The whole time, clean, little white letters are splayed across the top of each frame:Reason no. 23 you should book that tour of Gold’s Oysters.
“Oh, shit, forgot the music,” Kenny mumbles. He presses the side of his phone, and the slow, easy melody of a James Taylor tune floats over the images. The song is way too fucking casual and innocent for what Eliza Attleburn has done.
It only gets worse when Kenny’s dirty thumb taps over the comments. “The women have gone wild for you, man. Amanda said she’s getting calls from bachelorette parties.”
Drooling emojis. Heart eyes. Some woman named Linda wants totake a tour of the oyster FARMER.
I tear myself away from the screen before I read whatever the fuckRachelsaid that got her one-thousand-nineteen likes, and set my sights on the woman at the center of this all.
Her jaw is twitching like she’s trying to hold in laughter. She doesn’t look nearly as sheepish as she should, never mind apologetic.
No. Eliza Attleburn’s hazel eyes dance with conspiratorial light as she crosses her arms and stands there like she didn’t just turn me into a schedule-floodingthirst trap.
“Ken, I need a word with our Social Media Director.”
I don’t wait for a response. Stiff steps start taking me to the front office, because if I stand by that phone anylonger, I don’t know what I’ll do. For once, Eliza’s silent as she tracks behind me, showing just how smart she is.
Or maybe that’s survival instinct.
The hum of the office’s air conditioning greets me when I swing the door open. I hold it for her before closing it with a softness I don’t feel.
“Let me explain,” she says calmly, hands up like she’s talking to a rabid dog.
I settle my hands on my hips and glare at her, molars grinding.
“Anson told me one of his goals was to fill our tours. Your visitors are mostly men, so we needed a way to attract a female demographic, too.”
My jaw is locked, letting her marinate in my pissed-off silence.
“This strategyclearlyworked,” she tries.
When I remain quiet, she shifts on her feet and sighs. “They can’t even see your face. No one knows it’s you, and it’s just a few clips of you doing your job. The music was tame, and so was the caption. The fact that the women went feral has nothing to do with me.”
“You’re way too fucking smart to actually think that.” The words burst out of me, though I keep them low. The outrage in my tone does more than any volume would.
What it’s supposed to do, though, I’m not sure. Because Eliza doesn’t balk or start apologizing. I swear, her spine straightens instead as she leans back against the desk and crosses her arms. “I passed it by Anson, who loved it. And before you tell me it turned your farm into a gimmick, it hasn’t. It was tasteful, fun, and showed a little personality that consumers appreciate. And, as I said, itworked.”
I can’t fucking argue that last point, and that just strings me tighter. “You knew I wasn’t going to like this.”
“I did.”
She doesn’t eventryto deny it. And she doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.
My body thrums, and I take two big steps toward her. Crowding her. Close enough for that damn perfume to tickle my nose as she cranes to look at me.
“You knew I wasn’t going to like this,” I repeat, annunciating slowly, “and you did it anyway.”
“Just like you knew I wasn’t going to like you leaving without me last Monday.”
My frustration sputters for a moment. “I thought we were past that.”
Friday’s cookout had felt like a turning point. An end to the war. And yesterday’s ride-along had been easy. Fun, even. Hell, I’ve been looking forward to our next one, more than I should.
“We arenow,” she clarifies. “But I published this post last week.”
AfterI’d ditched her.
No fucking way.
