There’s absolutely nothing about him that suggests he’s running this business. The water and grime coating his clothing do suggest heworkshere, but there’s no way a person this unkempt is the owner of the award-winning farm that’s been featured in culinary magazines.
He swings the door open wide. “Get out.”
Oh no, you didn’t.
I’ve never punched anyone before, but the urge snakes down my arms, gathering in my hands, now fisted by my sides.
I am adamngood professional with adamngood (slightly inflated) resume who confirmed my start dateand timewithmy new employer when I signed a contract for this job three days ago. I subletted my apartment and moved into a ramshackle sailboat in a ramshackle marina because that was the only accommodation available on such late notice. I dumped my cheater-of-a-boyfriend and told my boss he was going to miss me when my job was deemed unnecessary and cut.
I’m not about to balk at some jerk who needs a shower.
I take two steps back and perch against the desk instead.
“Iwouldget out, if I was a visitor.”
His jaw works over more words, but I cut him off before they make it out. “I’m the new Social Media Directorfor Gold’s Oysters. Anson Gold signed my contract. His secretary confirmed my start time and directed me to this office in an email yesterday morning. I have all the papers to prove it if you want your eyes to do something other than glare at me like a toddler whose mom won’t buy them a new Lego set.”
His head jerks back in shock as he processes this information. Pasting a pleasant smile on my face, I tap my fingers on the desk and wait for an apology.
When he opens his mouth, however, the wordsI’mandsorryare not on tap.
“Lady,” he bites out, and the disrespect in it makes me bristle with loathing. “My brother would have told me if he went over my head to hire someone formyfucking farm. But he didn’t. And I sure as shit didn’t hire you. It’s been a hell of a day and it’s only nine in the fucking morning. I don’t have the time or patience to drive some sense into you, so like I said: Get. Out.”
That’s the last straw.
A burn slides into my throat, crawling up my face and into my eyes, which are on the verge of watering.
I know this feeling. It’s the same one that made me bawl my eyes out in the elevator after HR eliminated my position two weeks ago. It’s frustration, and anger, and the fact that no matter how hard I work, I cannot seem to catch a break.
Andthis, which was supposed tobe my break, is just another mess.
The only thing that would make this worse right now is actually releasing tears in front of this jackwagon, so I’m drawing the line. I force a shaky exhale and push to my feet. Beside me, Dave is nesting in his wonderful mess of mayonnaise, turkey bits, and crumbs.
Forcing the wobble from my voice, I say, “You might want to clean that up. Mayonnaise stains.”
Then I hitch my bag over my shoulder, settle my hood on my head like I have all the time in the world, and calmly bypass him. I want him to reek of dead fish, but I only catch a whiff of something salty and warm, and that pisses me off even more.
I trudge across the parking lot, already drafting an email to Anson’s secretary in my mind as the rain welcomes me right back to where I started.
A sign of a new, fresh beginning,my ass.
2
GRAYSON
“Come on, baby,”I say, coaxing the little engine that could-not.
I send up a prayer as I turn the ignition for the twentieth time. The skiff’s motor sputters, hitching twice. Then a miracle happens.
It catches, rattling to life before settling into a loud, steady buzz.
I’d cheer, but I’m too pissed off to feel anything but annoyed relief. Thanks to its tantrum, we’re running two hours behind on our first tour day of the season, when we’re already down a boat. This morning’s downpour soaked my pants through before I had time to put on my waterproof gear, and I’m already chafing.
No fucking hip-hip-hoorays over here.
“About time,” Mark grumbles from beside the open motor at the back of the skiff.
Like me, he’s smeared in black grease.
