GRAYSON
The sunrise paints the clouds with bright reds and fiery oranges. It’s the Garnet Shores Special. A stunner. The kind that stamps itself in your memory and resurfaces whenever you reminisce on home.
But the only image my memory currently cares about is Boston’s long, toned legs in those little black running shorts.
It doesn’t stand alone. There’s also the unfiltered triumph every time she scored a point.
The poorly veiled interest in those expressive eyes when I stripped away my shirt.
The challenge set in her small jaw when she agreed to play with us—the same kind that usually accompanies her insults.
That wide vulnerability when I ran her over and she lost her breath.
Over the past two days, I’ve revisited it all more times than I’m proud to admit, and every time, JJ’s words ghosted along with it.
She’s not Mackenzie.
He’d said it when we got back to Anson’s estate, while Lala ran off to retrieve her soccer ball. Anson was hogging the kitchen, giving us a minute alone.
“No,” I’d agreed.
“I invited her to play ball, but you goaded her into it.”
“We were kicking her off the court, and she’s alone in Garnet Shores. I felt bad.”
“Sure.”
Lala appeared in the distance, little legs pumping as she ran back to us.
“I get it,” JJ had continued. “That situation fucked with your head. Made you take the business even more seriously. No distractions, all that.” Lala gave him just enough time to deliver the blow. “But I think it made you scared, too.”
He’d timed it perfectly, the fucker. Lala started our game, and there was no telling him off.
But he’s wrong.
This isn’t about fear. It’s about being thirty years old, and being focused on building a business alongside my brother. A wife and kids will happen someday, but now isn’t the time to test the waters—to fuck around again. I don’t have the attention to spare, and the risk isn’t worth the reward.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, jolting me back to the sunrise I’m watching from the dock. I pull out my phone as I head toward the warehouse.
Anson: Positive Vibrio case. Not sure whose oysters, but one of yours was apparently on the plate.
Just like that, my Monday morning flips from serene to exceptionally shitty. I’m not one to panic—never have been. But raw edges are bursting into frame, and I can’t completely hold them back.
We’re incredibly strict about our oyster-to-ice timing and proper storage, and nothing’s happened recently that would cause a water bacteria spike.
The chances this gets traced back to us are slim.
But having last year’s accusations on record somewhere, even though it was dismissed, could be a mark against us and lead to a deeper investigation. The kind that tarnishes reputations.
People won’t consume raw seafood from a farm they think could make them sick. And Vibrio’s the type of sick that can kill a person.
The fragility of what we’ve built here shoots to the surface as I ditch my early morning plans to double-check our records are sorted correctly.
I’d intended to work out. A few pushups, pullups, and squats in the back corner of the warehouse.
My bare-minimum maintenance routine to try to stave away the aches and injuries that take farmers out of the game.
So when it’s nine o’clock and I’m heading to a skiff with Kenny, I haven’t done anything to take the edge off. That edge only grows more jagged when I step onboard and Boston’s little sedan still isn’t in the lot.
I’d be lying to say part of me wasn’t looking forward to our day together all weekend. To say I wasn’t curious about what witty remarks she’ll string together, or what she’ll find interesting enough to film, or what her face will look like when her sharp mind learns something new.
But now it’s two minutes past nine, and I’m standing on the skiff, staring at the lot, when there’s a metric fuck-ton of work to do and more records to check, and I don’t have a minute to spare.
I want Eliza to show, but she hasn’t.
For all her snark, she’s responsible. She respects this business.
Success and excellence are her priorities.
That’s what I was coming to believe about her, but now she’s late, and whether it’s this morning’s shitstorm or common fucking sense, I’m realizing maybe those beliefs could be wrong because I’ve only known her for three weeks.
I’ve been horribly wrong before, and everyone knows where that got me.
On top of all that, I wouldn’t wait around like this for any other team member coming along for a joyride.
Which means this waiting elevates her from colleague to distraction.
One I can’t afford.
“We waiting for someone?” Kenny asks from the stern.
I glance at the parking lot one last time, finding the gravel empty.
“No,” I say, and shove us off the dock.