But Amanda’s over at her car, and I’ll jump fully clothed into the salt pond before I seek Grayson’s help. Some team members mill around, but we aren’t exactly friends, and the last thing I want is to look like some damsel, afraid to crack open a shell when it’s probably in Garnet Shores’ kindergarten curriculum. Besides, the two demonstrations I watched on-tour were simple enough.
I pick up the shucking knife and an oyster and initiate step one: the lollipop. The tip of the blade slides between the two shells, lodging there like it’s supposed to.
Easy. I’vesogot this.
Firming my grip, I go for the twist. A mightyquackassaults me mid-movement. “What the?—”
The blade slips?—
And slices right into my hand.
I see the cut before the sensation registers. In that second, masked by the low light, it doesn’t look bad.
Then the sharp bite of pain flashes as blood floods the wound—and keeps coming. I gasp.
The oyster and knife clatter to the table as I slap my other hand over the injury, cursing Dave as the pain tightens my breathing and blood drips out of my grip.
Crap,this is bad.
Like, might needstitches,bad.
Dave, the traitor, casually waddles away.
I survey the table in a panic, searching for a towel, napkins, anything to stem the bleeding. My eyes land on a roll of paper towels just as a large hand swipes it up. I follow that hand to a too-familiar body rushing around the table to my side, and this stroke of bad luck transforms into a full-fledgedheaven-hates-mecurse.
“Here.” There’s no greeting, no mocking comment. Just quiet urgency as Grayson tears a few sheets free and grabs the wrist of my injured hand. “Lift your hand.”
The pain must be overriding my frontal lobe because I instantly comply. Grayson replaces my grip with his own, pressing the paper towel to the wound hard enough to make me hiss.
“Sorry. It needs pressure.”
“Mm-hmm,” I manage, shifting on my feet to try to distract myself from the tears beating against my eyes.
He lifts the paper towel for a beat and curses low, his breath ghosting across my forehead. “Can’t see how bad it is. We need light.”
He tugs on my wrist, hanging between his, leading me into the warehouse. My brain must be short-circuitingbecause I follow him voluntarily, unable, for the life of me, to think of a better course of action.
I don’t even have a first-aid kit on the boat.
Voices from the gathering fade to a muted buzz as we enter the cavernous space and he leads me to a card table I’ve seen the team eat at. Three vases of flowers sit in the center. They must be from Joy, because otherwise they’d be from Grayson, which simply does not compute.
An image of him frolicking in a field and picking flowers pops into my mind, and I hiccup on a giggle.
Grayson eyes me in concern. “Going delirious on me, Boston?” He kicks out a chair and guides me down, keeping pressure on the wound as he crouches before me.
“I was just picturing you picking flowers.”
The groove between his brows deepens. “Picturing me picking flowers?” he repeats to himself.
My head tilts down to find my hand swallowed in his. His nails are clean and trimmed, but little white scars and scabs speckle those long, calloused fingers.
These are hands hewn by hard work. Definitely not flower-picking hands.
I snort a small laugh again.
“Hey, seriously—you lightheaded?” His free hand moves, landing softly on my chin. Gentle pressure lifts it until I’m snared by two amber orbs that should feel too pretty for a man like him.
But it isn’t the color holding me captive. It’s the steadiness. The earnest concern. The same calm intensity that helped me get my breath on that basketball court.
