“Oh, no you don’t, city girl.”
I don’t even think as I lunge and sling my arms around her waist. With a heave, I swing her up and around, plopping her on her feet behind me. Her mouth pops open in an astonished “O,” and it’s only then that I realize what I just did.
And it doesn’t feel remotely wrong.
If it did, I’d be dropping her like hot coals. Instead, I keep my hands planted on the curve of her waist, a captivating combination of soft and athletic beneath my palms. Feminine and strong. Her hands find my forearms as she steadies herself.
I wait for her to shove me away, but she doesn’t. Her mouth just opens wider, and another laugh sings out. A laugh I’m responsible for.
“That issonot fair, you cheater!”
“How am I a cheater?”
“Because,” she jabs a finger at my chest. “You can’t just use your muscles to win a race!”
Like they’ve been summoned, the muscles in my hands flex, gripping her waist tighter. “Now,that’snot fair,” I admonish. “You’re a hell of an adversary, Boston. Can’t strip me of all of my weapons.”
Her hand finds my arm again, all the confirmation I need that I’m not doing something wrong. I inhale the warm, flowery notes of her perfume, my voice dropping an octave as I say, “And if yesterday morning was any indication, I know how much you appreciate these weapons in particular.”
Her attempt to play it off had been as skillful as Lala feeding Dave her vegetables and pretending she’s eaten them. And the hint of sunburn on her cheekbones isn’t doing anything to hide the blush creeping over her face.
“Well—”
“Hey!” Mark’s gravelly voice cuts the moment like a knife. Eliza and I drop each other, jerking apart like two teens caught kissing under the bleachers.
Jesus.
I twist to see Mark stalking past, wearing a scowl despite the cinnamon bun in his hand. Pretty much everyone here has warmed up to Eliza, except for him. He hasn’t offered to plot her murder since that first day, but his glowering avoidance whenever she’s around makes it damn obvious how he feels.
“You took too long. There’s only one left,” he hollers. It’s accusatory, like I’ve been picking flowers all morning instead of working.
Kenny exits the warehouse then, demonstrating exactly how thirty-five cinnamon rolls have managed to already get eaten down by twelve people. He’s stuffing one in his mouthand carrying two in his hands when he spots us, eyes flaring in urgency.
“Hey Boss!” His voice is muffled by cinnamon bun as he jogs over. “Amanda wanted me to tell you—the tour schedule just got crazy. Got a waitlist of, like, twenty groups.” He breaks for another bite of cinnamon roll. “She’s gonna need help coordinating.”
My brows slam together. “We never have a waitlist.”
He shrugs. “We do now.”
Our farm tours do well, but we price them high so they’re actually worth our time, which means we usually have a few unfilled slots each week. Anson’s been wanting to fill them in—not just for the money, which is a decent supplement to our usual operations, but for the publicity, too. If what Kenny says is true, this is the kind of news that can produce one of Anson’s rare smiles.
It also makes no sense. Our last magazine piece came out months ago. We haven’t had any recent big breaks that should cause a spike like this.
When I say that out loud, Kenny draws out a long “Ohhh” that flashes way too much of the soggy mush in his mouth. “Here, Boss.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. “Forgot you don’t have socials.”
Socials? I glance at Eliza, who’s studying something in the distance, then lean in to see his screen.
The first thing I see is a pan over the Gold’s Oysters sign—a professional cut I’ve seen leading one of Eliza’s videos before. Except this time, it doesn’t fade into a bag of oysters or a panorama of the farm.
It cuts to a shot ofme.
A close-up of my hands showing off a few mature oysters duringa farm tour.
A distance shot of me hauling a bin of ice and oysters off a skiff.
A side angle of me pulling off my hat to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
Another closeup of my hands working to open an oyster, my sweatshirt sleeves shoved up to bare my forearms.
