson’s bad press into the chat and question him on it when he’d ignore our calls. But Anson didn’t do it to shit on him. He did it because he was concerned, and he’s painfully direct.
And now it’s like there’s a giant fucking canyon between us and our little brother.
We’ve been to a few games, seen him at holidays, but it’s nothing like it used to be.
Our visits are like hanging out with a long-distance friend—you know each other from a bond forged back in the day, and now that old bond is the only thing still linking you together.
Anson treats him like a black sheep, mostly because he hasn’t given Lala the attention a big brother should.
Meanwhile, I spend the whole time hoping this is temporary—hoping he gets his shit figured out, while knowing any attempts to give him advice will shove him further away.
A gaggle of high-pitched laughter sounds outside the warehouse, loud enough to be heard over the oyster packing in front of me. My watch tells me Amanda’s tour just finished up.
I scoot my chair back a touch so I’m fully concealed from the entrance by a stack of crates. Call me a coward, but the last thing I want to deal with is that swarm of feral forty-year-olds. I’m not a tiger, and this isn’t a fucking petting zoo.
Alarm punches through me when someone appears around the crates, but it’s replaced by warmth when I register who it is.
“You owe me a thank you,” Eliza says, sidling up to the card table where I’m working.
From her pressed khaki shorts to the glossy hair brushing her chest, you’d think I dreamt up this morning’s events.
Relief sinks in. I don’t know what I’d do with more tears. Hers had churned my stomach.
“What do I owe you a thank you for?” I ask.
My folded sweatshirt in her hands, she drapes her forearms on a chair back and leans on it.
I wonder if she realizes the neckline of her fitted white tee dips a little, teasing me with the smooth curves of her chest. “Those women out there really wanted to say hello to you, but I told them you were gone for the day.”
Folding my arms, I lean back in my chair, working to keep my eyes on her face. “Now, why would you spare me like that?”
“You gave me your sweatshirt this morning.” She hands me the folded fabric, then straightens, hugging her own arms across her chest. The posture is protective. Like she’s trying to defend her earlier vulnerability.
I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it. And I don’t like it one bit.
Not on a woman who’s such a constant force.
So I don’t tease her, instead closing my binder and shoving to my feet. “You ready to go?”
Her eyes float down to my work. “I don’t want to interrupt.”
There it is again. That professional consideration I never gave her credit for in the beginning. Turns out she has it to a fault, and right now, it’s rubbing me the wrong way.
“In case some water got in your ears earlier,” I start, coming around the table, “taking you out is part of my new schedule for the day. You aren’t interrupting anything.”
For once, she doesn’t argue back.
“Meet me down at the dock. I’ve got to grab a few things before we head out. And before I do that, I need to make sure the coast is clear.”
The side of her mouth lifts. “They’re just women, you know.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Terrifying. And you’re here every day to remind me of it.”
Her grin widens, and the warmth in my chest spreads even more.
“Isn’t the farm that way?” Eliza’s hair whips around her face as she raises her voice over the engine.
“Sure is,” I yell back.
“Then where are we going?”
I eye the sandy cove in the distance. “You’ll see.”
Planner that she is, Eliza doesn’t accept that level of mystery. A second later, she’s standing beside me, one hand braced on the console as we speed along. “We have that sorting demo to do.”
“I had Amanda and Kenny film it this afternoon.” I peek over, watching her lips part in surprise. “Figured they were already out there doing the work. Just took them a few minutes to add a phone to the equation.”
Her mouth closes, then opens again. “Why would you do that?” Her shoulder nudges into mine as we skim across the textured pond.
It’s the same question that popped into my head when I made my plan for this afternoon and asked Amanda and Kenny for a hand. That was four hours ago, which means I’ve had plenty of time to figure out my answer.
I did it for her because she reached a breaking point today. She isn’t the drama queen type. She’s a hard-working, driven woman who’d finally been pushed to the edge, and then my dumbass comment shoved her over it. Just like my dumb ass undoubtedly played a role in pushing her to that brink.
All I want to do is fix it. Get her back to being the woman who drives me mad.
Because I fucking like that woman.
It only took me five minutes to reach that conclusion, which means the next three hours and fifty-five minutes were spent thinking about all the reasons I shouldn’t like her.
Like my inability to do casual. My propensity to get tangled up and mesmerized, like a fucking lovey-eyed tween. How last year’s royal fuck-up proved just how unreliable my feelings are.
I thought that experience had permanently turned off my dick. Shut down my feelings for the opposite sex. But Eliza’s turned both back on. And when she leaves in six weeks, they’re both going to be sorely disappointed.
It’s inevitable. And I don’t need that clouding over the things that matter, like this farm, this business, and raising Lala.
That conclusion should’ve stopped me right in my tracks. Hell, maybe I should’ve left the dock without Eliza again, just to shove a self-preserving wall between us.
But I didn’t.
I decided to do what I’m doing right now, telling myself I’m merely helping a friend. And as she waits for my answer with wide-eyed gratitude, I don’t feel the slightest bit of regret.
Of course, I don’t tell her any of this. “All you’ve gotten is content from the farm,” I go with. “If you want to really convey the atmosphere of this place, you need a different perspective on the area.”
She looks like she wants to ask another question, but just nods in acceptance and wanders back to the bench, watching the cove draw closer.
The tiny half-moon beach greets me the same way it has since I was a kid. Backdropped by leafy trees and brush, speckled with shells and driftwood, it’s completely empty. Once we’re as shallow as we can get, I lift the engine, throw out the anchor, and grab the supplies. Then we wade to the beach.
“What is this place?” Eliza asks, head swiveling as she takes it all in.
“Secret Spot.”
She turns around to face me, brow cocked in question. “It faces the open pond.”
“That it does.” The cooler and bag make a soft thud as I drop them in the sand. “But we’ve always called it the Secret Spot, so that’s its name.”
“And how does a not-at-all-secret spot get called the Secret Spot?”
I plop down on the sand, sore muscles sighing in relief as I rest my arms on my knees. “Goes back to my dad.” The air shifts as she sits beside me, criss-cross like the prim little student I’m sure she once was.
“There are about five beaches within twenty minutes from here, and our own town beach is all built up with nice facilities. But my dad refused to ‘spend hard-earned money to be with a crowd,’ so he and my mom would always take us here.” I can picture his face now, wrinkled and scattered with gray scruff, griping about the public beaches back when paid parking and someone shaking their beach blanket out in your face was our biggest concern.
“Being kids, we wanted to go to the beaches our friends went to. Not this free scrap of sand in the middle of nowhere. So my dad started calling it the Secret Spot to make it feel special.”
“Smart,” she says.
“Yeah, it was.” My next breath is weighted with memory. Like all parents, mine had their faults, but they gave us a damn good childhood.
“I’ve been to the town beach, and it’s nice, but I have to agree with your dad. This place is special.”
She drops her hands onto the sand, leaning back like she’s settling in. Maybe feeling some of the calm and contentment this place brings me. Her gaze finds mine, irises appearing green in the sunlight. “I know it’s been years, but I’m sorry about your parents.”
The years don’t matter. I still miss them.
Still feel like we were robbed, still remember the suffocating grief that closed in when Mom got sick, and didn’t end until after Dad met her in the grave.
Sometimes, on birthdays or holidays or Lala’s milestones, remnants of that grief try to burst out and drag me under again.
Guess that’s just part of living life and loving people.
“Appreciate that,” I say, meaning it. Because it turns out, after a year or two, most people just assume you’ve moved right on.
I don’t think anyone does.
She nods quietly. “Wish my parents ever thought to take us somewhere like this. Somewhere away from all the noise and standards and people.”
“Childhood me would’ve disagreed.”