When nothing comes, she lets out a soft, “Okay.”
Then she bites her lip in a piss-poor attempt to stem a smile. Like allowing herself to smile at something I’ve offered is a grievous crime.
I’m tempted to tease her for it, but I know the almost-smile would vanish in an instant.
And,fuck me, I don’t want it to go away.
Before I can dig into the meaning of that, I’m back on the dock and heading to greet our guests. Eliza still hasn’t boarded the skiff when I return with the three older couples who arrived together.
She greets them with a shy smile that is clearly well-manufactured, because this woman’s anything but timid. “Hi! Hope you don’t mind me crashing your tour. I’m here visiting on my own, so I got joined together with you all.”
Relief sinks in that she’s pretending to be a guest. The last thing I want is to field concerns about blasting their faces across the internet, or complaints about their paid experience being used for work.
That relief, however, is short-lived, because one of the men replies, “I thought six would be a full boat.”
I know their type. Just retired, mid-range wealthy, like spending their money on name brands and vintage wines. Vacationers from one of the ritzy neighboring towns, if I hadto guess. Doesn’t automatically make a person an asshole, but on occasion, these types of guests are snobs.
Lucky me, this is one of those occasions.
“Eight is capacity,” I tell him, bringing his condescension away from Eliza and to me. “Unless you select the private tour when you book.”
“I thought youdidselect the private tour,” the woman beside him fusses. His wife, most likely, from their matching paisley windbreakers.
“It was an extra charge. I figured six of us would automatically be a private tour,” he grumbles, deep grooves cutting down from his mouth.
What a miserable fucking life you’ve got to lead to have frown lines like that.
“Not the case here,” I say plainly. “Anyone need to use the restroo?—"
“Can we reschedule?” the wife asks.
“We have a twenty-four-hour cancellation policy.”
“But this isn’t what we were expecting.”
Eliza nudges my arm. “Maybe I can just join the next tour,” she cuts in hesitantly.
My brows furrow. There’s no way she’s balking at these people.
But if intimidation isn’t behind her offer, that means she’s trying to help me. Trying to save me from this misery by putting herself out.
“Next one’s full,” I lie, dragging my gaze away from her and back to the guests. “Are we continuing with your tour?” I ask point-blank.
“Cindy, Tom, it’s okay,” one of the other women says. “It’s just one extra person.”
From the frowns on Cindy and Tom’s faces, you’d thinkthey’re being forced into a surprise root canal. But they begrudgingly nod and shuffle toward the boat.
I step into the skiff and help them in with a hand.
“I’m all set,” Tom waves me off.
“Farm rules,” I tell him. “Safety is our priority.”
He obliges, and everyone is settled on a seat when Eliza steps up to the side. She eyes my hand like it’s a cockroach.
I smile. “Rules apply to all guests.”
“Of course.” I swear I hear an eye-roll in her voice.
