“Oh, we know. We’re rule followers,” theMaid of Dishonorassures him, stepping forward. “Though you’re welcome to check for yourself if we have any drinks on us.” She winks and spreads her arms out wide, preparing for a pat-down.
I choke on my saliva.
My need for revenge might be long-gone, but this is puregold.
Grayson rakes a hand down his jaw. “Not necessary. If you have everything you need, we’ll get started.” He waves a tired hand toward the dock, signaling them to go first.
“He’s chivalrous, too!” This comes fromHot Mama,who fans her face as she and the other women teeter down the dock.
Grayson’s lips compress. “It’s an extended tour, too,” he mutters. “Who the fuck thought we should offer extended tours?”
“At least you’re making a couple grand,” I offer.
He adjusts his ball cap in agitation. “I’d pay a couple grandnotto do this.”
Helping the women into the boat is an ordeal of its own. They eagerly grasp his offered hand, beaming as theytake all the help he’s willing to give. One girl—theMan Magnet—films the process with her phone.
He keeps his hand extended for me, even though I’m not posing as a guest, and I take it automatically, trying not to think about the rough texture of his fingers and how those callouses felt when they were?—
Nope. Not going there.
“What’s she helping with, exactly?” someone asks.
“You never know when you need an extra set of hands on the water,” I say, smiling amicably. “And I’m happy to take all the photos and videos you’d like.”
Instantly, I’m their new best friend.
“Can you get photos of us with him? The Gold’s sign is theperfectbackdrop,”Wife of the Partyasks eagerly as Grayson pulls away from the dock.
“This is a working farm,” he answers for me, his tone flat. “Once we’re done with the tour, I’ll have to get right back to work.”
“Got to respect a hard-working man,” she hums in response, the others murmuring in agreement. “And it shows—just how hard you work.” Her eyes trace the sinews of his arms with blatant appreciation.
Can’t blame you, girl.
Nope, that’salsonot a helpful thought.
Grayson wisely starts talking then, droning on about the farm and oysters, leaving no space for any more of their comments. The first stop is the floating dock where the upweller lives, millions of baby oysters incubating in flooded baskets beneath the dock’s planks.
He opens one of them up, lays on his stomach, and scoops a hand low into the basket to show us what the oysters look like. He springs to his feet to move us right back onto the boat.
“Wait, don’t one of us get to do it?” theMaid of Dishonorsasks, stopping him in his tracks. “I saw on one of your tour videos that sometimes you get a volunteer to scoop some!”
Grayson plants his hands on his hips, shoulders slumping, because this is a hands-on activity he was clearly hoping to avoid. Digging into the upweller means reaching your entire arm into the water, and the tour leader usually holds the ankle of whoever does it so they don’t fall in.
“I’ll go!”
“No, me!”
“No, the bride should do it!” theMaid of Dishonordeclares.
But the bride-to-be shakes her head, face wrinkling in disgust. “It’s smelly.”
Grayson jumps at the opportunity. “I don’t want to start an argument among you ladies.” His gaze finds me, a desperate gleam to them. “Eliza, thanks for volunteering. Come on over.”
“Wait, we can choose between us. Whose birthday is next?”
“We’re on a tight schedule,” Grayson says as I come around next to him. “Don’t want to cut into your tasting time.”
