I beeline it to a corner table that’s as far from Grayson as possible and plop my laptop down. Then I pause.
Do I give Grayson my back so he doesn’t notice me? Face him so it seems like I don’t care if he sees me? One says I’m hiding. The other says I’m goading him.
Or I’m just way overthinking this, and Grayson isn’t going to think anything beyond “I hate you” when he recognizes me all the way over here—ifhe even notices me.
I’ve been standing here so long it’s starting to look weird, so I compromise and scoot one of the chairs so I’m only half-facing Grayson. It isn’t lost on me that I’m allowing him way too much real estate in my mind, and now my pleasant, grease-filled evening is in terrible danger of becoming yet another tribulation when he probably hasn’t even noticed me.
No.
We’re not letting Grayson do that.
Easier said than done.
When the waitress stops by two seconds later and asks if I want a drink, the answer is an overly enthusiastic yes.
6
GRAYSON
Eliza Attleburn is sittingin the corner, typing away on her laptop like she’s in a working café in downtown Manhattan and not Garnet Shores’ local joint.
I’m not the only one who’s noticed.
The only big shiny electronic screen that’s ever been in Dyl’s Den is the one on the wall showing local lottery numbers. Eliza sticks out like a sore thumb.
Doesn’t help that she’d catch eyes without the giant computer. Her hair, which was down earlier, is thrown into a ponytail that shows off her pert cheekbones and the straight line of her stubborn nose. Lips that I know are slightly pouty twist as her face wrinkles, her entire focus on that screen.
Like the laptop, that level of focus doesn’t belong here either. Not when Dyl’s is the type of place you go for a casual drink and comforting meal to unwind after a work day.
Then again, it’s that level of focus that’s responsible for the neatly typed words I’d read just before coming here.After hanging with Lala for the afternoon, I’d finally opened up Eliza’s resume.
I might not be as versed in marketing-speak as Anson, but it’s clear Eliza Attleburn has one hell of a track record. Graduated top of her class. Worked in Boston, generating strategies that earned millions for clients in the technology sector. Got promoted twice within one year at her first job, before making a vertical move to a new fancier-sounding company. She still doesn’t belong on the farm, but Anson’s hiring decision makes more sense now. And our earlier conversation in the oyster pickup room seems a little more egregious now, too.
Sure “conversation” is the right word for it?
I turn back to Kenny and take a long pull of beer to hide my grimace. Unfortunately, he saw exactly where my eyes just went.
He grins. “Checking out the video girl?”
“Social Media Director. And I’m not checking her out.” The cheery glint in his eyes tells me he’s just about at his alcohol limit. The kid’s young and still learning where it is, which seems to be at a whopping two beers.
“What then? Trying to scare her away with your eyes?”
Eliza Attleburn doesn’t scare.
Except when I barged in on her and she nearly split her head open earlier. Even then, she recovered like a feral cat and came back at me, claws extended.
Fuck,I owe her an apology. I knew it the moment she’d set me straight about what she was doing in the pickup room. The guilt that’d been planted then has been growing ever since, and Lala piled on the fertilizer when she’d stared at me with her big green eyes and declared I was her “favorite big brother.”
Granted, she said it when we were pulling into MissyD’s Dairy Freeze, but dessert-motivated or not, it was a bucket of ice water to the face. I’m supposed to be her role model, and today I raised my voice at someone who didn’t deserve it. Even worse, that someone was a woman.
I’m better than that.
“Is it ‘cause she looks like…what’s her name?” Kenny snaps his fingers, attempting to jog his alcohol-impaired memory. “You know, that chick who fucked us over last?—”
I pull the beer right out of his hands.
“Hey, man! Come on.”
