Eliza
My brain likes to overanalyze a lot of things.
Emails. Small talk with baristas. Whether an exclamation point makes me sound too cute or too angry. But there’s one thing that’ll always top that list: job interviews.
This morning’s phone interview with a tech startup is on replay in my mind, torturing me as I plan the next two weeks of strategy.
My ROI and engagement for Gold’s have been outstanding, which means I’m finally at a place where I know what works—a good thing, because I can’t focus on anything but the hiring manager’s unimpressed responses to everything I said.
I know my answers were solid, but I’m eighty-percent sure she hated my guts.
The door to the oyster farm’s office swings open, and in walks the other item at the top of my “things to overthink the heck out of” list.
Grayson.
Wearing a cutoff tee shirt and that backwards hat he looks too good in.
“Bachelorette party is here,” he informs me, with the consternation of a general announcing an invasion. He jerks his head. “Come on.”
A chorus of giggles drifts through the open doorway. “You’re really that scared?” I ask as I close my laptop and follow him out.
“Not scared,” he corrects flatly, jogging down the steps beside me. “Just already annoyed. And if I have to be annoyed, you have to be, too, since this is your fault.”
“Technically, it was your fault for leaving without me that day.”
He shakes his head, mouth quirking as he prepares his response. But then he swallows it down. Literally. I watch the apple in his corded neck roll as he chooses silence.
And here we are. Just another one of the awkward, stilted conversations we’ve been having since he brought me back to the dock last Monday. The only conversations we’ve been capable of for one week and two days. Not that I’m counting.
It’s like some amateur mason built a rickety, half-finished wall between us.
Sometimes, we come across a hole, falling into how we acted before.
A suggestive remark. A playful insult. Something that pushes professional bounds.
But then we revert right back to surface-level comments and small talk, or end the conversation altogether.
It bothers me, even though it shouldn’t. Because that amateur stone mason is comprised of me and Grayson, united in unspoken agreement that what happened at the Secret Spot can’t happen again. That we can’t let that, whatever it was, go any further.
I don’t know his reasons. But I do know mine.
Objectively, it was just a hookup. Completely non-problematic on its own. But the feelings around it—around him—well, that’s where the problem is. Because Grayson isn’t just a hookup. He’s been the bane of my existence, my calm and steady hero, and the fun in my days since I came here in May.
And in one month, I’m gone. Back to the real world, to working Saturdays, to hustling my ass off and making things happen. This little summer daydream I’ve been living doesn’t fit there—not if I want to achieve my goals.
So despite how much it sucks, mission try-to-forget-the-hottest-orgasm-of-my-life and don’t-catch-feelings-I-might-already-have is officially a go.
I thought flirting with Darian at Dyl’s on Saturday would jumpstart that undertaking, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get lost in his blue eyes. I spent the whole time peeking at Grayson to see if he was flirting with any women.
He didn’t. Just downed beers with JJ, glared daggers at Darian, and watched the fireworks with his brother and little sister.
It pleased me way more than it should have.
Gathered at one end of the parking lot, the bachelorette party is a scene of sparkles, sashes, and—are those cowboy hats?
We’re in Rhode Island.
One of them spots us, and like a pack of meerkats, six other faces whip our way.
“Oh my god, we got him! I told you!” One of them squeals, clapping her hands together. I squint to read the words on her sash.
Maid of Dishonor.
Oh boy.
The others are quick to join in, bouncing in their wedge sandals, lipstick-painted smiles painfully big.
“We’re off to a good start, ladies,” the Wife of the Party exclaims, glittery eyes hungrily checking out Grayson like he’s a hired stripper and not their tour leader.
His cutoff isn’t helping matters.
“Welcome to Gold’s. I’m Grayson, owner of this farm. This is Eliza, who’ll be helping me today,” he announces blandly. “There’s wine with your tasting, but I can’t take anyone out if you’ve already been drinking.”
His dispassionate welcome does nothing to deter their enthusiasm.
“Oh, we know. We’re rule followers,” the Maid of Dishonor assures him, stepping forward. “Though you’re welcome to check for yourself if we have any drinks on us.” She winks and spreads her arms out wide, preparing for a pat-down.
I choke on my saliva.
My need for revenge might be long-gone, but this is pure gold.
Grayson rakes a hand down his jaw. “Not necessary. If you have everything you need, we’ll get started.” He waves a tired hand toward the dock, signaling them to go first.
“He’s chivalrous, too!” This comes from Hot Mama, who fans her face as she and the other women teeter down the dock.
Grayson’s lips compress. “It’s an extended tour, too,” he mutters. “Who the fuck thought we should offer extended tours?”
“At least you’re making a couple grand,” I offer.
He adjusts his ball cap in agitation. “I’d pay a couple grand not to do this.”
Helping the women into the boat is an ordeal of its own. They eagerly grasp his offered hand, beaming as they take all the help he’s willing to give. One girl—the Man Magnet—films the process with her phone.
He keeps his hand extended for me, even though I’m not posing as a guest, and I take it automatically, trying not to think about the rough texture of his fingers and how those callouses felt when they were—
Nope. Not going there.
“What’s she helping with, exactly?” someone asks.
“You never know when you need an extra set of hands on the water,” I say, smiling amicably. “And I’m happy to take all the photos and videos you’d like.”
Instantly, I’m their new best friend.
“Can you get photos of us with him? The Gold’s sign is the perfect backdrop,” Wife of the Party asks eagerly as Grayson pulls away from the dock.
“This is a working farm,” he answers for me, his tone flat. “Once we’re done with the tour, I’ll have to get right back to work.”
“Got to respect a hard-working man,” she hums in response, the others murmuring in agreement. “And it shows—just how hard you work.” Her eyes trace the sinews of his arms with blatant appreciation.
Can’t blame you, girl.
Nope, that’s also not a helpful thought.
Grayson wisely starts talking then, droning on about the farm and oysters, leaving no space for any more of their comments. The first stop is the floating dock where the upweller lives, millions of baby oysters incubating in flooded baskets beneath the dock’s planks.
He opens one of them up, lays on his stomach, and scoops a hand low into the basket to show us what the oysters look like. He springs to his feet to move us right back onto the boat.
“Wait, don’t one of us get to do it?” the Maid of Dishonors asks, stopping him in his tracks. “I saw on one of your tour videos that sometimes you get a volunteer to scoop some!”
Grayson plants his hands on his hips, shoulders slumping, because this is a hands-on activity he was clearly hoping to avoid. Digging into the upweller means reaching your entire arm into the water, and the tour leader usually holds the ankle of whoever does it so they don’t fall in.
“I’ll go!”
“No, me!”
“No, the bride should do it!” the Maid of Dishonor declares.
But the bride-to-be shakes her head, face wrinkling in disgust. “It’s smelly.”
Grayson jumps at the opportunity. “I don’t want to start an argument among you ladies.” His gaze finds me, a desperate gleam to them. “Eliza, thanks for volunteering. Come on over.”
“Wait, we can choose between us. Whose birthday is next?”
“We’re on a tight schedule,” Grayson says as I come around next to him. “Don’t want to cut into your tasting time.”
I eye him, half amused, half in awe that he can be so blatantly rude and still have them fawning over him. Must be the hot-asshole effect.
“On your stomach,” he instructs.
The easy command shoots straight past those flimsy professional boundaries into the deranged part of my mind. The part that won’t forget the low words he’d rumbled on the sand.
Feeling a little shaky, I comply, waiting for his next instruction. “Roll up your sleeve.”
He’s crouched beside me, and I’m too aware of how his body hovers over mine.
You’re scooping oysters, for heaven’s sake.
But “oysters” aren’t a safe, neutral item anymore, not when he used that shell the way he did.
Never in my life did I think shellfish could be sexual, but here we are, still learning things at twenty-six.
I fumble with my cap sleeve, trying to shove it up.
“Here, let me.” Grayson’s hands bat mine away and roll the fabric, my body buzzing at how his fingertips drag along my skin.
My gosh, get it together.
But when Grayson delivers his next instruction, I swear there’s a gritty note to his voice. Like his mind has wandered down the same horny gutter as mine, despite us being in the middle of a tour.
In public.
Doing something he’s done with volunteers before.
“Go for it. Nice and slow.” His body shifts back, and I feel the warm weight of his hand on my—thigh?
It’s supposed to be the ankle. It’s always the ankle. But his fingers are wrapped around my thigh instead, and I think we’ve stumbled across another one of those holes in the stupid wall between us.
I shove my arm into the water, needing a distraction, and come up with a handful of baby oysters.
“That’s deeper than expected,” I comment, because I need to ground myself back in reality. Seven pairs of eager eyes are on me, and with how much they’re paying, we need to give them a valuable experience on the farm.
But Hot Mama has to ruin my good-faith efforts by commenting, “You’ll never hear me complain about that.”