It shoves the pain down enough for other things to register. The back of his knuckle, rough and hot as it softly braces my chin. His tight pressure on my wound, his freefingers resting quietly on my palm, callouses tickling my skin.
The heat from his hold on me seeps into my skin, warming my face as he finishes his perusal and meets my gaze. “Your color looks good.” His murmur settles deep within me. “How’s the pain?”
I stare at him crouching before me, the messy scruff along his jaw, the faint lines starting to show beside his eyes. Lines born from smiles.
Smiles he never gives me, unless they’re sarcastic, or smug, or paired with some double-edged remark.
All that invested concern, and he still left without me Monday.
I jerk away. My hand stays in his grip, but I lean back into the seat, the voodoo spell broken.
Misreading my reaction for pain, his concern deepens. “That bad?”
“Not sure why you care, Grayson.” Logic is quickly regaining function, and with it, all the reasons I should not accept this man’s help roar back. “I can handle this myself.”
I tug on my hand, but he doesn’t let it move.
“Of course, I care.”
“Because you’re worried I’ll file a safety complaint or something?”
He frowns. “Because you just stabbed yourself in the hand and you might not be okay.”
“I’d think you’d be cheering. Just another strike toBoston.” I smile bitterly. “Another thing that might make her dislike this place enough to leave.”
“I’m well aware you’re not leaving.”
“So why are you stillsodetermined to screw me over?” My voice echoes through the warehouse, exasperated chords suspended in the air.
All week, I’ve refused to show him how much Monday bothered me. Small nods. Polite smiles. That’s all he’s gotten. But whether it’s my throbbing hand or exhaustion from the week or just a damn tipping point, I can’t hold onto that apathetic mask anymore. Which is why words keep tumbling out.
“You left without me on Monday. We had a deal at the basketball game. I spent all of Sunday planning content around that ride-along, and then you left. So either you still hate my guts and want to ruin my life this summer, or you’re a sore fucking loser, or you’re one heck of an actor because everyone in this town thinks you’re a good man and they’re dead wrong.”
I expect him to fire back—to tell me I don’t belong, that it’s my fault for showing up and staying when I’m not wanted here. But all he does is stare over my shoulder at the wall, like it holds all the answers to life.
When he meets my eyes again, he isn’t frowning anymore. Or confused. Or concerned. I don’t know what he is, because his expression is carefully blank.
“I left because you were late,” he says quietly.
Leaning in, I inform him, “I was late because I was helping to clean up an accident.”
“I know.”
Okay, yep, he’sdefinitelya Grade A dickhe?—
“Joy just told me. Tonight.”
My mental insult pauses.
He gives a belabored sigh and briefly glances at the wall again. His throat bobs.
“Eliza, I owe you an apology.” His tone is stone-sober, just as sincere as the concern in his eyes a minute ago. “I assumed you were late because you didn’t respect my time.”
“You realize how that sounds, right?”
“I know exactly how it sounds,” he answers with a level of seriousness that stops me from interjecting. “This farm is everything to me, and it’s a hell of a lot to my brother. It’s our business, yes, but it’s also our father’s legacy. Nothing is guaranteed, and if we want it to succeed, if we don’t want to get eaten by all the sharks out to get us or shut down by careless mistakes, we need to treat it with the care and discipline it requires. You’re smart as hell. You’re excellent at your job. But I’ve only known you for a few weeks.”
“Yet all you do is assume the worst of me,” I state.
