He leads me to the skiff and hovers behind me as Idrag myself up. The chill starts immediately, the breeze freezing every piece of wet fabric sticking to my skin, despite it basically being July. I huddle in on myself, slinking to the bench seat and twisting away from him, out toward the water. With any luck, the wind will ice out my tears.
“Take off the sweatshirt,” Grayson says, rounding on me.
My face is a swollen, puffy balloon as I shake my head. “It’s not bad. I’m used to swimming in this.”
Rustling fabric has me spinning around to see Grayson lifting his sweatshirt. Even in this state, I can’t help but notice how his biceps flex under his short-sleeve shirt as he peels the layer off.
Guess my hormones don’t feel as defeated as the rest of me.
He looks at me expectantly, the fabric bunched in his hands. “Put my sweatshirt on, Eliza.”
Eliza.NotBoston.
The three syllables rumble out of his chest in a way that makes me want to grab his sweatshirt—and shove it in my face and inhale.
Because you haven’t embarrassed yourself enough.
“Really, I’m fine,” I insist, grateful the tears have stopped.
Grayson doesn’t budge. “My ship, my rules.”
“Ship? This is a toy boat.”
His lips compress. “Eliza.”
That’s the third time he’s said it. I think I want a fourth. Just as much as I want to put on his warm sweatshirt.
My own sweatshirt feels like it weighs ten pounds as I lower the straps of my bibs and pull it off. I reach for his, but Grayson’s already lowering it over my head. Salt, detergent, and the warm notes ofhimsurround me as my face pokesout of the soft fabric. His hands linger as I thread my arms through, then he tugs the material down.
I don’t fight any of it, never mind that I look like a toddler who needs help putting on her PJs.
Or maybe you just look like a woman being cared for.
And Grayson…he’s good at thecaringthing.
Good at knowing what I need before I do, and delivering it with confident hands and steady eyes. Almost as good as he is at raising my hackles and egging me on.
But he hasn’t done much of that lately.
Besides, does it count as “raising my hackles” if I enjoy it?
Grayson doesn’t say another word as he takes us back to the dock, pushing the pace. We wave to his team when we pass the sorting float and zoom by Amanda’s tour in the distance—a vision of styled bobs and lipstick.
All the while, shame sinks in, adding its name to the pile of this morning’s emotions.
When he ties off the skiff and cuts the engine, I say, “I wasn’t upset because of the water.”
That’s probably what it looked like. The prissy city girl fell in, got her hair wet, and threw a tantrum. But I need him to understand that isn’t me.
“Figured that, considering how much you swim.” Grayson leans casually against the steering console. “Do you want to talk about it?”
There’s no pressure in the question, and the last thing I want to do is linger on what just happened. But words tumble out anyway. “I had a bad weekend, followed by a bad morning. The fall just…put me over the edge.”
“Okay,” he says with simple acceptance. His eyes rove over my face, and I can only imagine the red marshmallow-ymess he’s seeing. “Why don’t you head home and get changed.”
A reasonable suggestion, except, “I don’t have any dry clothes.” When his forehead wrinkles in question, I explain, “I dropped all my clean laundry in the water this morning trying to bring it back to the boat.”
His lips twitch. “That does sound like an unfortunate morning.”
