Eliza #2
“Had to top your pancakes,” I say.
“My pancakes are damn good,” he murmurs, wandering over to the table.
“They are. So is my chicken.”
I’m no chef, but there are few things I’ve learned to whip up when I’m trying to impress, and this herby lemon butter chicken is it. Kyle loved it. His friends loved it. Jane loved it, maybe as much as she loves being a lying, weaselly, fake-as-her-tan friend.
Grayson’s about to be the first deserving person to mouthgasm from it.
I hope. Because I don’t actually know what his food preferences are, aside from sugary, floury treats and coffee.
I scrutinize his expression as he surveys the spread of green beans, rice, and chicken. It’s frustratingly neutral, until his head bobs in a slow, approving nod.
“Alright, Boston. Let’s see what you got.” He lifts his ball cap and shakes his hand through his stiff, sweaty hair. His hand freezes. “I, uh, should probably shower first.”
Sheepishness is funny on him, so poignantly out of place among all those gruff lines.
I doubt I’m the first woman he’s met after a long day. Maybe they expected him to impress them with a little curated gentility, but this isn’t a date. It’s me putting Grayson out of his home and trying to look after him, for once.
Plus, I don’t want some manufactured, glossed-over version of him.
I start piling his plate high. “Do you normally shower, shave, and put on a tux for dinner after work?”
“Dave appreciates it when I’m presentable.”
I roll my eyes and nod toward the fridge. “Not sure if you’re a cold-beer-after-work guy, but I picked up some options.”
He peers at me for a moment before heading to the fridge and opening it wide. “You went grocery shopping,” he states.
“I did.”
It’s like he’s staring at an alien spaceship and not a full refrigerator. Tentatively, he rummages around, bottles clinking.
“What’s this?” He produces a baby pink can.
“A seltzer water.”
A groove appears between his brows as he turns it over in his hand.
“You should try it. I won’t tell anyone how much you love girly drinks. It can be our secret.”
He hits me with a dry look before returning it to the shelf and producing a beer. “I didn’t leave much here for you to work with.”
Why does that almost sound like an apology?
“You’re a single guy, Grayson. I was expecting moldy cheese and three-week-old leftovers.” I spoon more of the buttery, lemony liquid over his chicken and rice and set his plate down. “Come eat.”
“You cook one meal in this kitchen, and now you’re giving orders like you own it,” he grumbles, opening his beer and sitting across from me.
“Is Chef Grayson feeling threatened?”
The thick sinews of his stubbled neck shift as he takes a long, tired drink from the bottle. “Boston, you’ve been threatening me since day one.”
“I can safely say you started it.”
His amber gaze is warmly assessing as he murmurs, “And here you are, still at it.”
It seems like there are multiple meanings lying beneath it, meanings I want to peel apart and latch onto.
“I think you’ll forgive me when you try this chicken.”
“Talking a big game, per usual.” He takes a long sniff of his steaming plate before cutting off a giant bite and stuffing it in his mouth.
His eyes close as he chews, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s savoring the flavors or trying to hide disgust. Finally, he swallows, and there’s a pleased tilt to his eyes when they pop back open. “Your home should flood more often.”
He might as well have told me I just got a promotion. I try not to grin like a dork as I dig in. “I’m glad you like it.”
If I thought his flood comment was flattering, it’s nothing compared to when he says, “Tastes like my mom’s cooking.” He shovels another heaping forkful. “She’d always have a nice hot meal waiting for me and my dad when we got back from the farm…until she couldn’t anymore.”
For a moment, I fear the memory might come with sadness, but he’s practically humming with contentment across the table. The satisfied “mmm” sounds he makes every few bites fill me with an insane, silly pleasure.
“How old were you when your dad started the farm?”
“Twenty. Middle of college,” he says after a massive swallow. Half his plate is already gone.
“Did you always know you wanted to work there?”
He chuckles. “I was determined not to work there. That was his adventure. I just helped out around classes and during breaks.”
“What did you want to do?”
“Finance.”
I choke on my food.
His fork pauses. “That surprise you?”
He says it like it should surprise me. And, well, of course it does. Sticking the man across from me in a fluorescently lit cubicle wearing an endless rotation of suits would be like putting a lion with rabies in a cat carrier.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Did twenty-year-old you know that career path involves hair gel, regular beard trims, and cologne?”
He grunts. “I trim my beard. It’s neat.”
“Not Wall Street neat.”
“You got a problem with my facial hair?”
Yes. I want you to rub it all over my skin.
“No. It lends itself nicely to the whole disgruntled bear image.”
He shakes his head, muttering something that sounds like, “you make me disgruntled.”
Then he says, “To answer your question, no, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I did well in school, and wanted a way out of Garnet Shores. To go have an adventure in a big city. Make lots of money.”
“Do you ever wish you ended up doing that?”
“Hell no,” he chokes out. His next bite pauses midway to his mouth.
“When my mom started declining, Dad wasn’t able to spend as much time at work, so I took the semester off to help him full-time.
It was…good for me, being out on the water, doing labor all day.
Kept my mind off of her. After she died, Dad started letting everything go, buyers started making offers, and I just…
” He shrugs. “I couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t see myself doing something else. ”
And what he’s done with it has been incredible.
I always knew Gold’s was his father’s legacy. That’s what my research told me, what he says when guiding farm tours. But those are just nice-sounding words without…all this behind it.
For most business owners, their business is their baby. But to Grayson, the farm is more than that, and I’m embarrassed to realize the true depth of it never dawned on me until now.
What happened last year, the farm being threatened—it wasn’t just business at stake. It was memory. Love.
I, too, would have morphed into Big Foot if a new girl showed up one day with unlimited access to the business’s public face and a very limited understanding of my craft.
“I didn’t know your parents,” I start cautiously, wanting to get this right, “but I can’t imagine they’d be anything but proud of what you’ve done. What you’re doing now.”
“I appreciate that,” he says, lips curving as he chews. “What about you? Did you always dream of corporate life?”
“If a child ever said they wanted to grow up and sit in a cubicle worrying about spreadsheets, I’d be concerned.”
Humor dances in his golden gaze. “If any kid did say it, I bet it’d be you. Your kind of drive has got to come pre-installed.”
I huff a dry laugh. “Pretty sure my parents had me speaking complete sentences by two months old. Their daughter had to excel, just like them.”
“So why’d you choose to do that in marketing?”
“Plenty of job opportunities. A clear path to leadership positions. You get to occasionally be creative. And I don’t ever want to hold someone’s life in my hands like my parents,” I list. “They hated that I chose something outside of medicine, law, or finance. They didn’t really respect it until they realized how relevant it is in today’s business world. ”
This might be one area where I’ve actually been thankful for Suzanne’s close relationship with my parents. She showed them the possible salaries and career trajectories, and suddenly, their daughter no longer needed a career intervention.
“And do you like it?” Grayson asks.
“I mean, the money’s good, it’s—”
“No,” he cuts me off, pulling my eyes up from my plate. He leans in on the table, his utensils still. “Do you like it? Are you happy doing it?”
Am I happy?
I’m…satisfied with my paychecks. Proud of my progress. Content when a week actually goes smoothly. But happy?
That’ll come when I’ve made it. When I’ve earned enough money and power to enjoy time off, write the rules, and take my pick of who I work for.
“I’m busting my ass right now so I can be happy. In five, ten years, maybe.”
His forehead wrinkles. “Why do you have to wait to be happy?”
I wait for a punchline that never comes. “You have to earn it. Do your time,” I say, spelling out the obvious. “Success doesn’t come right away.”
His befuddlement doesn’t budge. “You’re implying that happiness hinges on success.”
“It does,” I confirm. “I know that doesn’t sound very romantic or fun, but I think it’s true for a lot of us. We want to hit milestones, achieve goals, see our work pay off.”
“I understand that.”
Nodding, I return to my plate, only for Grayson to stop me in my tracks. “But why does your ‘success’ need to be so far away?”