GRAYSON
“Come on, baby,” I say, coaxing the little engine that could-not.
I send up a prayer as I turn the ignition for the twentieth time. The skiff’s motor sputters, hitching twice. Then a miracle happens.
It catches, rattling to life before settling into a loud, steady buzz.
I’d cheer, but I’m too pissed off to feel anything but annoyed relief.
Thanks to its tantrum, we’re running two hours behind on our first tour day of the season, when we’re already down a boat.
This morning’s downpour soaked my pants through before I had time to put on my waterproof gear, and I’m already chafing.
No fucking hip-hip-hoorays over here.
“About time,” Mark grumbles from beside the open motor at the back of the skiff.
Like me, he’s smeared in black grease.
Unlike me, I’m almost certain he loves it.
Mark’s an old dog whose blood is half saltwater and half beer. He’s a damn good oyster farmer and even better with mechanical shit, and while he’ll never admit it, he likes being the go-to fixer.
“Magic hands, Mark,” I say, releasing the lines from the floating dock.
“Not magic.” He slams the motor cap in place, and I lower the prop into the water. “Now stop sitting on your ass and get us out there.”
No one else on my crew would speak to me like that, but laws don’t apply to Mark.
At seventy-one, he’s earned the right to be ornery, and he’s reliable as hell.
Not to mention, he has plenty of money to retire, but insists on sticking around and working his ass off for a thirty-year-old oyster farm owner who almost screwed the business last year.
He’s covered me more times than I can count.
So, yeah, Mark can say whatever he wants.
I breathe in the cool, briny air as we putz to the floating oyster cages, and some of the tension from the morning eases out of my shoulders.
Being out on the water always has this effect.
Something about fresh air, no paperwork, and the salt pond’s pretty mix of vivid greenery and calm water always puts me at ease.
Ironic, given how grueling this work can be.
Oyster farming isn’t a cakewalk. The labor is tough and the days are long.
We’re out here during frigid December mornings, pelting spring rains, and brutal summer afternoons.
Maintenance never ends, my back is constantly sore, and the trade is dirty by nature.
Between weather, water, and business, problems are always arising.
But even during freezing shifts or vicious storms, there’s no better workplace.
Pretty sure I’d shrivel into a brain-dead zombie at a computer in a four-walled institution.
Above, the sky is clearing, sunlight peeking through the dispersing rain clouds. With it comes the tentative brush of heat that late May usually brings in Rhode Island.
I’m thinking it might turn out to be a nice day when fate throws another punch.
My pocket vibrates, and I slide out my beat-up phone to see Anson’s name on the screen. Behind it is a picture of us flipping off Old Plum Bridge. The photo is ancient, back from when a stick wasn’t lodged up my brother’s ass.
Angling the boat left, I accept the call.
“Gray,” I bark.
“How’s your morning?”
I already know he’s edging around something. It’s Monday, and we’re both working. Anson might be the only person I know who gives more to his job than I do. He isn’t calling right now to shoot the shit.
“Fine,” I say.
“Glad to hear that. Mine was, too, until you decided to create a problem for me to handle,” he says dryly.
Big brother’s unhappy.
The cages pop into view, and I turn the skiff toward them. “You going to make me guess?”
“Shouldn’t be that hard, Gray. Unless you’ve suddenly decided to be an asshole to everyone and all the instances are blurring together.”
I frown, adjusting the speed of the skiff.
Then it clicks.
“You want me to be nicer to random, privileged vacationers who break into a closed office and attack my duck?”
I try not to picture her, but she comes anyway. Glossy brown hair with these caramel bits in it tied into a knot. Trench coat, little heeled boots, expensive-looking clothes. Cute nose and wide, hazel eyes that regarded me with pretentious judgement.
This can’t actually be about her. She’s a city girl, through and through. Probably vacationing in a beach house for the summer. Maybe one of the mini-mansions over on Orchard Row.
“I have no problem with you being a dick to random vacationers who break into your place.” Anson’s voice takes on a gritty note. “But she isn’t a random vacationer. And you already know this, because she fucking explained it to you.”
I roll my eyes. “Like I’m just going to take her word for—”
“And before she explained it to you, you were informed about her. Three. Separate. Times.” He’s starting to overpronounce his syllables, and I’d bet he’s pinching his nose.
The possibility that City Girl wasn’t lying slowly filters in, but I still can’t believe it.
“How was I informed? Because I sure as hell don’t remember agreeing to let some random girl waltz around my farm during our busiest season.”
“Your email.” He says it expectantly, like I’m the clueless one here.
“Who the fuck emails their brother, Anson? Text me. Call me.”
“Business correspondence stays in business channels,” he robotically explains.
And there he is. Mr. Anson Gold, CEO of the Gold’s family businesses, in all his stiff, sanctimonious glory.
“What about practicality?” I throw the skiff into neutral, because we’re almost at the cages and I can’t do my job with a phone in my hand and a shitstorm on the horizon.
Just another delay.
“You run the oyster ops, Gray. Email comes with that. Need me to hire you a secretary?”
I ignore the question. “You’re right. I run the oyster ops. So why are you hiring someone to interfere with those ops?”
Mark eyes me warily from the back of the skiff, no doubt eavesdropping on every word. I don’t mind. This is about to be his problem, too.
“Because I’m in charge of marketing for Gold’s, and because you’ve never cared about industry trends, and you’re too stubborn to take advice.” Anson doesn’t pull any punches. Not that I expect him to. “You do oysters. I do business. That’s the way you’ve always wanted it.”
My brother’s a damn good businessman. As CEO of the entire enterprise, he’s head of everything—the small vineyard, my oyster farm, our distribution channels. He took what our dad had only started and exploded it into the award-winning name it is now.
He’s ruthless. Cutthroat. Genius in strategy, numbers, and marketing.
But Christ, his people skills need work.
Now isn’t the time to remind him of this. I have bigger fish to fry. Like the fact that Anson did, in fact, hire me a girl who’s a professional at phone usage and emojis.
How is that even a degree?
“Of all the people you could’ve hired, why a social media girl?”
“It’s a marketing channel we haven’t tapped, and it’s taken over the world. We’re behind.”
I run my hand through my hair, wondering if I’m stuck in a nightmare.
City Girl. Broken engine. This phone call. It all adds up to a bad dream. But the familiar breeze that ripples across the water and tickles my face keeps me grounded in reality.
“What makes you so convinced she can help us?”
“She’s incredibly overqualified. I sent her resume along in those emails.” He sighs on the other end of the line. “Gray, she isn’t like Mackenzie.”
Every muscle locks at those three syllables.
It’s going to haunt me forever—the shiny hair, fruity perfume, too-clean outfits, and baby blue eyes that lodge in my brain like hooks whenever I hear her name.
And that’s just the precursor to the goddamn feelings.
The hurt. The anger and embarrassment. The soul-sucking shame caused by the person who nearly wrecked us.
Who I nearly let wreck us.
And City Girl this morning looked like a carbon-fucking-copy. Their faces are different, and City Girl’s voice is a pitch lower, but the better-than-you air is all there.
“There have to be locals who can do this job. People who respect us and what we’ve built,” I try.
“Not with her resume or availability, Gray.” Anson’s voice is more understanding now.
He’s talking to me like I’m a wounded dog, and I hate it. Yeah, what happened with Mackenzie messed with my head and my pride, but if anything, it was a necessary wake-up call.
Gold’s isn’t some casual, local oyster farm. Through a mix of luck and straight-up hard work, the farm and winery have grown into a respected regional name. We’re winning awards. Just last month, I took two journalists on a tour, one of whom writes for a national magazine.
But everything we’re building could be ripped away at a moment’s notice, and every decision—from hiring, to gear orders, to the people we allow close—impacts our success.
Mackenzie had been a stark warning to drop the easygoing approach and act like a fucking business owner.
No distractions. No thinking with my dick.
Just grinding it out with the detail and diligence our goals demand.
Women and relationships can wait until things are stable and I have time to suss out any hidden hints of crazy.
“Eliza’s going to drive our growth. Her references were excellent. And it’s only until mid-August. Three months.”
I clench my jaw, surveying the farm. The place our father started when Mom first got sick, where he’d found solace as she’d declined. It hardly made any money then, too small for anything more than local pickups and seafood shops, but it’s my lifeblood now.
No matter what Anson says, this is a terrible idea.
She—Eliza—is going to slip off a dock, hit her head, drown because she’s too busy scrolling through social media, and posthumously slap us with a lawsuit.
She’s going to ruin our reputation with idiotic trends.
She’s going to be mortifying to explain when wealthy out-of-towners come for tours and spot a person wearing heels and dress pants on an oyster farm.
But there’s nothing I can do. I own the farm, but he owns the enterprise, which owns it all.