Eliza
“We got off to a rocky start, and I’m willing to take the blame for that. I made some false assumptions about you when we first met, and I realize that my hostility toward you hasn’t been…productive.”
My words are met with a blank stare.
Taking a nervous inhale, I reach behind my back, grab the gift, and set it on the floor. “Consider this a peace offering.”
Dave looks down at the plate of dried mealworms. The man at the pet store assured me they’re the crème de la crème of duck treats.
And while I promptly lost my appetite when I arranged them on the plate, pet-store-man seems to know his stuff, because Dave’s little feathered tail is beginning to wag.
He takes two cautious steps forward. Glances at me, then the worms, like he thinks this is some kind of trick. When I remain still, he steps right up to the plate. His wings flutter. His tail wags harder.
Then, with a delighted chirp, he descends on the meal, absolutely demolishing it.
I watch in morbid fascination until he’s done two minutes later. Then the real test begins. I grab my keys and swing the door open wide. “Come on. We’ve got to go to work.”
He stares at me from behind the empty plate, and for a moment, I think my plan’s an utter failure. But then he slowly starts waddling toward me, making his way out the door and to my car in the driveway.
God bless you, pet-store-man.
Grayson’s only been gone eighteen hours, but Dave has already made it incredibly clear how unhappy he is to be stuck with me—refusing to get in Amanda’s car to come home last night, then refusing to enter the house, then refusing to shut up while I tried to eat.
So after dinner, I drove two towns over to acquire my bribe.
The ridiculousness isn’t lost on me. I’m aware this is a wild bird, who can surely survive on its own in Grayson’s absence.
I could leave him outside, or let him hang at the house while I’m at the farm.
But I told Grayson I’d take care of Dave, which means keeping the duck happy, fed, and in his normal routine so he doesn’t throw a tantrum and destroy everything within sight. Or me.
I double-check that I have more worms in the trunk for later, then let Dave hop in the passenger seat before buckling myself in. The drive to the farm is sleepy and quiet, dawn just blooming in the sky.
It’s the only moment of peace I have the entire day.
From the second I arrive, work is certifiably insane.
With Grayson out, Steve away, and only one Amanda in existence, I’m covering tours with Kenny and helping with the table at tomorrow’s festival, which is an hour-drive away.
While I might not be a farmer, I’ve been on enough tours to have the script memorized, and I know how to speak well and smile at people.
The team agreed to the plan when Amanda asked them last night, and even grumpy old Mark gave us a whatever-the-fuck-you-want-to-do grunt—though that probably had less to do with his belief in me and more with his hatred for small talk with the public.
Between my regular marketing work, three tours, and festival prep, I’m dragging my feet to the car when the day ends, Dave waddling behind me as he digests more worms.
I’m effectively beat, but not in a way I know. My eyes aren’t fried from computer screens, my back isn’t sore from sitting, and my head doesn’t hurt from fielding asinine feedback or overdramatic “emergencies.”
This is an exhaustion born from sun, sea, and conversations. It’s satisfied. A tiredness that has me content rather than stressed as I drive to Grayson’s, where a call with Suzanne is waiting—which will undoubtedly invoke all that stress I’m missing out on.
Monday’s interview is only three days away, and she wants to rehearse my responses. I should be eager to practice, but right now, it feels as appealing as rush-hour traffic in Boston.
I’ve just pulled into the driveway when my phone rings. It’s five minutes to six—our scheduled call time. Suzanne must be eager to tear my responses apart.
But when I look at the screen, it isn’t her.
It’s Grayson.
My chest jolts.
Not an hour has gone by where I haven’t thought about him. I’ve been fighting the urge to contact him all day—to ask how Dawson’s doing, how he’s doing. But I haven’t sent a message or tried calling, because he’s with his brothers and I don’t know if…if he wants to hear from me right now.
I’m not his girlfriend. I don’t think friend is the right word, either. We’re more than casual, and I’m worried sick, but…I just don’t know if I’m the person he wants to talk to in the midst of an emergency.
Though as I stare down at the screen, I wonder if his call means I am.
Or maybe he’s just calling to check on work.
“Hi,” I answer softly.
“Hey, Boston.” His voice is tired and drawn, enough for me to wonder if Dawson took a turn for the worse. I steel myself for bad news.
But a thread of good-natured humor seeps into his tone as he asks, “Have you tried selling my duck to a restaurant yet?”
I glance over at said duck, who’s very politely sitting in his assigned seat. “No takers, unfortunately.”
A soft chuckle comes over the line. “Really, is he giving you a hard time?”
“It took a little adjusting, but we’ve…reached an agreement.”
“Are you bribing him?”
How does he know? “You think I need to resort to bribery to get your duck to like me?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have you know I’m very likeable all on my own.”
“I’m well aware.” His instant, easy reply makes my belly flutter. “But Dave’s a little slow on the uptake.”
“Don’t insult my new friend like that.”
He blows out a sigh. “Something tells me you’ll be teamed up against me by the time I come home.”
The way he says home turns the flutter into a flock. “You’ll always be his favorite. I can’t replace you.”
“You calling me special, Boston?”
My eyes skate over the wood shingles of his house—the home he welcomed me into without hesitation, where we finally kicked down the flimsy wall between us, regardless of how self-sabotaging it might be.
“Yes,” I answer.
There’s a pause, and I bite my lip, wondering if that was too honest. If the distance has made me too bold. But he says, “I’m afraid that adjective is reserved for you. You’ll have to find another one.”
My smile is so big, my cheeks hurt. “Arrogant. Difficult. Bullheaded.”
“You know, bulls are famous for their virility.” I can practically see the cocky smirk on his face. “I’ll happily take that compliment.”
“You are…”
“Perfect?”
“I was going to say incorrigible.”
“See, that’s what my day was missing. A nice, multi-syllable insult. Thank you.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t tell me that’s why you called.”
“Do you want my honest answer?” he asks, his amusement fading.
“Yes,” I say, my heart kicking into gear.
A breath, then, “I wanted to hear your voice.”
It’s like I just drank a gallon of hot chocolate, the sweetness and warmth of his words infusing my chest. Before I can admit that I wanted the same, he clears his throat and asks, “How’s work? Amanda told me you were partnering with Kenny for some tours, and you’re helping man the table tomorrow.”
“It’s good. The tours were easy. Kenny did the driving and oyster holding, and I did all the talking. I figure tomorrow will be even easier. Amanda printed out an oyster cheat-sheet for me just in case, but I’ve got it down.”
“Sounds like if I’m not careful, you might take my job.”
“I would, but no one wears stained orange waders as well as you, Grayson.”
“You just say that because you haven’t seen yourself in them,” he replies. Then he bumbles right along, like doling out another compliment is no big deal. “Thank you, again, for covering. You’re going above and beyond for me. Hell, ‘thank you’ isn’t even a good enough word for it.”
“You don’t need to thank me, or find a better word.” He inhales to argue, but I cut him off. “I feel lucky to be in a position where I can help you. And it feels like a privilege that you trust me enough to help take care of things.”
He snorts. “Eliza, anyone with half a brain knows that having you in their corner is like having a fucking superpower.”
My dorky smile, the one he’s held on my face for the last five minutes, suddenly slips. Not because he’s upset me, but because I think that’s one of the most wonderful things anyone has ever said to me.
I’ve gotten praise from professors, bosses, occasionally my parents.
Kyle would say nice things about me, back when we were in love.
Kitty hypes me up all the time. But to hear these words from this man—who’s seen me at my worst, who’s no bullshitter, whom I respect—it reaches right into the places where I store my doubts, the parts of me that have tirelessly strived to achieve, but quietly wondered if I’d actually get there.
And, dammit, it clogs my throat right up.
Fighting back tears—because, of the two of us, I’m definitely not the one who should be crying right now—I ask, “How’s Dawson?”
“He’s hanging in,” Grayson says. “His head took a good hit. There was some swelling, and the doctors found a small bleed when he first came in, so they put him in a medically induced coma just in case. So far, nothing’s gotten worse, which they say is a positive sign, but we won’t know what kind of damage he has until he wakes up.
There’s a good chance he’s fine. But there’s also a chance it’s catastrophic.
Otherwise, he’s just got some busted ribs and a strained shoulder. ”
I don’t know Dawson, but Grayson’s pain guts me. I want to take it away, bear it for him, but that’s impossible. Nothing I say can make this better, but I try, anyway.
“If your brother’s anywhere close to as stubborn as you, he’ll be just fine.”
“He’s more stubborn than me. Might even be more stubborn than Anson.” He laughs weakly before an unintelligible voice cuts him off. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Anson has news.”
I slump back in my seat. “Okay. I, um—”
I miss you. I’m glad I got to hear your voice today. I want you to call me again soon.
Each confession is a compulsive urge, desperate to reach him.
But even with his compliments, it feels like too much right now, at the end of a phone call, when he’s about to be updated on the condition of his seriously injured brother.
I haven’t decided yet if I’m staying in Garnet Shores.
Saying things like this would just make it that much worse—for both of us—if I leave.
So I lamely settle on, “I hope he keeps getting better.”
But I’m the only one who seems to be heeding caution, because Grayson disregards my lame platitude and boldly states, as if it’s a fact, “Talk to you tomorrow, gorgeous,” before hanging up.
For a moment, I sit in the silence of the car. Then a giggle escapes my chest. Just a little burst. Enough for Dave to quirk his head at me.
And when I see Suzanne’s text on my phone, informing me I’m ten minutes late to our call, I just giggle again.