Fresh air. Exercise. Some good old-fashioned fun.
Kids beg their parents to let them do this stuff, right?
I shoot from the free-throw line. The ball hits the rim but bounces awkwardly, flying out to the side. I watch as it lands and rolls all the way to the tree line surrounding the court.
Fresh air. Exercise. Some good old-fashioned fun.I mentally recite the words as I make the long jog to retrieve the ball.
My next free-throw is an air-ball, bouncing twice and coming to a stop on the grass behind the hoop. An improvement from flying all the way to Timbuktu, maybe, butcome on.I used to be a starter. I should be better than this.
I snag the ball and march back to the free throw line, and that’s when my motivational mantra dies like a plant that’s caught fire. Because two cars roll into the dirt lot, and the worn forest-green pickup looks a lot like the one I see parked daily in the oyster farm’s lot. The other is black and shiny, and the driver looks awfully familiar from my internet searches.
Anson Gold. Grayson Gold. Both here. With me.
Karma, what have I done to you? Was it throwing mud at Grayson’s face?
My worst fears are confirmed when theypile out of their cars with another man I don’t know, all dressed in athletic clothes and sneakers.
“Shit. Shit.Shit.” Is it too late to dart into the trees and pretend I was never here? As if in answer, all three heads turn in my direction before I can move.
Wave, you idiot.
I force my hand up, because Grayson is herewith my bossand I need to act normal and respectable, not like a panicked, anxious mess. Anson returns the gesture as the men make their way over, basketball in hand.
The ball of anxiety in my chest stretches bigger with every step they take. Between my tours and Grayson’s mercy with the mud, we seem to have entered a fragile truce, as if he’s finally accepted my presence on his farm.
But every interaction still requires me to be on top of my game, and if my last two shooting attempts are any indication, I am, in fact, at the verybottomof my game. Like, below sea-level. I refuse to make a fool of myself in front of him, never mind my employer—who may as well be auditioning for a cologne commercial right now.
Anson Gold is like the Boston, Gucci-model version of his brother. Where Grayson is shaggy and rugged, Anson is clean-cut and controlled. His dark hair is cropped short in a buzz cut, and neat stubble covers his jaw. His face is a little more square, but with the same tawny eyes, straight nose, and confident stride I’m coming to know, he’s very obviously Grayson’s sibling.
He’s also the type of man I’d normally give a quadruple-take if we crossed paths on Boylston Street. But I find my attention settling on Grayson instead, who’s traded his perpetually-stained work gear for a clean tee with a charity’s 5K plastered on the front. His ball-cap is backwards, which means there’s noshadow to hide the way his gaze rakes over me as I approach.
“Boston,” Grayson greets. “Play ball as much as you play pool?”
Anson raises a brow at his brother before extending a large hand my way. “Eliza, pleasure to meet you in-person.”
“You too.” I return his handshake firmly, as if that professional firmness will make up for the fact that I’m wearing skimpy running shorts in front ofmy boss.
Anson has built an impressive miniature empire in an incredibly short amount of time. Despite looking casual in athletic gear, this man is something of a shark. His reputation is one of ruthless business—which is why I trust a reference from him will be valuable.
“How have you been enjoying the job?”
It’s laughable how loaded that question is. Ignoring Grayson in my periphery, I smile. “It’s been a wonderful experience. Thank you again for the opportunity.”
“That’s great to hear.” His tone suggests he sees right through my bullshit. “Not sure if he’s swung by the farm yet, but this is our friend, JJ.” Anson gestures toward the third man with them. He’s handsome. Short blonde hair, cut military-style. Kind blue eyes. Clean-shaven, strong jaw.
Very Captain America-esque. If Captain America had a sleeve of tattoos.
He gives me a good-natured grin and offers his hand. “Heard a lot of great things about you from Gray, here.”
My eyes skate to Grayson as I shake his hand. “Great things, huh?”
I can’t tell if it’s annoyance or amusement painted across Grayson’s face. “What can I say? Farm wasn’t complete without you.”
“You’re too kind.”
“No, really. I thought we could use a new skiff, or maybe upgrade our sieve. But you and that phone is what we really needed.”
“So glad that you recognize that already.”
