Grayson
Her face is pinched in exasperation as she looks down at me.
I much prefer it to the pain-fogged acquiescence of when I’d first brought her in here. Or the angry hurt when all her carefully constructed apathy from this week vanished.
Knowing I caused it made me feel like the smallest fucking man in the world. When I left Monday, I wasn’t thinking of her. I was thinking about me. But anyone with a single functioning brain cell would’ve known it’d be another insult, another blow to her.
I did it anyway, not even considering that she might be busy helping a grandmother cross a street, or saving a lost puppy, or being the kind of good person she’s shown me she is. The kind I usually am.
The kind who’s as lost as fucking Waldo wherever she’s concerned.
I’m not ignorant enough to think confessing last year’s situation, no matter how painful it was to wrench out, will magically make up for everything I’ve done.
“I don’t need help,” she says. Sweet notes of her flowery perfume mingle with the campfire smoke sticking to my sweatshirt.
“You don’t need it, no. But I want you to have it.”
“It’s a little cut. There’s nothing wrong with me driving myself to the hospital.”
“Some rational people would disagree.”
“I am a rational person.”
I glance at her hand, braced in mine. It feels as delicate as it did when I helped her into that boat, except this time, it’s leaking blood. A hand as nice as this one shouldn’t have a gash like that.
Eliza’s a smart fucking woman. But what she did? That was putting-diesel-in-a-gas-engine stupid.
“Need I remind you that you just tried shucking an oyster for the first time without a glove or towel, which is the first, most basic step to the process?”
I’m not an idiot. It isn’t good practice to insult a person after apologizing to them. But what the hell was she thinking?
Her tongue swipes across her lips. “You said on the tour that the blade’s supposed to have dull edges. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“I also said to always use a glove or a towel, then proceeded to use a glove for the demo.” Which she’s too bright to forget.
“There wasn’t one handy.”
“Should’ve been.” Steve must’ve taken the towel with him when he left the table. “Why didn’t you ask someone?”
“Amanda was off getting something from her car.”
“There are plenty of other team members out there.”
“I don’t know them well enough to interrupt their conversations.”
Because I made sure she didn’t know them at all, back when she started.
More guilt piles on to the Everest-sized mountain in my gut. It comes out as frustration. “Then why didn’t you ask me?”
Her mouth forms a rueful smile. “Sure, Grayson. Let me give you another thing to rag on me for, because you can’t find enough on your own.
” Her voice lowers into a piss-poor imitation of a man as she says, “Don’t know how to shuck oysters, Boston?
They didn’t teach you how to find a towel yourself up in the city? ”
I’d laugh at how terrible her impression is, except I’m caught up in the sting behind it. Her exhale stutters out and her expression flattens.
“It’s okay to not know how to do something.” I say it gently, because right now, it seems like the wrong combination of words could make her crack.
“It is, when you’re not fighting daily to gain the respect you deserve.”
The pool game at Dyl’s, playing basketball last weekend—it all rushes back.
Both times, I’d dared her to play. Not to embarrass her, but because she seemed lonely and it rubbed me the wrong way.
I wanted to give her something to do. Something that could replace that loneliness with a triumphant smile or that ball-busting attitude.
And I guess teasing is more in my nature than saying something like that straight.
She’s always so confident. I never once thought she was saying yes because of some absurd pressure to prove herself.
“I do res—”
“Hey, Eliza! Been looking for you!”
Amanda’s voice booms through the warehouse, cutting me off. Eliza’s hand flinches, like there’s some instinct to pull away. Like she’s been caught revealing parts of herself she’s not supposed to.
I don’t release her.
Looking over my shoulder at Amanda’s shadow, I call out, “Can you go get Martha? Eliza cut her hand open. Might need stitches.”
“Oh, crap! Sure—be right back.”
I turn back and level Eliza with my gaze. “Here are your two options. Either I’m driving you to the ER, or you’ll let Martha, who’s an ER nurse, fix you up.”
Her forehead knits. “Or, option three, I can drive myself to the ER.”
I’m not one of those men who gets off on controlling women. People can make their own decisions. But I’ll slice my own hand open before I let Eliza get into a driver’s seat right now.
“You need two hands to drive, and one of them is out of commission.” She hasn’t gotten woozy yet, but fainting from the sight of blood isn’t a non-possibility.
“You’re not driving yourself,” I state, not caring one bit that I sound domineering.
“I’ll take you. Or, you can get someone else to drive you. That’s your option three.”
Her sigh breathes fire. “I really do not like you right now, Grayson.”
“That implies you have liked me, and will like me again.”
Her tongue darts out over her lips. They’re supple and smooth with a little shine, like she’s wearing lip balm.
Kissable.
I’m too aware of how easy it’d be to test that theory.
Kneeling before her, I’m situated between her knees, my fingers wrapped around her hand.
She’s leaning toward me again, her braids dangling, close enough to see every detail of the long lashes swooping away from her eyes and the streaks of gold slicing through her olive irises.
“Were you put here to annoy me?” she murmurs, but it lacks her usual bite.
“Are you really that annoyed?”
Something flickers in her hazel eyes—until a commotion at the warehouse’s entrance interrupts us.
She straightens as Amanda bustles over with Martha, an older woman I’ve practically known since birth. I recognize the small purple kit in her hand, all too familiar with it myself. The thing must be twenty years old at this point.
She’s stitched me up four times now. Anson, maybe twice.
Dawson, probably ten. Consequences of her living next door to three wild brothers, and having a damn soft touch to boot.
Even as adults, we’ve always preferred going to her than waiting hours at the ER for a tired doctor to jab you with a needle and the front desk to slap you with a two-thousand-dollar bill.
Plus, visits to Martha always come with cookies.
She tuts when she’s close enough to see the blood-stained paper towel. “What have we got here?”
Amanda peeks over my shoulder. “What the hell did you cut yourself with?”
Eliza’s chest heaves a tired breath.
“Some idiot dropped the shucking knife into the sandwich platter,” I say, answering for her. “There wasn’t enough light over there for her to see it. Sliced her hand right open.”
Eliza’s eyes clash with mine, flaring in surprise. The corner of her mouth twitches, and I know covering for her was the right call.
“I think the word idiot is too kind for whoever did that,” Amanda says matter-of-factly.
Martha’s kit clatters against the table, and she nods at Eliza’s hand. “Put it here on the table. Let me see what we’ve got.”
For the first time in—hell, I don’t know—ten minutes, my fingers peel away from her palm. The feel of her skin lingers on mine, like holding her for so long has imprinted it there.
Martha puts on her glasses and hunches over, inspecting the wound as I stand, hovering over them. “I think you can get away with glue. It’s fairly deep, but not terrible.” She straightens, all five-foot-two of her. “I can do it here, right now.”
“I don’t want to ruin your night,” Eliza defers.
“It takes ten seconds. It wouldn’t ruin my night. But it’d probably ruin your night, and the night of whoever drives you, if you go to the hospital.”
That’s the other part of Martha—the unapologetic straight-shooter. I’ve started to think she makes those cookies just to soften her hard edges.
Eliza nods slowly. “Do it here.” Her tone is threaded with nerves, and it doesn’t take a genius to know why. She’s the furthest thing from a wimp, but getting a medical-grade treatment outside of a medical facility, no matter how minor, is daunting.
“It wouldn’t ruin my night to drive you,” I find myself saying. “But if you’d prefer to do it here, it’ll hurt way less than you think. I’ve given Martha plenty of practice over the years.”
“Dawson even more so,” Martha grumbles. “That’s the most reckless boy I’ve ever met.”
“Dawson?” Eliza asks.
“My little brother,” I explain.
“Does he live around here, too?”
“God, no. He ran off as soon as he could—couldn’t stand Garnet Shores. He’s in Ohio now, playing professional soccer.” As long as he can keep his dick in his pants and his image clean.
Eliza hums thoughtfully. “Seems I’m not the only one who can’t stand to be in your presence.”
I bark a laugh. Leave it to her to let loose something like that. She’s more invested than anyone I know in having a polished, respectable reputation, but I’m not included in that equation.
I wouldn’t want to be.
“That’s because I set the bar too high for him.”
“Think you have your directions mixed up there, Grayson.” She turns to Amanda. “Are you sure he’s qualified to steer boats?”
Amanda bursts into a laugh that she quickly tries to rein in. “Sorry, Boss.” She raises a hand and turns away. “Not laughing.”
There’s a lightness in Eliza’s face when she faces me again. “I’m good. Let’s do it here.”
Amanda slowly backs toward the entrance. “Not that I don’t support you or anything, but I might pass out if I watch. I’ll have a drink waiting for you when you’re done.”
As Martha sets up her tools, I debate whether I should stay or take off like Amanda. Eliza’s gone mute, latching onto the tube of glue as Martha snaps gloves on her hands and palms a saline solution.
On her list of people to comfort her, I’m not at the top. I’m not even on the list. If there is a list I’m on, it’s for people she’d keep out of the room or run over with a car.
But she hasn’t dismissed me, and I’m certain she would have if that’s what she wanted. She isn’t afraid to tell me to fuck off.
She might, however, be too proud to ask me to stay.
Martha tears open a sterile syringe, and Eliza’s free hand slaps onto the edge of her seat, squeezing in anticipation.
Decision made.
Braced for rejection, I offer my hand. It’s enough to make her unglue her eyes from the syringe being filled with saline. Questions swirl in her startled gaze, but none of them seem to scream what the fuck are you doing?
“This is your chance to break the bones in my hand,” I say lightly. “Might just turn your night around.”
She peeks at Martha, who’s preparing to clean the wound. Eliza’s free hand shoots into mine.
And I know I made the right call.
Words of comfort might feel patronizing, so I shove them down and say nothing as Martha works. Just let Eliza squeeze the ever-living shit out of my hand.
She’s got one hell of a grip, too. Must be all the typing and phone-holding.
Her face twists, a hiss escaping as Martha flushes the wound, then another when she pinches the cut closed, but she takes it all like a champ. By the time Martha’s covering it with a bandage, her death grip has eased.
But Eliza’s hand doesn’t drop. Her fingers stay tangled with mine as Martha cleans up and rattles off after-care instructions.
Either she forgot, or she still needs the comfort.
Whatever it is, my nerve endings don’t care. They’re too busy absorbing the feel of her silky skin against mine, which suddenly feels criminally rough.
Maybe I should use some lotion. Do I even own lotion?
Why the fuck am I thinking about lotion?
“Let me give you my number in case you have any problems,” Martha says.
Eliza’s hand slips away to her phone, and I shove my empty hand in my pocket so it won't try to find an excuse to touch her again. She types in her number, and Martha heads back to the cookout, leaving us alone again.
I jerk my chin toward Eliza’s phone, which she’s putting away. “Put mine in, too.”
She pauses.
“In case Martha doesn’t answer,” I explain. It feels like crossing a line, the invisible marker that keeps us on opposing sides, so I add, “Or in case you come up with a creative insult and can’t wait until you see me to share.”
“It’s just glue. I’ll be fine.” But she opens a new contact anyway. When I’m done rattling off my number, her eyes spark. “What makes you think I’m even thinking about you in my off-time, Grayson?”
“You’re a planner, Boston. Wouldn’t surprise me if you map out all your witty little comebacks on Sundays,” I say.
But it’s a cover-up for my gut response.
Because I find myself thinking about you.
More than I should.