GRAYSON
I hate early mornings on the farm about as much as I love them.
The four-thirty alarm kills me, but watching the sunrise from the pond is one of my favorite things in life.
There’s something about the quiet early hours of dawn, when the water’s still, those pretty colors painting the sky, just me and nature coexisting as the engine hums along, that feels transcendent.
Most of the town is asleep, and I’ve earned this moment of peace, because I was willing to get up at the ass-crack of dawn.
Granted, I’m only starting this early because I’m helping Anson out with Lala, our little sister, this afternoon. But still, I’ve earned it.
I sip my black coffee, which steams in the crisp air, as I adjust the wheel.
“You ready?”
Kenny’s slouched against the side of the skiff, looking like he’d give anything to miss this sunrise.
I needed someone to man the boat while I dive to fix some gear in the deeper side of the farm, and the kid pulled the short stick yesterday.
He just turned twenty-one, and I know for a fact he’s been spending some late nights at Dyl’s Den, taking advantage of that freshly legal ID.
From the misery on his face, I’d bet last night was one of them.
But Kenny’s a hard-working kid, so he showed up on time, and now he’s lurching to his feet, grabbing a line to anchor us to our floating cages.
The same way I used to assist Dad, back when he was starting things up here and I was juggling college with work on the farm.
Should still be that way—me helping my father.
But after cancer took Mom, he just fell apart.
I can’t blame him for it. Losing our mother was brutal, but losing the love of your life…
I don’t know how someone could handle that well.
First went the state of the farm, then his health. The heart attack was inevitable.
Six years later, and it all still feels like the end of the fucking world when I think about it.
Skiff secured, I’m laying out my dive gear when my peripheral catches something splashing in the distance, toward the local marina.
Straightening, I squint. Oysters and small fish are usually the only sea life we get in these shallow waters, but the pond does open to the ocean.
A whale got caught up in here a few years ago.
“See that?”
The dark circles under Kenny’s eyes shift as he tries to make out the shape. It’s moving quickly. “Something’s feeding?” he guesses.
I pull a pair of old binoculars out of the compartment beneath the wheel. It takes a second to find the shape, but when I do, I’m surprised. “Someone’s swimming.”
Shallow as the pond is, we don’t get a ton of action in here. It’s mostly kayaks, our skiffs, and the occasional small craft from Joe’s docks making its way to the ocean. Swimmers prefer the open waters at the town beach. And the water’s still fucking freezing.
The figure pauses and goes vertical, their head popping out of the water, and I’m no longer confused. The person swimming in the pond is too new here to know this isn’t the best spot for it.
Eliza Attleburn looks a little alien with reflective goggles on her face, but it’s easy to recognize her. And I hate how easy it is, because that means I’ve spent too much time studying her face, despite my attempts to ignore her for the last week-and-a-half.
Hard not to when it looks like that. All glowy skin, elegant angles, and eyes as big as a doe’s—especially when they’re glaring at me.
I receive about five of those glares per day, whenever we silently cross paths in the yard. Though from what I can tell, she’s mostly been keeping to the office. Hopefully it stays that way.
“You know the swimmer?”
I grunt and put the binoculars away. “That’s the Social Media Director.”
Of all people, I wouldn’t expect her to be swimming in open water three hours before she’s due at work. She’s toned down her look since the first day we met, but even with the jeans, she’s the furthest thing from ocean-hardy.
“The one you keep telling us to ignore?”
“Not telling you to ignore her. Just do your job and don’t get distracted by any antics.”
Kenny’s nose wrinkles. “Pretty sure you told us to ignore her, or we’d be cleaning cages for a week straight.”
“You misunderstood.”
Because telling my team to ignore her would be a dick move, even though I don’t want her here. Impressing the importance of working hard on these busy days and not getting sidetracked, however, is perfectly respectable.
“Sure, Boss,” Kenny says without an ounce of conviction. When I reach for my gear, he asks, “Think she’s alright out there? She’s pretty far from the shore, and the water’s cold.”
The same concern already crossed my mind, because no matter how much I want her off this farm, I don’t want anyone to drown. But she’s already kicked back into her freestyle stroke, now moving back toward the docks, and the way she cuts through the water radiates confidence and strength.
“Looks like a good swimmer. And she isn’t too far from Joe’s Marina.”
But even good swimmers can misjudge distances and get tired, especially in frigid water.
Shit.
Now I’m pulling the binoculars out again and resting them on the console in front of me. She hasn’t even stepped on the property for the day, and she’s already adding to the mile-high list of things I need to worry about.
Of course.
“Keep an eye on her, just in case,” I tell Kenny.
Some of the worry eases from his forehead. “She seems nice,” he remarks, palming the binoculars. “Smiles and says hi to people when she walks around.”
I grunt as I strip off my sweatshirt and start pulling on my wetsuit.
Eliza sure as hell doesn’t smile and say hi to me. And maybe it should bother me that I’m the only exception to her kindness, but it doesn’t. At all.
Makes it easier to keep encouraging her to leave.
The image of Eliza smoothly gliding through the water invades my thoughts more than it should for the rest of the morning.
It was an unexpected deviation from the picture I’d painted of her.
That picture being an echo of Mackenzie—squeaking at seaweed and avoiding sea water like the plague so her hair doesn’t dry out.
Not the type to get down in an unfiltered body of water that’s still cold enough to freeze your balls off.
I’ll admit it impressed me. Just a little.
Couple that with the fact that she hasn’t caused any issues yet, and the possibility that I’m being too tough on her is starting to emerge.
That whisper of doubt is tracking through my mind when I open the door to our oyster pick-up room and see her inside one of the massive refrigerators, tip toes on the bottom shelf, hand reaching toward the temperature gauge.
Panic and anger crash into me, and I can’t think straight.
Can’t see anything except her fingers aiming for that metal knob.
The same fucking metal knob that nearly got us shut down last year, when Mackenzie cranked it to illegal storage temperatures, took a photo, and sent it to her father—who passed it, along with other false allegations, on to a local regulator—all because she’d mistaken texts to Amanda for me cheating on her.
This fucking lady.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I bark, barreling toward her.
She jumps and shrieks at the same time. Her head twists, and I catch a flash of wide, startled eyes before her hand slips from the shelf that was holding her in. She tumbles back, tripping down from the shelf.
I’m already there. Quick reflexes have me catching her under the arms before she hits the floor. I set her upright and yank my hands away like her skin is hot coals.
The second she turns, though, I get right up in her space, the tension in my muscles so explosive I feel like the fucking Hulk.
The bewildered fear in her eyes pierces me for a second before slipping into outrage.
“What the hell is your problem?” she shrieks, red spiraling across her cheeks. “You could’ve killed me, coming up behind me like that!”
Her playing the victim only winds me tighter. “Why are you messing with the temperatures?”
“Messing with the—” she repeats in disbelief.
The red from her cheeks is flooding her neck, which is craned back so she can meet my eyes.
Eliza’s not short, but I still have a few inches on her.
“I’m grabbing a bag of oysters to take photos to show people what pickups look like, because that is my job.
” Her voice is breathing fire, a vein pulsing on her forehead, like a little pissed off dragon.
“There are plenty of pickups on the bottom shelves,” I fire back.
“Believe it or not, Grayson, I have eyeballs.” Her pitch rises with her volume, each word working her up more and more.
“And these eyeballs are trying to find the best-looking pickup, because this is going out as a paid ad. But you wouldn’t understand the importance of that or what it even means, because you only think and speak in shellfish! ”
Her chest heaves on rapid breaths, drawing my attention right down to where it shouldn’t be. To the smooth olive skin dotted with freckles above small, perky breasts that I absolutely will not look at.
The mere temptation only pisses me off more. “I told you not to touch anything.”
“And unless you’re down to two working brain cells—” she shoves a finger into my chest— “you’d know that’s impossible when I’ve been hired to work here.”
Trying to rein in my temper, I look down at the finger digging into my sternum. Technically, I was the one to make contact first, when I saved her from knocking herself unconscious, but Little Miss Professional just broke a boundary.
I’m getting to her.
The realization sinks in at the same time as her words.
She wasn’t altering our refrigeration, but looking for a pretty bag of oysters. And I just turned into a goddamn gorilla.
I’m too worked up to sort it out now, so I dig my heels right in. “Did it ever occur to you that I told you that for your own safety? Last thing I need is you hurting yourself and taking it out on us.”
She crosses her arms and snorts in my face.
“Yeah, you definitely have two brain cells.” Her finger’s gone, but the imprint of her manicured nail is seared into my skin.
“If you gave a damn about my safety, you would’ve given me a tour and explained what’s dangerous and why.
Not left me here to figure it out on my own. ”
Her logic is indisputable, and the haughty look on her face says she knows it. I stare her down—the fierce set of her shoulders, the ready-to-fight spirit blazing silver in her hazel eyes.
It stirs something in my abdomen, something that counters my dislike.
Probably more of that respect from earlier.
Not sure why respect has me suddenly noticing the soft floral scent coming from her hair or neck or wherever it is women put perfume.
Which has me noticing the trail of goosebumps along her collarbone.
I reach around her, slam the refrigerator door shut, then take a step back, because I don’t need to be crowding her like this. Trying to intimidate her with my size.
Christ, when did I turn into one of those guys?
“I still need to find my bag of oysters,” she points out, rubbing the chill from her arms.
“Not from the top shelf. Clearly, you’re unstable up there.”
Her brows crash together. “I wasn’t unstable until you attacked me from behind.”
I hide a wince behind a blank stare. She’s waiting for an apology. One I owe her.
When I don’t give it, she tacks on, “If you’re done throwing your tantrum, I should be fine on my own.”
Not a fucking tantrum, City Girl. I’m protecting my farm.
Self-control stops the response from coming out. Or maybe it’s the fact that those flowers are tickling my nose, and I’m noticing a few freckles scattered across her cheeks that are just like the ones sprinkled across the smooth skin of her neckline, above her—
Cut it the fuck out.
I’m standing there like an imbecile, not speaking, not moving, long enough for Eliza to release a long exhale and ask, “Why do you hate me so much?”
Because social media, in that pretty little city-girl package, doesn’t belong on this farm.
Because you can’t possibly understand what we’ve built here, and treat it with the respect it deserves.
Because you remind me of my mistake, and how easily my dick can override my common sense for a nice smile and pretty face.
“I don’t hate you,” I say instead.
She barks a dry laugh. “Yeah, you do.” Losing her anger, her hands drop to her sides. “I’m not here to ruin your life. I’m here because your brother posted an open position, and I took it.”
There’s resignation in her tone now, and it twists unpleasantly in my gut. I want the fire, the insults back. Maybe because it makes me feel like less of a dickhead. Makes my insolence more acceptable.
“I’m aware,” I reply lamely.
She turns away, reaching again for the refrigerator door. “I have work to do.”
Right.
The image of her falling down replays in my mind, and I realize that my concern for her safety is genuine. I don’t want this woman smashing herself on the floor. God knows I’ve been beating her up enough with my words.
Fuck.
I back away and turn toward the door, but not before saying, “Just use a bag from the lower shelves. They’re all the same.”
I’m not expecting a thank you, and it doesn’t come as I walk out the door.