Because it is.
But if that’s true, why did a little jolt of energy zip through my chest?
8
GRAYSON
It’s beentwo whole weeks since I found Boston trying to punt Dave from my office, and she’s already published nine social media posts.
This isn’t information I necessarily want, nor is it my responsibility. I’d explicitly told Anson I wasn’t going to manage her. But despite all my talk, I care too much about this farm to ignore the content she’s putting our name on. And while I think social media is the most useless invention of this era, and thus don’t have any, Kenny was all too happy to inform me about the posts yesterday as he worked the Sunday tours with me.
I expected to hate every single one.
There were already a few old posts on the page, back when the company was smaller and Anson made some basic content to have something available if people searched us through socials.
Eliza’s additions knocked them out of the park.
First up was a shot of the Gold’s Oysters shell sign above the office door, then two short videos of the premises, a photo of the pick-up bag, and a montage of clips from thearea, with infographics sprinkled in between. The quality was exceptional, the captions were simple and to the point, and all the information was correct. There were a few shell emojis among the nine posts, but nothing egregious. And people liked them enough to comment on them.
Iwantedto hate them, just to justify my assumptions.
But, much to my displeasure, I didn’t.
This doesn’t mean they’re bringing any real value to us. Anson could still be wasting the business’s money. But at least she hasn’t made a mockery of us yet. A good thing, considering she isn’t going anywhere for the next two-and-change months.
My phone buzzes, and I curse at the alarm.
Fucking tours.
They bring in a solid boost of income and help us educate visitors about sustainable practices and encourage them to support local producers. But man, they can be a nuisance. Especially on days like today when Amanda’s out and Steve’s sick, so I’m the only one here qualified to give a solo tour.
I could grab two other team members to do it, but if I go, it’s only one body pulled from work during our busiest season instead of two.
Shoving the tracking paperwork I’ve been working on in a folder, I head out of the warehouse. The tour doesn’t start for fifteen minutes, but the excited ones tend to arrive early, and customer experience is everything on these visits. People don’t necessarily come to see the farm through our eyes, but for the exclusive, on-the-water, sea-to-table Gold’s experience—high price-tag included.
My annoyance cools when I catch Boston’s figure by the touring boat. She’s in a Gold’s sweatshirt—a new one, because that green is too vibrant to have met much sun andsalt—and her dark jeans stretch around toned thighs as she crouches for an angled shot of the skiff.
The same way they stretched when she set up each pool shot last Wednesday. Something I only noticed because Darian’s eyes couldn’t help but fucking wander all over her.
Only natural my gaze should track his.
The floating dock shifts when I step on it, and Boston flies to her feet. A long, glossy braid whips around, little wisps of free hair scattered across her features. For a second, her face is open and curious before settling with wariness.
“Enjoy your tour last week?” I say as I stroll up to her.
There’s a light tan across her freckled nose, and I wonder if she pulled herself away from her laptop to spend the weekend outdoors. Hell, I hope she did. The mornings are still cool, but a sunny afternoon is finally warm enough to strip down to a tee-shirt and soak in some sun. Winter down here can be miserable, but summer beach days are one area where Garnet Shores truly shines.
“I did. Amanda’s great.”
“Sure is.”
From anyone else, I’d expect a thank you. But we both know that tour was long overdue, not to mention I’d used it as leverage to wrangle some truths out of her. Our night at Dyl’s had revealed a few things, one being that she’s beyond attempting civility with me. If anything, that smart mouth of hers suggested deliberateincivility is her current game.
Something I don’t mind.
I can’t stand fakeness and pretenses. Never could, and last year with Mackenzie only decreased my tolerance.
I hop on the boat, grab a rag from the center console, and start wiping moisture from the seats. After my third seat, Eliza still hasn’t moved.
