ELIZA #2
“I left because you were late,” he says quietly.
Leaning in, I inform him, “I was late because I was helping to clean up an accident.”
“I know.”
Okay, yep, he’s definitely a Grade A dickhe—
“Joy just told me. Tonight.”
My mental insult pauses.
He gives a belabored sigh and briefly glances at the wall again. His throat bobs.
“Eliza, I owe you an apology.” His tone is stone-sober, just as sincere as the concern in his eyes a minute ago. “I assumed you were late because you didn’t respect my time.”
“You realize how that sounds, right?”
“I know exactly how it sounds,” he answers with a level of seriousness that stops me from interjecting.
“This farm is everything to me, and it’s a hell of a lot to my brother.
It’s our business, yes, but it’s also our father’s legacy.
Nothing is guaranteed, and if we want it to succeed, if we don’t want to get eaten by all the sharks out to get us or shut down by careless mistakes, we need to treat it with the care and discipline it requires.
You’re smart as hell. You’re excellent at your job.
But I’ve only known you for a few weeks. ”
“Yet all you do is assume the worst of me,” I state.
The way his eyes soften is the only admission I need.
“Do you do this to every new person you meet? Or is this only reserved for me?”
He readjusts his grip on my hand, reminding me he’s still stemming the bleeding. This entire time, he hasn’t let go. I swore at him, insulted him, and he didn’t drop my hand or even tighten his fingers in frustration.
“I mentioned at Dyl’s that there was an incident last year,” he says in that low timbre.
The knob in his throat rolls again, like he’s choking on whatever he’s about to share.
“There was a woman, an out-of-towner here on vacation, who I…got involved with. Her father owns one of the waterfront homes on the pond. He’s one of those summer residents who wants us out of here because he thinks we’re ruining his front yard. ”
“You sure know how to pick ‘em,” I joke, unclear where this is headed. “Didn’t know you have a thing for playing with fire.”
“Why else do you think I talk to you?” he teases.
Then he clears his throat. “She thought I was cheating on her, and decided to fuck us over. She had access to the farm, and she lowered our storage temps, took a photo as evidence, and sent it to her father, who’s friends with a regulator.
He made some other false allegations and could’ve gotten us shut down. ”
The shame emanating from him is nearly suffocating.
“That’s a little extreme,” I say. “On her end and the regulator’s.”
“Oyster regulations are strict. The accusations had some serious health implications, and the regulator didn’t question his friend. Even if they didn’t suspend us while they investigated, that type of attention destroys a farm’s name.”
“So how’d you get out of it?”
A flash of a smile. “Anson might be the only person in this town who has more power and connections than the ritzy folks who want us gone.”
“Then they’ll never win.” Now I’m the one staring at the wall, though I’m not searching for answers.
I already have them.
It doesn’t take a senior analyst to connect the dots between last year’s events and…us. Another woman might throw his story in his face and remind him there’s never a good reason to treat others poorly. Maybe that woman is stronger than me.
But I’m not her.
And Grayson Gold is literally kneeling before me, swallowing all his pride in a confession that most other men would talk themselves out of. Even if they didn’t, their egos would swallow it whole before it ever came out.
Heck, in my two years of dating Kyle, the words “I’m sorry” never left his mouth—not even after I’d caught him cheating.
Meeting Grayson’s eyes, I say, “I’ve worked my ass off to get to where I am.
Sacrificed weekends, nights, a lot of my own sanity.
Woken up in a cold sweat because I thought I forgot to put a certain statistic in my presentation.
Stayed in a dying relationship until he cheated because I was too invested in work to deal with the fallout of a breakup. ”
I don’t mean to include that last confession.
It just slips out. And maybe it’s because of all Grayson just shared that it doesn’t feel as vulnerable as it should.
Or maybe it’s the way he’s watching me in simple, quiet observance, not passing judgment on all the things Kyle used to berate me for: trying too hard, thinking too much, caring too much about my goals instead of football and the high score he got gaming.
Still, I cut to the chase before any other confessions slither out.
“I understand the sacrifices, discipline, and attitude necessary to build your own success. And while I’ve only been here for a few weeks, it’s clear to anyone that you put everything into the farm.
I don’t ever want to interfere with that.
Not just because I’m a professional, but because I get it.
” My lips curve up softly. “I respect it.”
Regardless of how he’s treated me, Grayson is one of the hardest working people I’ve encountered.
Working before I arrive, staying late, laboring beside his team day in and day out.
He loves this work. He lives it, breathes it.
I wouldn’t be surprised if little baby oysters are running through his veins.
There’s a thoughtful silence before he says, “Your successes, your work ethic. I respect that, too. Admire it.”
“Just not on the farm.”
His cheek hitches and he admits, “You’ve done good work on the farm.”
“I’m sorry, can you say that again?” I reach for my phone in my back pocket. “Just want to record that.”
“I would, but you’re bleeding out, and we shouldn’t waste any more time.”
Before I can point out that we just sat here talking for the last five minutes, and therefore I’m obviously not on my death bed, he removes the paper towel and lifts my hand out of the shadow of our bodies.
He whistles low as he tilts my palm in the light. “This is going to need stitches. Maybe glue, if you’re lucky.”
“You don’t think that’s a little extreme?” I argue weakly. He simply lifts a brow as he covers the wound again, and I sigh. “I’ll drive myself to the ER.”
I must have mispronounced my words, because Grayson regards me like I’ve just suggested a dive off the dock.
“No,” he says. Simple. Firm. Like it’s an established fact.
It makes my muscles stiffen against the hard plastic seat. “You don’t make my decisions.”
“I don’t,” he agrees. “I do, however, need to make sure you’re okay. And while you’re the smartest, most impressive woman I’ve ever met, you don’t need to do everything yourself. So I’m going to give you two very reasonable options, and you can decide which one you’ll take.”