Iknowmy answers were solid, but I’m eighty-percent sure she hated my guts.
The door to the oyster farm’s office swings open, and in walks theotheritem at the top of my “things to overthink the heck out of” list.
Grayson.
Wearing a cutoff tee shirt and that backwards hat he looks too good in.
“Bachelorette party is here,” he informs me, with theconsternation of a general announcing an invasion. He jerks his head. “Come on.”
A chorus of giggles drifts through the open doorway. “You’re really that scared?” I ask as I close my laptop and follow him out.
“Not scared,” he corrects flatly, jogging down the steps beside me. “Just already annoyed. And if I have to be annoyed, you have to be, too, since this is your fault.”
“Technically, it was your fault for leaving without me that day.”
He shakes his head, mouth quirking as he prepares his response. But then he swallows it down. Literally. I watch the apple in his corded neck roll as he chooses silence.
And here we are. Just another one of the awkward, stilted conversations we’ve been having since he brought me back to the dock last Monday. Theonlyconversations we’ve been capable of for one week and two days. Not that I’m counting.
It’s like some amateur mason built a rickety, half-finished wall between us. Sometimes, we come across a hole, falling into how we actedbefore.A suggestive remark. A playful insult. Something that pushes professional bounds. But then we revert right back to surface-level comments and small talk, or end the conversation altogether.
It bothers me, even though it shouldn’t. Because that amateur stone mason is comprised of me and Grayson, united in unspoken agreement that what happened at the Secret Spot can’t happen again. That we can’t letthat, whatever it was, go any further.
I don’t know his reasons. But I do know mine.
Objectively, it was just a hookup. Completely non-problematic on its own. But thefeelingsaround it—aroundhim—well, that’s where the problem is. BecauseGraysonisn’t just a hookup. He’s been the bane of my existence, my calm and steady hero, and the fun in my days since I came here in May.
And in one month, I’m gone. Back to the real world, to working Saturdays, to hustling my ass off and making things happen. This little summer daydream I’ve been living doesn’t fit there—not if I want to achieve my goals.
So despite how much it sucks, mission try-to-forget-the-hottest-orgasm-of-my-life and don’t-catch-feelings-I-might-already-have is officially a go.
I thought flirting with Darian at Dyl’s on Saturday would jumpstart that undertaking, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get lost in his blue eyes. I spent the whole time peeking at Grayson to see if he was flirting with any women.
He didn’t. Just downed beers with JJ, glared daggers at Darian, and watched the fireworks with his brother and little sister.
It pleased mewaymore than it should have.
Gathered at one end of the parking lot, the bachelorette party is a scene of sparkles, sashes, and—are thosecowboy hats?
We’re inRhode Island.
One of them spots us, and like a pack of meerkats, six other faces whip our way.
“Oh my god, we gothim! Itoldyou!” One of them squeals, clapping her hands together. I squint to read the words on her sash.
Maid of Dishonor.
Oh boy.
The others are quick to join in, bouncing in their wedge sandals, lipstick-painted smiles painfully big.
“We’re off to a good start, ladies,” theWife of the Partyexclaims, glittery eyes hungrily checking out Grayson like he’s a hired stripper and not their tour leader.
His cutoff isn’t helping matters.
“Welcome to Gold’s. I’m Grayson, owner of this farm. This is Eliza, who’ll be helping me today,” he announces blandly. “There’s wine with your tasting, but I can’t take anyone out if you’ve already been drinking.”
His dispassionate welcome does nothing to deter their enthusiasm.
