Grayson
It’s been two whole weeks since I found Boston trying to punt Dave from my office, and she’s already published nine social media posts.
This isn’t information I necessarily want, nor is it my responsibility.
I’d explicitly told Anson I wasn’t going to manage her.
But despite all my talk, I care too much about this farm to ignore the content she’s putting our name on.
And while I think social media is the most useless invention of this era, and thus don’t have any, Kenny was all too happy to inform me about the posts yesterday as he worked the Sunday tours with me.
I expected to hate every single one.
There were already a few old posts on the page, back when the company was smaller and Anson made some basic content to have something available if people searched us through socials.
Eliza’s additions knocked them out of the park.
First up was a shot of the Gold’s Oysters shell sign above the office door, then two short videos of the premises, a photo of the pick-up bag, and a montage of clips from the area, with infographics sprinkled in between.
The quality was exceptional, the captions were simple and to the point, and all the information was correct.
There were a few shell emojis among the nine posts, but nothing egregious.
And people liked them enough to comment on them.
I wanted to hate them, just to justify my assumptions.
But, much to my displeasure, I didn’t.
This doesn’t mean they’re bringing any real value to us. Anson could still be wasting the business’s money. But at least she hasn’t made a mockery of us yet. A good thing, considering she isn’t going anywhere for the next two-and-change months.
My phone buzzes, and I curse at the alarm.
Fucking tours.
They bring in a solid boost of income and help us educate visitors about sustainable practices and encourage them to support local producers. But man, they can be a nuisance. Especially on days like today when Amanda’s out and Steve’s sick, so I’m the only one here qualified to give a solo tour.
I could grab two other team members to do it, but if I go, it’s only one body pulled from work during our busiest season instead of two.
Shoving the tracking paperwork I’ve been working on in a folder, I head out of the warehouse.
The tour doesn’t start for fifteen minutes, but the excited ones tend to arrive early, and customer experience is everything on these visits.
People don’t necessarily come to see the farm through our eyes, but for the exclusive, on-the-water, sea-to-table Gold’s experience—high price-tag included.
My annoyance cools when I catch Boston’s figure by the touring boat. She’s in a Gold’s sweatshirt—a new one, because that green is too vibrant to have met much sun and salt—and her dark jeans stretch around toned thighs as she crouches for an angled shot of the skiff.
The same way they stretched when she set up each pool shot last Wednesday. Something I only noticed because Darian’s eyes couldn’t help but fucking wander all over her.
Only natural my gaze should track his.
The floating dock shifts when I step on it, and Boston flies to her feet. A long, glossy braid whips around, little wisps of free hair scattered across her features. For a second, her face is open and curious before settling with wariness.
“Enjoy your tour last week?” I say as I stroll up to her.
There’s a light tan across her freckled nose, and I wonder if she pulled herself away from her laptop to spend the weekend outdoors.
Hell, I hope she did. The mornings are still cool, but a sunny afternoon is finally warm enough to strip down to a tee-shirt and soak in some sun.
Winter down here can be miserable, but summer beach days are one area where Garnet Shores truly shines.
“I did. Amanda’s great.”
“Sure is.”
From anyone else, I’d expect a thank you.
But we both know that tour was long overdue, not to mention I’d used it as leverage to wrangle some truths out of her.
Our night at Dyl’s had revealed a few things, one being that she’s beyond attempting civility with me.
If anything, that smart mouth of hers suggested deliberate incivility is her current game.
Something I don’t mind.
I can’t stand fakeness and pretenses. Never could, and last year with Mackenzie only decreased my tolerance.
I hop on the boat, grab a rag from the center console, and start wiping moisture from the seats. After my third seat, Eliza still hasn’t moved.
“Need something?” I ask.
“No. Just waiting for you to be done.”
I glance up at her. “I’m not drying these for fun. I’m about to use this boat for a tour.”
Her hand hits her heart. “Thank you so much for clarifying that. I thought you just really enjoyed mopping up dew. Silly me.”
There’s that smart mouth again. “Maybe I do. It’s the least stressful thing I do all day.”
“If wiping off seats is your idea of unwinding, you need to reevaluate.”
“Yeah?” I return to my task, which feels less tedious than usual. “And how should I unwind, Boston?”
“Meditation. Yoga. Bubble baths.” She pauses, as if she’s genuinely contemplating this. “Mm-hmm. Those are perfect for you, I think.”
“My way of unwinding involves a little more activity.”
“Let me guess. Kicking puppies? Dismembering flowers? Oh—” She snaps her fingers and points at me. “I’ve got it. Parking at the entrance to the town like a little bridge troll and harassing vacationers who dare cross your path.”
I shake my head, chuckling as I make my way to the seats at the bow, right beneath her. This woman and her wit.
“Close.” I pause and look up, catching the hint of a smirk creasing her cheek. I wink. “More the kind that makes me so good at pool.”
She rolls her eyes. “I so deeply pity the women in this town.”
“That’s a waste of pity.”
It’s mostly all talk. My early twenties were a montage of pretty faces, late nights, and questionable decisions. But after both of my parents passed, casual one-nighters lost their appeal, and I turned into a long-term kind of guy.
Case in point: falling head over ass last year after two decent dates.
But Eliza doesn’t know that. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious what creative insult she’d sling back at me.
She doesn’t disappoint.
“I’ll save my pity for you, then, because it must be exhausting carrying around so much ego.” Eliza crosses her arms impatiently. “Why are you still standing there? Seats are dry.”
“Well, now I’ve got to wait for my guests. What’s your excuse for being here?”
“I was in the middle of shooting content when you came down.” She wiggles the phone in her hand. The case is clear and utilitarian. “I just need two more seconds to finish up. No one’s here for the tour yet, so I was hoping you could step out for a second so I can get what I need.”
The skiff is clean and cushioned for guests, but it isn’t anything special. “Why are you filming this thing?”
“To promote tours. No one else was taking photos or videos on Amanda’s tour, so I kept my phone away, too.” She gives a tight smile. “Lost my only chance to film the actual experience itself, so I’m making do.”
Multiple car doors slam in succession, tourists in bright, preppy colors blurring in the distance. Eliza mutters a curse, her shoulders deflating. “Nevermind.” Her tone is resigned as she starts turning away.
Shit.
“Join this tour,” I blurt.
She freezes mid-twist, blinking like she’s trying to decide if I really just threw her a bone.
The surprise is warranted. Hell, even I’m surprised. But if there’s nothing I can do about Eliza working on this farm for the summer, I might as well make it easier for her to present us in a respectable light. Boat’s going out regardless.
And I’ll admit that watching her shoulders shrink just now, after seeing her so confident, pinches the part of my gut that finds her sharpness entertaining.
“If they’re into taking pictures or videos, you can wave your phone around, too. Get some content,” I add lamely, because she still hasn’t responded. Maybe she’s waiting for a punchline, or another barter for information.
When nothing comes, she lets out a soft, “Okay.”
Then she bites her lip in a piss-poor attempt to stem a smile. Like allowing herself to smile at something I’ve offered is a grievous crime.
I’m tempted to tease her for it, but I know the almost-smile would vanish in an instant.
And, fuck me, I don’t want it to go away.
Before I can dig into the meaning of that, I’m back on the dock and heading to greet our guests. Eliza still hasn’t boarded the skiff when I return with the three older couples who arrived together.
She greets them with a shy smile that is clearly well-manufactured, because this woman’s anything but timid. “Hi! Hope you don’t mind me crashing your tour. I’m here visiting on my own, so I got joined together with you all.”
Relief sinks in that she’s pretending to be a guest. The last thing I want is to field concerns about blasting their faces across the internet, or complaints about their paid experience being used for work.
That relief, however, is short-lived, because one of the men replies, “I thought six would be a full boat.”
I know their type. Just retired, mid-range wealthy, like spending their money on name brands and vintage wines. Vacationers from one of the ritzy neighboring towns, if I had to guess. Doesn’t automatically make a person an asshole, but on occasion, these types of guests are snobs.
Lucky me, this is one of those occasions.
“Eight is capacity,” I tell him, bringing his condescension away from Eliza and to me. “Unless you select the private tour when you book.”
“I thought you did select the private tour,” the woman beside him fusses. His wife, most likely, from their matching paisley windbreakers.
“It was an extra charge. I figured six of us would automatically be a private tour,” he grumbles, deep grooves cutting down from his mouth.
What a miserable fucking life you’ve got to lead to have frown lines like that.
“Not the case here,” I say plainly. “Anyone need to use the restroo—"
“Can we reschedule?” the wife asks.
“We have a twenty-four-hour cancellation policy.”
“But this isn’t what we were expecting.”
Eliza nudges my arm. “Maybe I can just join the next tour,” she cuts in hesitantly.
My brows furrow. There’s no way she’s balking at these people.
But if intimidation isn’t behind her offer, that means she’s trying to help me. Trying to save me from this misery by putting herself out.
“Next one’s full,” I lie, dragging my gaze away from her and back to the guests. “Are we continuing with your tour?” I ask point-blank.
“Cindy, Tom, it’s okay,” one of the other women says. “It’s just one extra person.”
From the frowns on Cindy and Tom’s faces, you’d think they’re being forced into a surprise root canal. But they begrudgingly nod and shuffle toward the boat.
I step into the skiff and help them in with a hand.
“I’m all set,” Tom waves me off.
“Farm rules,” I tell him. “Safety is our priority.”
He obliges, and everyone is settled on a seat when Eliza steps up to the side. She eyes my hand like it’s a cockroach.
I smile. “Rules apply to all guests.”
“Of course.” I swear I hear an eye-roll in her voice.
She slips her hand into mine, and I’m struck by how delicate it is. Then I’m wondering why I’m even struck by that.
Maybe because her verbal sparring makes her seem so much tougher than she is.
But that sharp tongue is nowhere to be found as she mutters a “thank you,” nor as we stop at the upweller to peek at the millions of juvenile oysters that’ll slowly make their way out to the farm as they get big enough.
In fact, as we head further into the salt pond, she dives full-tilt into her role, asking, “What’s your favorite part of the job? ”
I’ve just finished answering Cindy about what a day of work is like here when Eliza poses the question. I wonder if it’s for some social media caption, but she’s leaning in, face tilted up inquisitively, like she genuinely wants to know.
“Can’t choose one favorite,” I tell her. “I love oysters. I enjoy the sustainability aspect, too. Oysters filter the water they live in, and they grow here naturally. No fertilizer or chemicals needed. And there’s no better workplace than this.”
I glance away from the farm ahead to look at her. The breeze has loosened more hairs from her braid, and they’re whizzing around her head as she nods thoughtfully.
“Definitely a beautiful workplace,” Cindy remarks.
“Makes up for the dress code, I suppose.” The comment, tainted with derision, comes from Tom.
I keep my expression unbothered as his buddies chortle. Years ago, I would have chirped back. But experience has taught me that no matter how successful your business is, if it involves manual labor or servicing others, there are folks who’ll put you beneath their boot.
If only they knew how ass-backwards that was. He wouldn’t survive a morning doing my team’s work. But I’m man enough to not get defensive over something so trivial. Plus, putting him in his place would only get us a bad review and make him more self-righteous.
It’s better to find entertainment in that kind of ignorance.
But Eliza doesn’t. Leaning forward to get a clear view of him, she says, with utter innocence, “Better that than the ugly, bright golf polos everyone wears at my office. Those were invented for the green, and they should stay there. Am I right?”
Above the neon salmon collar peeking out of his windbreaker, Tom’s smug grin fades.
She catches my eyes as she leans back in her seat, and I can’t stop my lips from tilting. The corner of her mouth twitches, and for a moment, it’s like we’re on the same team.
And I realize I don’t hate that. At all.