ELIZA
Amanda might be my first friend in Garnet Shores.
We’ve chatted all week—small talk that flows into conversations about our favorite seasons, what brought her to the farm, whether oysters are better grilled or raw.
They’re surface-level topics, and we haven’t exchanged phone numbers or followed each other on social media, so friend might be a slightly desperate stretch.
But she invited me to the farm’s cookout tonight.
She also caught me filming Grayson from afar several times this week and said nothing, just giving a conspiratorial twist of her lips that suggests she’s onto my game and is, at the very least, entertained.
And everyone knows there is no bond stronger than the one forged between a vengeful woman declaring war on a man, and her confidant.
The farm’s parking lot is humming with chatter and the easy thrum of guitar strings when I pull in.
The sunset is lost behind dense clouds, a large bonfire casting a soft light over the gathering that’s more crowded than I expected.
A table is set up near the warehouse’s entrance, filled with platters of food.
Some of my nervousness eases. If Amanda isn’t here yet and I fail at inserting myself into conversations, I can at least look occupied by stuffing my face before calling it an early night.
Still, my fingers play anxiously in the oversized sleeves of my sweatshirt as I head over, the smell of burnt wood swirling in my nose and dredging up memories from high school and my camping trips with Kitty.
It’s funny. Campfires should smell bad, but all that chemical combustion brings a wash of nostalgia instead. I’ve sat by my fair share of evening fires in the city, but those propane patio firepits never get the scent right.
Amanda pops out of the gathering with a drink in her hand, giving me a friendly wave. My relief is immediate, and I have to hold myself back from breaking the rules of early-almost-friendship and giving her a giant hug.
“Glad you could make it.” She’s wearing an army green trucker jacket, and her hair is thrown into a haphazard knot, streaks of pale yellow and brownish-gold reflecting in the firelight.
“Thanks for the invite.”
“‘Course. These cookouts are a summer tradition around here.” She glances over shoulder and sighs. “Besides, the ratio of dicks to women is always way off. It’s nice having some more of us here to stop this from turning into a frat party.”
I laugh a little, realizing that the ratio is quite off. I spot Joy bumbling among the crowd, a few ponytails scattered around, but it’s mostly men—and Dave, who’s plucking food scraps off the ground.
I set my gaze back on Amanda before my survey can confirm Grayson’s presence. Though, who am I kidding? Of course he’s here.
It’s his farm.
Amanda gestures toward a cooler. “You want a drink?”
“Amanda!” The shout has us both spinning toward the fire. “You bring that electric sander?”
“Yeah! I’ll go get it.” She turns back, wincing.
“Sorry. I’ll be five minutes, max. Just got to grab this thing from my car and give him a tutorial.
He shouldn’t need one, but he already fucked up Steve’s.
” She points her beer toward the food table as she backs away.
“You should get something to eat! The sandwiches are good, but the stuffed Quahogs could give you an orgasm.”
Then she’s gone, and I’m standing on my own, contemplating the groups around me like a lost puppy.
To the food it is.
I plop a stuffed clam on a plastic plate and wander to a platter of ice filled with whole oysters. A blunt blade sits next to a basket of discards.
I pause.
Have I ever shucked an oyster in my life? No.
But Amanda’s over at her car, and I’ll jump fully clothed into the salt pond before I seek Grayson’s help.
Some team members mill around, but we aren’t exactly friends, and the last thing I want is to look like some damsel, afraid to crack open a shell when it’s probably in Garnet Shores’ kindergarten curriculum.
Besides, the two demonstrations I watched on-tour were simple enough.
I pick up the shucking knife and an oyster and initiate step one: the lollipop. The tip of the blade slides between the two shells, lodging there like it’s supposed to.
Easy. I’ve so got this.
Firming my grip, I go for the twist. A mighty quack assaults me mid-movement. “What the—”
The blade slips—
And slices right into my hand.
I see the cut before the sensation registers. In that second, masked by the low light, it doesn’t look bad.
Then the sharp bite of pain flashes as blood floods the wound—and keeps coming. I gasp.
The oyster and knife clatter to the table as I slap my other hand over the injury, cursing Dave as the pain tightens my breathing and blood drips out of my grip.
Crap, this is bad.
Like, might need stitches, bad.
Dave, the traitor, casually waddles away.
I survey the table in a panic, searching for a towel, napkins, anything to stem the bleeding.
My eyes land on a roll of paper towels just as a large hand swipes it up.
I follow that hand to a too-familiar body rushing around the table to my side, and this stroke of bad luck transforms into a full-fledged heaven-hates-me curse.
“Here.” There’s no greeting, no mocking comment. Just quiet urgency as Grayson tears a few sheets free and grabs the wrist of my injured hand. “Lift your hand.”
The pain must be overriding my frontal lobe because I instantly comply. Grayson replaces my grip with his own, pressing the paper towel to the wound hard enough to make me hiss.
“Sorry. It needs pressure.”
“Mm-hmm,” I manage, shifting on my feet to try to distract myself from the tears beating against my eyes.
He lifts the paper towel for a beat and curses low, his breath ghosting across my forehead. “Can’t see how bad it is. We need light.”
He tugs on my wrist, hanging between his, leading me into the warehouse. My brain must be short-circuiting because I follow him voluntarily, unable, for the life of me, to think of a better course of action.
I don’t even have a first-aid kit on the boat.
Voices from the gathering fade to a muted buzz as we enter the cavernous space and he leads me to a card table I’ve seen the team eat at. Three vases of flowers sit in the center. They must be from Joy, because otherwise they’d be from Grayson, which simply does not compute.
An image of him frolicking in a field and picking flowers pops into my mind, and I hiccup on a giggle.
Grayson eyes me in concern. “Going delirious on me, Boston?” He kicks out a chair and guides me down, keeping pressure on the wound as he crouches before me.
“I was just picturing you picking flowers.”
The groove between his brows deepens. “Picturing me picking flowers?” he repeats to himself.
My head tilts down to find my hand swallowed in his. His nails are clean and trimmed, but little white scars and scabs speckle those long, calloused fingers.
These are hands hewn by hard work. Definitely not flower-picking hands.
I snort a small laugh again.
“Hey, seriously—you lightheaded?” His free hand moves, landing softly on my chin. Gentle pressure lifts it until I’m snared by two amber orbs that should feel too pretty for a man like him.
But it isn’t the color holding me captive. It’s the steadiness. The earnest concern. The same calm intensity that helped me get my breath on that basketball court.
It shoves the pain down enough for other things to register. The back of his knuckle, rough and hot as it softly braces my chin. His tight pressure on my wound, his free fingers resting quietly on my palm, callouses tickling my skin.
The heat from his hold on me seeps into my skin, warming my face as he finishes his perusal and meets my gaze. “Your color looks good.” His murmur settles deep within me. “How’s the pain?”
I stare at him crouching before me, the messy scruff along his jaw, the faint lines starting to show beside his eyes. Lines born from smiles.
Smiles he never gives me, unless they’re sarcastic, or smug, or paired with some double-edged remark.
All that invested concern, and he still left without me Monday.
I jerk away. My hand stays in his grip, but I lean back into the seat, the voodoo spell broken.
Misreading my reaction for pain, his concern deepens. “That bad?”
“Not sure why you care, Grayson.” Logic is quickly regaining function, and with it, all the reasons I should not accept this man’s help roar back. “I can handle this myself.”
I tug on my hand, but he doesn’t let it move.
“Of course, I care.”
“Because you’re worried I’ll file a safety complaint or something?”
He frowns. “Because you just stabbed yourself in the hand and you might not be okay.”
“I’d think you’d be cheering. Just another strike to Boston.” I smile bitterly. “Another thing that might make her dislike this place enough to leave.”
“I’m well aware you’re not leaving.”
“So why are you still so determined to screw me over?” My voice echoes through the warehouse, exasperated chords suspended in the air.
All week, I’ve refused to show him how much Monday bothered me. Small nods. Polite smiles. That’s all he’s gotten. But whether it’s my throbbing hand or exhaustion from the week or just a damn tipping point, I can’t hold onto that apathetic mask anymore. Which is why words keep tumbling out.
“You left without me on Monday. We had a deal at the basketball game. I spent all of Sunday planning content around that ride-along, and then you left. So either you still hate my guts and want to ruin my life this summer, or you’re a sore fucking loser, or you’re one heck of an actor because everyone in this town thinks you’re a good man and they’re dead wrong. ”
I expect him to fire back—to tell me I don’t belong, that it’s my fault for showing up and staying when I’m not wanted here. But all he does is stare over my shoulder at the wall, like it holds all the answers to life.
When he meets my eyes again, he isn’t frowning anymore. Or confused. Or concerned. I don’t know what he is, because his expression is carefully blank.