The way his eyes soften is the only admission I need.
“Do you do this to every new person you meet? Or is this only reserved for me?”
He readjusts his grip on my hand, reminding me he’s still stemming the bleeding. This entire time, he hasn’t let go. I swore at him, insulted him, and he didn’t drop my hand or even tighten his fingers in frustration.
“I mentioned at Dyl’s that there was an incident last year,” he says in that low timbre. The knob in his throat rolls again, like he’s choking on whatever he’s about to share. “There was a woman, an out-of-towner here on vacation, who I…got involved with. Her father owns one of the waterfront homes on the pond. He’s one of those summer residents who wants us out of here because he thinks we’re ruining his front yard.”
“You sure know how to pick ‘em,” I joke, unclear where this is headed. “Didn’t know you have a thing for playing with fire.”
“Why else do you think I talk to you?” he teases. Then he clears his throat. “She thought I was cheating on her, and decided to fuck us over. She had access to the farm, and she lowered our storage temps, took a photo as evidence, and sent it to her father, who’s friends with a regulator. He madesome other false allegations and could’ve gotten us shut down.”
The shame emanating from him is nearly suffocating.
“That’s a little extreme,” I say. “On her end and the regulator’s.”
“Oyster regulations are strict. The accusations had some serious health implications, and the regulator didn’t question his friend. Even if they didn’t suspend us while they investigated, that type of attention destroys a farm’s name.”
“So how’d you get out of it?”
A flash of a smile. “Anson might be the only person in this town who has more power and connections than the ritzy folks who want us gone.”
“Then they’ll never win.” Now I’m the one staring at the wall, though I’m not searching for answers.
I already have them.
It doesn’t take a senior analyst to connect the dots between last year’s events and…us. Another woman might throw his story in his face and remind him there’s never a good reason to treat others poorly. Maybe that woman is stronger than me.
But I’m not her.
And Grayson Gold is literallykneelingbefore me, swallowing all his pride in a confession that most other men would talk themselves out of. Even if they didn’t, their egos would swallow it whole before it ever came out.
Heck, in my two years of dating Kyle, the words “I’m sorry” never left his mouth—not even after I’d caught him cheating.
Meeting Grayson’s eyes, I say, “I’ve worked my ass off to get to where I am. Sacrificed weekends, nights, a lot of my own sanity. Woken up in a cold sweat because I thought Iforgot to put a certain statistic in my presentation. Stayed in a dying relationship until he cheated because I was too invested in work to deal with the fallout of a breakup.”
I don’t mean to include that last confession. It just slips out. And maybe it’s because of all Grayson just shared that it doesn’t feel as vulnerable as it should. Or maybe it’s the way he’s watching me in simple, quiet observance, not passing judgment on all the things Kyle used to berate me for: trying too hard, thinking too much, caring too much about my goals instead of football and the high score he got gaming.
Still, I cut to the chase before any other confessions slither out.
“I understand the sacrifices, discipline, and attitude necessary to build your own success. And while I’ve only been here for a few weeks, it’s clear to anyone that you put everything into the farm. I don’t ever want to interfere with that. Not just because I’m a professional, but because Igetit.” My lips curve up softly. “I respect it.”
Regardless of how he’s treated me, Grayson is one of the hardest working people I’ve encountered. Working before I arrive, staying late, laboring beside his team day in and day out. He loves this work. He lives it, breathes it. I wouldn’t be surprised if little baby oysters are running through his veins.
There’s a thoughtful silence before he says, “Your successes, your work ethic. I respect that, too. Admire it.”
“Just not on the farm.”
His cheek hitches and he admits, “You’ve done good work on the farm.”
“I’m sorry, can you say that again?” I reach for my phone in my back pocket. “Just want to record that.”
“I would, but you’re bleeding out, and we shouldn’t waste any more time.”
Before I can point out that we just sat here talking for the last five minutes, and therefore I’m obviously not on my death bed, he removes the paper towel and lifts my hand out of the shadow of our bodies.
He whistles low as he tilts my palm in the light. “This is going to need stitches. Maybe glue, if you’re lucky.”
“You don’t think that’s a little extreme?” I argue weakly. He simply lifts a brow as he covers the wound again, and I sigh. “I’ll drive myself to the ER.”
