She crosses her arms, and her lips tip up in a rueful smile. The bottom one is a little fuller than the top, and like the pieces of hair, the feminine detail softens the edge she’s trying to have.
Kara arrives with a tray of food. “Oh, perfect!” she exclaims, cheeks red from the dinner rush. “I have both your plates here. Was going to bring yours over after, Gray, but here it is.”
Before Eliza can say something, Kara drops a burger beside her laptop, steak tips in front of me, and breezes away like a tornado.
“You’re not eating here.”
I glance down at the steak. “Appears I am.”
“Then get your vision corrected.”
“I could move, but that would just dirty another table, and Kara’s already slammed tonight.”
That approach seems to work, because while Eliza’s jaw works over more words, nothing comes out. Instead, she closes her laptop, picks up her burger, and takes an enormous bite. She doesn’t even finish chewing before she takes another one, like she can’t wait to finish eating so she can leave.
I don’t mind, because I only need about thirty seconds. Cutting a piece of steak, I get right to it.
“What I did today was out of line.” Her jaw stops mid-chew, but I’m focused on her eyes, more brown than hazel in the tavern’s warm light. “I’m sorry for raising my voice at you like that. It was unacceptable. That isn’t something I normally do.”
I wasn’t planning on tacking on that last part, but I don’t want her to think I’m one of those men who gets off on power trips and bullying. And while I’m far past the point of trying to impress other people—especially this woman I want gone—my gut twists at the possibility of being viewed as antagonistic scum.
Though from my recent behavior, I fit the fucking image.
Herface gives nothing away as she finishes chewing and takes another bite, bacon and ranch oozing out from the bun. I dig into my own meal as I wait, marinating in the awkward silence.
I have a feeling it’s intentional. A tactic to make me suffer a little. We both know I want her to accept the apology so we can be done, but she isn’t the type to let me off easy.
It’s both frustrating and respectable.
Another man would prompt her. Prattle on about how sorry he is. Desperately find a way to repair his ego.
I wait.
It’s at least two minutes before she breaks for some fries and finally responds. When she does, it’s not at all what I’m expecting.
“You don’t trust me.”
I didn’t come here to rag on her more, but I’m not a bullshitter. “I don’t.”
“I’m very good at what I do,” she says between fries.
“I know. I saw your resume.”
She considers this, like her mind is flipping through possibilities. She comes up empty. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. But I trust that you’re good at oyster farming, because of your track record.”
So why don’t you trustmewithmyjob?
The unspoken question hangs in the air.
“You don’t have experience in this industry.”
“I didn’t have any experience in tech before I started, and that wasn’t an issue.” The statement isn’t cocky; it’s confident. Spoken by a woman who’s proud of her successes and owns it. From what I read, she absolutely should be.
I could give her another small part of the truth, but something tells me she’d find some wayto challenge it. Poke holes in my careful construction. So I lay it all out—sans the part about her semblance to Mackenzie.
The more I learn about Eliza, the less of a likeness she has.
“We had an incident last year. Someone who I trusted came in and almost screwed us over. You’re not from here. You might not respect the business, and you’re out of here in less than three months. This is my baby. It’s just a few bucks and a short summer to you.” I shrug. “Besides, we’ve been steadily growing without social media. You’ve seen our awards and write-ups. Your position here is entirely unnecessary. If anything, it has the potential to do more harm than good.”
