The possibility that City Girl wasn’t lying slowly filters in, but I still can’t believe it.
“Howwas I informed? Because I sure as hell don’t remember agreeing to let some random girl waltz around my farm during our busiest season.”
“Your email.” He says it expectantly, like I’m the clueless one here.
“Who the fuckemailstheir brother, Anson? Text me. Call me.”
“Business correspondence stays in business channels,” he robotically explains.
And there he is. Mr. Anson Gold, CEO of the Gold’s family businesses, in all his stiff, sanctimonious glory.
“What about practicality?” I throw the skiff into neutral, because we’re almost at the cages and I can’t do my job with a phone in my hand and a shitstorm on the horizon.
Justanotherdelay.
“You run the oyster ops, Gray. Email comes with that. Need me to hire you a secretary?”
I ignore the question. “You’re right.Irun the oyster ops. So why areyouhiring someone to interfere with those ops?”
Mark eyes me warily from the back of the skiff, no doubt eavesdropping on every word. I don’t mind. This is about to be his problem, too.
“Because I’m in charge of marketing for Gold’s, and because you’ve never cared about industry trends, and you’re too stubborn to take advice.” Anson doesn’t pull any punches. Not that I expect him to. “You do oysters. I do business. That’s the way you’ve always wanted it.”
My brother’s a damn good businessman. As CEO of the entire enterprise, he’s head of everything—the small vineyard, my oyster farm, our distribution channels. He took what our dad had only started and exploded it into the award-winning name it is now.
He’s ruthless. Cutthroat. Genius in strategy, numbers, and marketing.
But Christ, his people skills need work.
Now isn’t the time to remind him of this. I have bigger fish to fry. Like the fact that Anson did, in fact, hire me a girl who’s a professional at phone usage and emojis.
How is that even a degree?
“Of all the people you could’ve hired, why a social media girl?”
“It’s a marketing channel we haven’t tapped, and it’s taken over the world. We’re behind.”
I run my hand through my hair, wondering if I’m stuck in a nightmare.
City Girl. Broken engine. This phone call. It all adds up to a bad dream. But the familiar breeze that ripples across the water and tickles my face keeps me grounded in reality.
“What makes you so convincedshecan help us?”
“She’s incredibly overqualified. I senther resume along in those emails.” He sighs on the other end of the line. “Gray, she isn’t like Mackenzie.”
Every muscle locks at those three syllables.
It’s going to haunt me forever—the shiny hair, fruity perfume, too-clean outfits, and baby blue eyes that lodge in my brain like hooks whenever I hear her name. And that’s just the precursor to the goddamnfeelings.The hurt. The anger and embarrassment. The soul-sucking shame caused by the person who nearly wrecked us.
Who I nearlyletwreck us.
And City Girl this morning looked like a carbon-fucking-copy. Their faces are different, and City Girl’s voice is a pitch lower, but the better-than-you air is all there.
“There have to be locals who can do this job. People who respect us and what we’ve built,” I try.
“Not with her resume or availability, Gray.” Anson’s voice is more understanding now.
He’s talking to me like I’m a wounded dog, and I hate it. Yeah, what happened with Mackenzie messed with my head and my pride, but if anything, it was a necessary wake-up call.
