ELIZA #2
Phone girl? Is that what Grayson’s calling me?
I’m pretty sure she means nothing by it, so I smile back and offer my hand. “I’m the new Social Media Director. The phone’s only half the job.”
Her fingers are frigid—like every grandmother’s fingers, ever—when she shakes my hand.
“My, my. He certainly didn’t say how pretty you are,” she says with a pleased chuckle.
I hold my smile, because how does one respond to that?
She prattles on. “My name is Joy. I’m the bookkeeper here, and let me tell you—” She pulls me in with a surprisingly strong grip, and like she’s sharing a secret, loudly whispers, “These Gold boys are quite the catch.”
It’s getting harder to hold the smile, because I think she’s trying to sweeten up my boss and the jerk of a farm owner, and her grip won’t allow me to escape.
“Of course, it’s obvious how handsome they are. But they’re good boys, you know? The kind that make for great husbands and—"
“Quack.”
Dave cuts her off, appearing from the office door that’s now held open by Grayson. The interruption makes Joy whirl, and I’m able to gently extricate myself.
Grayson’s amber eyes settle on me like a heavy weight.
The kind that wants to grind me into fine dust until I disappear.
He peruses me with the same unabashed openness as Joy, so I scan him right back.
He’s wearing the same brown work pants as yesterday.
But with the sun out, he’s sans rain jacket, and I find myself wishing for a downpour, because he’s wearing a worn, light blue Gold’s Oysters tee with the sleeves cut off, revealing arms I can’t help but notice.
Tanned skin, muscled shoulders, thick forearms, veins visible beneath a smattering of dark hair.
It only gets worse when I trace one of those veins to his bicep, which flexes as he holds the door open.
I drag my eyes back to his face to find a knowing smirk, and I want to tumble down the stairs. Instead, I set my shoulders and lift an unimpressed brow.
Grayson Gold has hot-guy arms. So what? They’re a dime a dozen in Boston.
Oblivious to the tension, Joy claps her fingertips together in glee. “Well, I’ll let you two get to know each other. Lovely to meet you—” She waits for my name.
“Eliza.”
“Ah! Pretty name for a pretty girl.” She sends a not-very-sly look at Grayson before waddling down the stairs.
He shakes his head and steps out onto the porch, letting the door swing shut. “So, you’ve met Joy.” He sets his hands on his hips in a way that puts those annoying arms on full display.
“She seems nice.”
His scruffy face is missing the streak of grease from yesterday, though his dark, textured hair already looks stiff with salt.
He reminds me of a bear, or maybe he’s just so much more rugged than the clean-swept finance men I’m used to that my brain defaults to animal comparisons.
In the sunlight, his irises seem to glow, almost… gold.
Comes with the last name, I suppose.
Those orbs settle on me again, raking a path from my face to my hair, and down across my body.
Self-consciousness pricks my skin at his second evaluation, and I remind myself I look presentable.
The curls are cooperating today, my black, wide-strapped tank-top is lint-free, and my dark wash jeans hug my hips perfectly.
It’s more casual than I’d normally wear, but I’d gotten the vibe yesterday that dress pants and heels don’t quite belong.
Grayson must find it lacking, because he shakes his head and sighs. “Welcome to Gold’s Oysters.”
I stare at him for a moment, wondering how Joy could know this man and call him a “good boy.” His words are fine, but his unashamed assessment of me and the dislike in his tone are so boldly rude, it’s staggering.
Any efforts at civility I’d planned go right out the window. Anson said to inform him of any issues I face on the farm, but I’m not about to whine to my boss. If Grayson wants this dynamic, so be it. I can play, too.
And as far as I’m concerned, Anson already thinks his brother’s the problem, which gives me plenty of room to play.
“How much did that hurt to say?” I ask.
Grayson blinks twice, maybe because he was expecting sweet gratitude from someone who would swallow his bullshit.
He ignores my question and says, “Apologies for yesterday. I wasn’t expecting you. That’s not how we run things here.” God, it’s like he’s being held at gunpoint, the words are that disingenuous.
“Everyone makes mistakes, Mr. Farm Owner. Don’t worry about it.”
“Gray,” he says flatly. “That’s what everyone calls me.”
I cock my head, squinting up at the overhang. “You’re right. Mr. Farm Owner is kind of a mouthful. But you seemed so intent yesterday on making it known that you run this place.”
I take a little joy in the way his jaw grinds. He’s about to reply when Dave gives a mighty quack.
“He seems to like it,” I comment, and Grayson scrapes his hand across his mouth, as if he’s trying to physically block his next words from coming out.