Grayson
Joy just delivered a platter of her homemade cinnamon buns. Anson informed me this morning that we’re clear of the vibrio case. And Dawson has officially kept his name out of the news—and therefore his dick in his pants—for three weeks in a row.
In short, it’s a hell of a good day.
Doesn’t matter that the first heat wave of summer has hit and I’m sweating my ass off.
A new problem will inevitably arise tomorrow, so I’m taking the opportunity to fully bask in today’s good fortune.
Which is why I’m whistling under my breath like I’m JJ when I make my way to the warehouse for lunch and catch Eliza coming out of the front office.
A flowy, denim dress flounces against her thighs as she strides across the lot.
Her hair’s in a pile on top of her head, the kind that’s supposed to look lazy but shows off the long, elegant lines of her neck.
The straps at her shoulders are thin. Dainty.
Way too dainty for a workplace like this, yet she doesn’t look one bit out of place.
Her forehead’s pinched, lips pressed together as I approach. It’s her focus face. The summa-cum-laude expression that suggests some kind of genius is turning over in her mind. I watch it melt into soft curiosity when I get close enough for her to notice.
Not long ago, it would’ve been wariness. Displeasure. An expression armed for war.
I don’t miss that.
“Got something for you in my truck,” I call over to her, gesturing for her to follow me. My truck’s parked alone in the lot’s far corner, under the shade of a giant oak.
She eyes it suspiciously, even as she follows me. “You planning to kidnap me?”
I give her a once-over, noticing a plain, thin gold chain around her neck. She’s a sight in a baggy sweatshirt and worn jeans. In a simple dress like this, delicate chain links resting on her collarbone, she’s point-blank pretty.
Pretty in a way that makes a schoolboy crush on a girl, or makes you halt mid-conversation on the street because it takes your breath away. The same way that makes it near impossible to look at anything but her right now.
“I already told you my stance on kidnapping you. That cute dress isn’t fooling anyone, Boston. You’d rip a kidnapper apart.”
From the smug tilt to her lips, this pleases her. “Scared of little old me?”
“Not scared,” I correct, though her scathing mouth might make other men run—like idiots at a bar looking for an easy one-nighter, or who think late-night drinks make a respectable second date. “Just picking my battles.”
“That implies you think you can win some.”
“It does.”
There’s a spark in her eyes as she replies, “Well, I won’t be offering any tissues when you don’t.”
“That’s why I have Dave,” I supply. “He’s my emotional support duck when mean out-of-towners like you come in and beat me down.”
She snorts. “Yeah, well, your emotional support duck is incredibly violent. I wouldn’t have cut myself if it weren’t for him.”
“Now hang on a second. You didn’t tell me Dave stole the towel you were going to use.”
She pins me with a droll look. “He quacked.”
I blink. “He’s a duck.”
“He’s a duck who snuck up on me, waited until I was prying the shell open, and released the loudest quack I’ve ever heard.” She rubs her bandaged hand, like she’s reliving the experience, and grumbles, “It was entirely pre-meditated.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Boston, you jumped him on your first day. Not a great way to start a relationship.” Her mouth opens to protest, probably something about how sorely I started our relationship.
But I’m already swinging my truck door open and reaching inside.
“Besides, he brought you a peace offering.”
I swipe the small box from the passenger seat and hold it out. She regards it like mystery meat, so I explain, “They’re the waterproof patches I was telling you about. Had a few extra at home that I don’t need right now.”
She doesn’t say anything as she takes the box and turns it over, so my words keep on coming.
“I always put a little piece of gauze along the wound, then seal it on with the patch. Never had a problem. Dawson’s used them for years to cover new tattoos when he’s doing cold-plunges or hot soaks for recovery. ”
I stop there, because anything more would be rambling, and I’m not a rambler.
But Eliza’s silence is starting to make me question if I’ve just crossed a line. If I was wrong in telling myself this is a no-big-deal act of decency.
Yesterday’s ride-along didn’t raise any of these doubts. I’d wanted to do it, but even if I hadn’t, I would have eventually needed to for her work.
This little favor can’t hide behind the same excuse.
But Eliza doesn’t call it out. “Your duck went into your bathroom, opened a cabinet, and grabbed these for me?”
My lips wobble. “Yes.”
“You have an indoor duck?”
“He sleeps inside so he doesn’t get eaten by anything, but he’s got free reign of the farm and my yard during the day.”
Her head slowly shakes. “How did you even get a pet duck? Who does that?”
“I didn’t get him.” Consciously deciding to purchase a pet duck would be strange. “I found him on the farm a few years ago as a duckling with a broken leg. I nursed him back to health, and he’s never left my side since.”
I’m not an idiot who thinks he can domesticate any wild animal that stumbles into his yard.
I tried multiple times to set Dave free, but he kept on coming back, and when winter came, I didn’t have the heart to stick him outside in single-digit temperatures.
I’m not a duck murderer. So now I’m a duck… landlord?
Anson thinks the little guy sees me as his mother.
“Well,” Eliza says, soft smile playing on her lips, “I don’t think Dave has the hands needed to open a bathroom cabinet. So thank you.”
I dip my chin in acknowledgement and close the door. She’s quiet as she falls into step beside me, and I find myself speaking again.
“Not sure if you heard, but Joy dropped off some of her cinnamon rolls this morning,” I tell her. “The team’s probably digging in right now. We should grab some before they’re gone.”
That pulls her attention from the box, lips parting like I just told her Martha Stewart’s our own personal chef today. Again, she makes me wonder if I’m doing too much.
Nothing I wouldn’t do for anyone else on the team.
Joy’s cinnamon rolls are so damn good, they can send a sinner to heaven. Plus, from what I can tell, Eliza always eats by herself in the main office. Maybe that’s her preference, or maybe it’s a circumstance I forced her into.
“What would your team think if this mean out-of-towner came and stole their cinnamon rolls?”
“Not stealing if you have permission.”
“Permission,” she repeats derisively. “See, having your permission actually makes those cinnamon rolls less enticing.”
My head wobbles in a slow shake. “No way you’re a rule-breaker, Boston.”
Her head’s on straighter than a ruler. I’m no rebel like Dawson, but I was known to toe the line growing up.
Trespassing into the old power plant two towns over, sneaking into the middle school gym at night to make out with a crush, ignoring homework and using a polite smile to get away with it. Fun, harmless adolescent stuff.
“I’m not a rule-breaker,” she admits easily, then points at me with the box.
“But you don’t make my rules, Grayson. Your big brother does.
” She halts, stopping me in my tracks. With the coyness of a Cheshire cat, she finishes, “And he said nothing about taking the rest of the cinnamon rolls from you.”
One second, she’s standing beside me. The next, she’s all billowing skirts and maniacal laughter as she races toward the warehouse.
For a second, I let her go, watching in disbelief because there’s no way she just pulled a Lala on me. Then my ass kicks into gear, and I race after her.
The owner of this farm, racing across his parking lot like a kid at recess who wants his stolen cookie back.
Except I’m not running to beat her to the pastries in that warehouse.
Cinnamon buns aren’t on my mind at all. Just this woman, who I’m hearing laugh with pure joy for the first time ever, and who is running way faster than she should be able to in those cute sandals.
Eliza might be a little speed demon, but my legs are longer than hers. Twenty feet from the warehouse, I catch up with her.
“Hope you weren’t looking forward to those,” she pants.
“Oh, no you don’t, city girl.”
I don’t even think as I lunge and sling my arms around her waist. With a heave, I swing her up and around, plopping her on her feet behind me. Her mouth pops open in an astonished “O,” and it’s only then that I realize what I just did.
And it doesn’t feel remotely wrong.
If it did, I’d be dropping her like hot coals. Instead, I keep my hands planted on the curve of her waist, a captivating combination of soft and athletic beneath my palms. Feminine and strong. Her hands find my forearms as she steadies herself.
I wait for her to shove me away, but she doesn’t. Her mouth just opens wider, and another laugh sings out. A laugh I’m responsible for.
“That is so not fair, you cheater!”
“How am I a cheater?”
“Because,” she jabs a finger at my chest. “You can’t just use your muscles to win a race!”
Like they’ve been summoned, the muscles in my hands flex, gripping her waist tighter. “Now, that’s not fair,” I admonish. “You’re a hell of an adversary, Boston. Can’t strip me of all of my weapons.”
Her hand finds my arm again, all the confirmation I need that I’m not doing something wrong. I inhale the warm, flowery notes of her perfume, my voice dropping an octave as I say, “And if yesterday morning was any indication, I know how much you appreciate these weapons in particular.”
Her attempt to play it off had been as skillful as Lala feeding Dave her vegetables and pretending she’s eaten them. And the hint of sunburn on her cheekbones isn’t doing anything to hide the blush creeping over her face.
“Well—”