He takes his time leaning back, muscled chest still expanding on big breaths. His palms trail up and down my sides, his thumbs brushing across my breasts before he pulls back and takes in the state of my torso.
“Let me get you cleaned up.” He winks. “I want to get to those cinnamon buns before Dave does.”
“Cinnamon bricks,” I correct with a wince.
This doesn’t deter him in the slightest. If anything, it makes his whole damn night, because a devilish grin lifts his lips and he says, “I actually hope they’re as bad as you say. ‘Cause if they’re really inedible, I’ll just have to have you again. For dessert.”
34
ELIZA
I takeanother sip from my tumbler as I drive down the vibrant, tree-lined street to Grayson’s house, the sugary concoction lighting up my taste buds.
“Coffee milk,” Grayson called it, when he’d mixed it up for me this morning before I left for my swim. According to him, it’s a Rhode Island staple, and thus a required part of my “living-in-Rhode-Island initiation”—a process which he’s deemed “essential” and put himself in charge of.
It tastes like coffee ice cream, and I’m hoping it comes with the same sugar rush. After last night’s homecoming and a thirty-minute sunrise swim, my body needs all the energy it can get.
Not my brain, though. I’ve never had a Red Bull, but I imagine the happy buzz lighting up all four lobes is equivalent to at least three cans. I thought I washappywhen I treated myself to a latte, a new season of my favorite show, or a Friday night date with Kyle. But that feeling was a whisper compared to this.
My phone rings again, and I sigh. My mom texted me again while I was out swimming, but I was waiting tounpack that giant can of worms until I got back home. At this point, though, what difference does three minutes make?
Fortifying myself with another sugary gulp, I hit the green button, and her voice blares through the car’s speakers.
“Eliza Bethany Attleburn. You’ve been deliberately ignoring me.” Her greeting is steady and controlled, but the middle-name-drop shows her hand.
She’s a volcano, about to erupt.
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” I say calmly. “I was busy last night and this morning.”
“Busy with what?” There’s a snap in her tone now. “Daydreaming? Throwing your life away?” I’d tell her she’s being overdramatic, but that would only rile her further, and I don’t want to ruin how good I feel with a Category Five argument.
Not that she cares.
“Suzanne told me about your apparent decision to justskipan interview Monday.”
“I notified the hiring team the day before?—”
“Andthen, you proceeded to ignore every single one of Suzanne’s emails and calls.” She says it like she’s accusing me of a felony.
“Mom, I?—”
“No,” she states, interrupting me again. “There is no excuse for this level of negligence, and I willnotallow you to continue this asinine self-destruction today.”
I’m twenty-six and independent. She no longerallowsme to do anything. But I’m too caught up on deciphering her meaning to address that verb usage. “What’s today?” I ask.
“Your interview with theconsulting agency.”
Everything within me freezes.Consulting agency? Interview?I’d submitted cover letters and my resume to several firms and agencies, but I haven’t accepted any other interviews. Had Suzanne agreed to it for me? Can she evendothat?
“Wow, Eliza.” Mom’s bitter disappointment fills the silence. “You reallyhaven’tlistened to a single one of Suzanne’s voicemails.”
No, I haven’t. And I’ve been too busy all week to inform her I was done with her services. “Mom, I have a new job. I’ve already accepted the offer,” I blurt.
“What job is this?”
“Marketing Director for Gold’s. The vineyard, the oyster farm—everything.”
On a dime, her tone shifts. “Why would you do something like that?”
