Instead of pointing this out, Grayson says, “You’re injured. Can’t have you tripping and falling onto that hand.” He inclines his head and adds, “Liability and all that.”
“My hand is fine,” I argue, but lift myright foot anyway, aiming for the hole. My foot lands on a pile of fabric, the bib leg bunched beneath it.
“Lift your foot a little. Yeah, there.” He drops the straps and gathers the fabric trapped beneath my foot. My standing ankle wobbles. “Hold onto my shoulder.”
My eyes roll, and I’m about to tell him I’m fine when my ankle shakes again. Yoga’s never really been for me—too slow, too zen—but I’m quickly reevaluating its relevance, because my balance is apparentlydismal.
His sweatshirt is a soft, thin cushion against his rock-hard shoulder as I give him my weight. He steers the bib over one foot, then the other, moving deftly like he’s done this before. Like he’s practiced with soft touches and attentive care, despite having such rough hands.
It must be from helping raise Lala.
The image of him swinging her around on the farm comes to mind, and just like that, my inner cavewoman activates.
“You’re good.” Grayson’s voice is low and soft. He’s looking at me again, face just inches from mine as I lean on his shoulder. If I shifted my weight, my lips would meet his, which I’m now paying attention to for the first time. They’re surprisingly smooth amid all that coarse facial hair.
It’s a dangerous combination—his blend of rough masculinity and composure.
Overhead, a seagull squawks, pulling me back to the feel of my feet on the dock, the bibs bunched around my calves, the fact that I’mstaring at his mouthlike it holds the answers to life.
I jerk upright, and he smoothly stands with me, pulling the bibs up as he goes. His toes come to mine as he slips the straps over my shoulders, and his head lowers as he focuses on tightening the first strap. The scents of soap and a warm,salty musk mingle in my nostrils. A musk my brain has categorized as “Grayson” at some point, because as I stand here with my nose practically in his ear, it smells…familiar.
Fitting.
Nice.
Reallynice.
Grayson shifts to my other side, fingertips tickling my shoulder as he toys with the clip. This close, I realize his eyelashes are darker than his hair. Maybe that dark contrast is why his eyes appear so gold.
He backs away and studies his handiwork. “They’re a little big on you, but you should be okay.”
I feel like that white, puffy tire mascot with rubber billowing around my waist and thighs. Except I’m neon orange.
“Wasn’t expecting to be walking in a fashion show this morning,” I joke.
Mom would have a heart attack if she saw this. Maybe even send me to a psychiatrist to figure out what could be so wrong with me that I’ve chosen this over pantsuits in a nice, clean office.
“You make us all look bad, Boston. We’ve got to tone you down sometimes.” The skiff gently rocks beneath him as he steps on and extends a hand. His gaze roves over my face as he murmurs, “Though I don’t think that’s even possible.”
Words stall in my throat, because this isn’t a dig. It’s a sliver of soft honesty that sounds a lot like a compliment, like Grayson thinks I’m—I don’t know?—
I slap my hand into his so abruptly, his brows raise. But I desperately need to stop this overthinking before it jumps to conclusions—especially when those conclusions are the type to make my chestflutter.
He helps me in, and I busy my brain with filming as we set out on the water.
The docks are far behind us when Grayson’s voice floats over the soft hum of the engine. “Haven’t seen you here this early before.”
“Wanted to capture the sunrise from the farm,” I explain, cutting my video and cradling my phone against my thighs. “Plus, no morning swims for the next week, thanks to this.” I hold up my bandaged hand.
Day three into my water ban, and I already miss it.
Funny, considering I hadn’t thought about swimming once in the last few years before coming to Garnet Shores. Swimming had been bucketed with water balloon fights, real campfires, and nights spent video calling friends until two in the morning. Childhood. The good ol’ times. The pieces of you that a successful adulthood requires leaving behind.
Yet here I am, now, arms aching to power through the water.
It must be something to do with routine. A few weeks of starting my days with a swim, and my body’s come to expect it.
“You ever try swimming at the town beach?” Grayson throws the question over his shoulder. When I cock my head curiously, he continues. “I see you swimming out here some mornings. But there’s a local group that swims at the town beach every day.”
