She slips her hand into mine, and I’m struck by how delicate it is. Then I’m wondering why I’m even struck by that.
Maybe because her verbal sparring makes her seem so much tougher than she is.
But that sharp tongue is nowhere to be found as she mutters a “thank you,” nor as we stop at the upweller to peek at the millions of juvenile oysters that’ll slowly make their way out to the farm as they get big enough. In fact, as we head further into the salt pond, she dives full-tilt into her role, asking, “What’s your favorite part of the job?”
I’ve just finished answering Cindy about what a day of work is like here when Eliza poses the question. I wonder if it’s for some social media caption, but she’s leaning in, face tilted up inquisitively, like she genuinely wants to know.
“Can’t choose one favorite,” I tell her. “I love oysters. I enjoy the sustainability aspect, too. Oysters filter the water they live in, and they grow here naturally. No fertilizer or chemicals needed. And there’s no better workplace than this.”
I glance away from the farm ahead to look at her. The breeze has loosened more hairs from her braid, and they’re whizzing around her head as she nods thoughtfully.
“Definitely a beautiful workplace,” Cindyremarks.
“Makes up for the dress code, I suppose.” The comment, tainted with derision, comes from Tom.
I keep my expression unbothered as his buddies chortle. Years ago, I would have chirped back. But experience has taught me that no matter how successful your business is, if it involves manual labor or servicing others, there are folks who’ll put you beneath their boot.
If only they knew how ass-backwards that was. He wouldn’t survive a morning doing my team’s work. But I’m man enough to not get defensive over something so trivial. Plus, putting him in his place would only get us a bad review and make him more self-righteous.
It’s better to find entertainment in that kind of ignorance.
But Eliza doesn’t. Leaning forward to get a clear view of him, she says, with utter innocence, “Better that than the ugly, bright golf polos everyone wears at my office. Those were invented for the green, and they should stay there. Am I right?”
Above the neon salmon collar peeking out of his windbreaker, Tom’s smug grin fades.
She catches my eyes as she leans back in her seat, and I can’t stop my lips from tilting. The corner of her mouth twitches, and for a moment, it’s like we’re on the same team.
And I realize I don’t hate that. At all.
9
ELIZA
“Not a fan of golf polos, huh?”
It’s the first thing Grayson says as we stand in the skiff, watching the tour from hell pile into their expensive cars. I’m shocked they stooped so low as to sit in a small, helicopter-less boat.
“I don’t care what people choose to wear,” I tell him. “Just not a fan of the attitudes.”
I’ve come across plenty like them. Growing up, my parents’ social circle didn’t exactly consist of the kindest souls. Just successful and wealthy ones—the sort that bridge you to better opportunities and promotions.
It’s a minor miracle my parents never adopted that disposition. Maybe it’s because they come from the types of families many of their “friends” would look down on, or maybe, despite their high expectations and detachment toward me, there’s some gentleness hiding in their hearts.
If so, it’s in some mysterious, elusive place I can no longer find.
Grayson nods toward the idling vehicles. “That kind of attitude doesn’t come from a happy life. I’d bet our friendsthere are miserable. You’ve got to be, if someone’s forcing you to wear a paisley-print windbreaker.”
“Doesn’t mean they need to share that misery with you.”
Grayson quirks his head at me. “You worried about my feelings?”
“I’m worried they’ll make you more insufferable than you already are.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbly and resonant. “Careful. Keep saying stuff like that, and you’ll make me blush.”
Yeah, right.Oysters will grow fins before the man’s self-assurance crumbles enough for him to blush.
The guests’ cars bumble out of the lot, and Grayson wordlessly begins loosening the lines from the dock.
