Yeah, I did. But she hates them as much as I do, and those tours are an excuse to take Eliza out with me.
“Split them with me,” I tell her. “Anything else?”
Puzzlement twists her features, but she doesn’t press. “Nope. All good.” Her eyes catch on something behind me in the warehouse.
I track them to Eliza, in khaki shorts and a Gold’s tee, hair wavy as it falls down her back. Salty, probably, from her morning swim. My blood heats at the sight of her, using a phone tripod to film a wide-angle shot of my crew packing a restaurant shipment.
Never thought something so pretty would look right at home in this place.
“I heard what happened to her boat,” Amanda says. She’s no longer looking at Eliza, but me. Maybe it’s the light, but there’s a gleam to her eyes.
“Yeah. Unfortunate,” I say.
“Wonder where she’s staying,” she muses.
I like Amanda—a lot. She’s reliable. Responsible. Goodat what she does, bullshit and drama-free. But this seems suspiciously like she’s nosing into my business.
Eliza and I aren’t trying to hide that she’s staying at my place. We drove here together early this morning. But we’re also not actively announcing it to the team.
Even if we did, what would we say? That we’re platonically living together? That we’ve entered a—what do the kids call it—situation-ship?
Stupid fucking term.
“You know, my buddy Jake works over at the marina,” Amanda casually continues. “He told me they’re down a few guys, and it’s looking like her sailboat won’t be repaired until after she’s gone.” The corner of her mouth quirks. “Guess she’ll be staying wherever she’s staying until her contract’s up.”
I smother the instinct to smile like an idiot. “Sounds like it.”
Amanda’s grin spreads, but I’m spared more of her innocentmusingsby my phone ringing.
It’s Anson.
For a second, some naïve part of me thinks he could be calling to tell me Eliza accepted the job. Then common sense rolls in to remind me it’s only been a day, and she’d probably give me that news herself. Which means Anson’s calling to deliver some kind of problem.
I answer. “Hey, brother.”
“Gray, where are you?” Anson’s always got a serious edge on work calls, but this time, his tone’s urgent. Severe.
Wariness sinks in. “In the warehouse.”
“Operating anything dangerous?”
“No. What’s going on?”
In true Anson fashion, he rips off the bandage right off. “A hospital called me. Dawson’s been in a car accident.”
My heart thumps once in my chest. Then his words register, and the organ divebombs into my stomach. The sounds of the warehouse fade to the background. The floor disappears beneath my feet.
“How bad?” I force out.
His hesitation tells me all I need to know. “He’s in the ICU, Gray. Medically-induced coma. They said—” a loaded breath comes over the line. “They said there’s a good chance he’ll pull through and be fine, but that’s not a guarantee.”
Worry and panic hit like a wall of ice-water, flushing my body cold. I want this to be a lie. Some fake news story. A random guy with the same name as my brother. But I know Anson’s already vetted it.
He speaks over my silence. “There’s a flight to Ohio leaving in two hours. I already made arrangements with people to watch Lala. I’m booking us both tickets now—unless you need to wait until morning?”
Like hell I’m waiting. Dawson could…he could?—
No.I shove the worst-case scenario from my head. Our family’s lost enough. Dawson’s not fucking following our parents right now.
