GRAYSON
Summer on the water in New England is unpredictable. Some days, you’re baking in a water-logged desert. Others, it’s cloudy and damp, or ripping with fast-moving squalls that make you question your choice to work on small boats.
But sprinkled between the extremes are some Goldilocks days—sunny and perfectly warm, with a gentle sea breeze that dries the sweat from your forehead and feels like bliss.
Today’s one of those days, and I can’t think of a better welcome home.
Well, except for last night.
I started early this morning, antsy to get back into the rhythm of things and catch up on any paperwork Amanda wasn’t able to do.
Had Eliza wanted to laze in bed and go for a repeat of last night, I would’ve been down in a heartbeat.
But she was happy to get out for a morning swim—though part of me suspects her readiness to get up and go was for my benefit as much as hers.
Women I’ve dated, Mackenzie included, always wrestled with the farm for attention. They liked the idea of dating a farm owner, the fantasy of a man who works outdoors with his hands, until they realized they had to share me with the work schedule.
With Eliza, though, something tells me my challenge will be telling her to slow down.
It’s perfect for me. She’s perfect for me.
“You want to talk about him?” Mark asks as we putz toward the sorting float.
Mark’s not much of a talker. It’s one of the reasons I teamed up with him this morning. I’m not shoving Dawson’s situation out of my mind, but I sure as shit don’t want to spend all morning getting unsolicited advice and sympathy about it.
“No,” I say. But Mark’s met him before, so I add, “He’s recovering at home now. Got a PT doing daily visits. Should be back in playing shape for next season.”
Mark nods once, and leaves it at that.
But then, to my surprise, he speaks again. “She’s living with you, huh?”
I eye his weathered face, regarding me from the bow. The team must’ve been talking a lot for Mark to catch wind of the gossip.
Need to give them more work if they’re that fucking bored.
“She was renting a boat that’s getting repaired right now. I’m housing her.”
And I’ll keep housing her, whenever she wants to stay the night—which’ll be most nights. Cocky, maybe, but I’m not above playing dirty. Bribing her with coffee milk and orgasms. But I don’t think bribery’s even needed, considering she waited up for me last night.
I liked coming home to her before I left for Ohio, but last night?
I full-on loved it. Just as much as I loved seeing her cute trinkets scattered everywhere, making their claim on my place, and her adorable blush when she tried to deny it.
Then I took in the cinnamon rolls and her news about staying in Garnet Shores, and my heart hammered my ribs so aggressively, the shittiest week this year turned into the greatest of the last decade.
Two-point-five months of knowing her, and she’s already got all the power over me. And I’m pretty sure I’ve got as much over her, too, even if she won’t admit it yet.
My chest is full of fucking rainbows thinking about it here, in the middle of the salt pond, hands grimy from scrubbing cages and harvesting. It only gets fuller when Mark says, “She did some things here, when you were out. As far as I heard, she didn’t fuck anything up too bad.”
“Glad to hear it.”
From anyone else, it’d be a backhanded compliment. From Mark, who’s done nothing but scowl about her, it’s a glowing, sparkly five-star review.
Yeah, my girl’s got a way of slithering in and making a salty bastard love her.
Love.
The last time I felt that for a woman was my early college girlfriend.
Since then, it’s been a lot of pining, lust, liking.
When all those feelings appear in your chest, it can be hard to tell the difference between them.
People usually turn to timeframes to differentiate.
Six months of knowing someone, and you’re still a sap?
You’ve probably crossed into love territory.
But process of elimination is also a good way of narrowing things down. It’s not “pining” for a woman when you’ve got her. It isn’t just “lust” if you’re addicted to them with their clothes on. And it sure as shit is more than “liking” if they occupy this much of your chest and head.
We’re two minutes from the cages when my pocket vibrates with a call. I grab my phone to see an unknown number. Normally, I’d ignore it, but with Dawson…it could be a nurse, his agent, god forbid another hospital call.
“Grayson,” I answer.
“Hi, I’m calling from a marketing agency regarding Eliza Attleburn, who just interviewed for a position with us. We have your company here as reference. Would you be able to answer some questions about her?”
The chipper female voice echoes in my head, drowning out the engine’s rumble. The pond’s gentle breeze turns rigid. The sunlight pierces my eyes. And all the stupid fucking rainbows in my chest collapse into a cloud of acrid dust.
“What do you mean, interviewed?” The question scalds my throat coming out.
“We just spoke with her about a Senior Marketing Management position. Just an hour ago, actually,” the woman adds with pleased disbelief. “She’s excellent. We’re reaching out to several of her references before we make our offer.”
An hour ago?
An offer?
But she’s…she’s staying in Garnet Shores. She took Anson’s job offer. She told me this fourteen hours ago.
My thoughts wade through sludge as I try to understand. Eliza wouldn’t do this. Her heart’s honest. She’s too fucking good. The woman must have her dates mixed up, because there’s no way Eliza interviewed with them today.
But she’s been working from home all day.
And how could you mistake an interview that happened just an hour ago?
There’s—there’s some kind of good explanation. There’s got to be.
Like what? the devil on my shoulder taunts. Like a shiny, new opportunity popped up, and no matter how hard she tries, part of her will always think she belongs in the city?
“I’m sorry, do you know her?”
A no pounds against my throat. I want to be done with this conversation, pretend it isn’t happening. But—my fingers tighten on the wheel—it is.
Eliza…damn…Eliza just took an interview, and the reference call mistakenly came to me instead of Anson. Good fucking thing for her, because if it had gone to him after she’d accepted the position, Anson might be pissed enough to rescind her offer.
If she even wants it?
Jesus.
“Hello?” the woman prompts.
“Yes, I know her,” I say, forcing my voice to work.
Then I proceed to tell her about the most incredible woman I know, the one I’ve irrevocably fallen for, who owns my goddamn heart—who couldn’t possibly feel the same way about me, because if she did, she wouldn’t have said one thing to my face last night, then gone behind my back and done another over her fucking lunch hour.