Decision made.
Braced for rejection, I offer my hand. It’s enough to make her unglue her eyes from the syringe being filled with saline. Questions swirl in her startled gaze, but none of them seem to screamwhat the fuck are you doing?
“This is your chance to break the bones in my hand,” I say lightly. “Might just turn your night around.”
She peeks at Martha, who’s preparing to clean the wound. Eliza’s free hand shoots into mine.
And I know I made the right call.
Words of comfort might feel patronizing, so I shove them down and say nothing as Martha works. Just let Eliza squeeze the ever-living shit out of my hand.
She’s got one hell of a grip, too. Must be all the typing and phone-holding.
Her face twists, a hiss escaping as Martha flushes the wound, then another when she pinches the cut closed, but she takes it all like a champ. By the time Martha’s covering it with a bandage, her death grip has eased.
But Eliza’s hand doesn’t drop. Her fingers stay tangled with mine as Martha cleans up and rattles off after-care instructions.
Either she forgot, or she still needs the comfort.
Whatever it is, my nerve endings don’t care. They’re too busy absorbing the feel of her silky skin against mine, which suddenly feels criminally rough.
Maybe I should use some lotion. Do I even own lotion?
Why the fuck am I thinking about lotion?
“Let me give you my number in case you have any problems,” Martha says.
Eliza’s hand slips away to her phone, and I shove my empty hand in my pocket so it won't try to find an excuse to touch her again. She types in her number, and Martha heads back to the cookout, leaving us alone again.
I jerk my chin toward Eliza’s phone, which she’s putting away. “Put mine in, too.”
She pauses.
“In case Martha doesn’t answer,” I explain. It feels like crossing a line, the invisible marker that keeps us on opposing sides, so I add, “Or in case you come up with a creative insult and can’t wait until you see me to share.”
“It’s just glue. I’ll be fine.” But she opens a new contact anyway. When I’m done rattling off my number, her eyes spark. “What makes you think I’m even thinking about you in my off-time, Grayson?”
“You’re a planner, Boston. Wouldn’t surprise me if you map out all your witty little comebacks on Sundays,” I say.
But it’s a cover-up for my gut response.
Because I find myself thinking about you.
More than I should.
17
ELIZA
Some billionaire must be payingoff the sky in Garnet Shores, because another pristine sunrise is putting on a show above the salt pond.
It’s so magnificently vibrant, every single garnet hue shows through the screen of my phone as I film it from the farm’s dock. The dew-damp wood soaks through my jeans as I sit, cross-legged, but it’s an easy sacrifice.
This isn’t a sunrise to snap a picture of and walk away. It’s one to savor.
And savoring is slowly becoming my new favorite hobby.
The long, relaxed morning swims. The sound of water softly splashing against the boats and docks when I wake. The salt-tinged air that comes with skies like this. Little details that have gradually woven themselves into my life and feel like a warm, weighted blanket over my constantly buzzing brain.
