Gold’s isn’t some casual, local oyster farm. Through a mix of luck and straight-up hard work, the farm and winery have grown into a respected regional name. We’re winning awards. Just last month, I took two journalists on a tour, one of whom writes for anationalmagazine.
But everything we’re building could be ripped away at a moment’s notice, and every decision—from hiring, to gear orders, to the people we allow close—impacts our success. Mackenzie had been a stark warning to drop the easygoing approach and act like a fucking business owner. No distractions. No thinking with my dick. Just grinding it out with the detail and diligence our goals demand.
Women and relationships can wait until things are stable and I have time to suss out any hidden hints of crazy.
“Eliza’s going to drive our growth. Her references were excellent. And it’s only until mid-August. Three months.”
I clench my jaw, surveying the farm. The place our father started when Mom first got sick, where he’d found solace as she’d declined. It hardly made any money then, too small for anything more than local pickups and seafood shops, but it’s my lifeblood now.
No matter what Anson says, this is a terrible idea. She—Eliza—is going to slip off a dock, hit her head, drown because she’s too busy scrolling through social media, and posthumously slap us with a lawsuit. She’s going to ruin our reputation with idiotic trends. She’s going to be mortifying to explain when wealthy out-of-towners come for tours and spot a person wearing heels and dress pants on an oyster farm.
But there’s nothing I can do. I own the farm, but he owns the enterprise, which owns it all.
“I’m not responsible for monitoring her, on the internet or on the farm,” I tell him, not bothering to hide the angry edge in my tone. “Whatever bad comes out of this isn’t falling on me.”
Mark recognizes the surrender for what it is, and shakes his head in disgruntled disappointment.
“She’s an adult woman who doesn’t need babysitting.”
“Well, at least there’s that.”
“But she’s also an adult woman who deserves a damn good apology, or I’m going to have a PR headache.”
I scoff. “She threaten you?”
“No,” he says, and I unclench my fingers from the phone. “If I were her, though, I’d be thinking about some way to get back at us.”
My chest heaves a heavy breath. I’m the stereotypical middle brother, known for my patience and good nature. Of the three of us, I’m rarely the asshole, but I was a certifiable one to her this morning. I’m not arguing that.
It’d been a shit morning, between a time-consuming motor fix, needing to backtrack for the shed key, and the skies opening up on me mid-walk. When I’d entered my office to find a random girl ready to punt Dave out the door, I’d already been pissed.
Then I’d gotten a look at her, and my mood tanked irreparably.
Would I have reacted like that before last year’s dumpster fire? Maybe. Maybe not.
Doesn’t matter, though, because now I have to stomp all over my pride and deliver this stranger a grand fucking apology.
“Gray?” Anson prompts at my silence.
I scratch the back of my head, grimacing. “Yeah.”Shit.“I got it. I’ll buy her apology flowers, a cake, the whole thing.”
“You do that, Gray.”
Anson hangs up, and I shove my phone back into my pocket before jerking the skiff into drive. I’m too aggressive on the throttle, and the eighteen-footer jumps.
“She tries anything, I’ll end ‘er,” Mark says a little too casually from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to see his tanned, heavily wrinkled face set. Mark has no wife or kids, and I’ve never heard him speak of family, but I’ve worked with him long enough to know he isn’t a serial killer. He’d put his neck on the line in an instant for those he cares about. He’ll give you shit the entire time, but he doesn’t mean it.
Still, I don’t want to encourage any murderous behavior.At his age, folks get inclined to try all sorts of activities. Life in prison isn’t a very long time.
“Appreciate the offer, but I got it,” I tell him.
“You change your mind, let me know.”
Mark’s offeris still percolating in my head when this grueling day comes to an end. By some rare stroke of luck, it finishes better than it started. Tours go smoothly, the motor fix holds, and we get through every cage we planned to tumble, sort, and harvest.
I’ve just pulled up to my secluded home, bone-tired and ready for a beer and a burger, when my pocket vibrates again. Dave pokes the pocket with his beak from the passenger seat.
