Page 6 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
Jackson’s brow lifts. “Because I’m black?” The question floats out on a laugh, but hits like a dart between the ribs. Ben’s throat clicks dryly as he swallows.
“No! That’s—” Ben sputters, mortified. The population of Silver Shoals is, in fact, extremely white, but that’s not what he meant at all. He silently begs the elevator to hurry up or maybe just plummet into the basement. He doesn’t know what to say to salvage the conversation but he’s pretty sure that ‘No, because you’re gorgeous,’ isn’t it. He goes with the classic: “Sorry,” thenshuts his stupid, traitorous mouth for the rest of the ride before he commits another micro-aggression.
The elevator lumbers slowly upward like it’s savoring his discomfort. When the doors finally part, Ben does an awkward sidestep, gesturing forward with put-on confidence, trying to pretend this is all going great.
Jackson just looks at him. Not unkindly, but definitely amused. “Your show,” he says. “Lead the way.”
Ben stares at him, then at the hallway, then back. “Sure. Right. Absolutely.” His feet move, but his brain’s a few paces behind. “I… uh…”
Jackson leans in just slightly. “You… what?”
“I was just going to say I’m sorry. Again. I really didn’t?—”
“It’s fine,” Jackson says. His smile returns, easy and unbothered. “I’m used to it.”
Ben gives a stiff nod, determined to gather whatever shred of composure he has left.Used to it,he thinks guiltily. He focuses hard on the corridor ahead.Just get through the interview. Stop replaying the train wreck. For the love of God, do not stare at his perfect face again…
Ben makes it maybe three steps before his resolve crumbles and he risks a glance back. Jackson is still behind him, still smug, still gorgeous, with a smile like he just won a bet.
Face burning, Ben speeds up and all but flings himself at his office door. “Right through here,” he mumbles. Jackson’s low chuckle behind him sets every nerve on fire.
That’s when Ben realizes he has no clue what this interview is actually about.
Chapter 6
Jackson
As they make their way down the hall, Jackson takes a moment to appreciate the view. The executive assistant’s posture is ramrod straight, suit neatly pressed, and from behind, those pants are doing wonders for him.Damn,Jackson thinks, biting his lip. He’s so buttoned-up, vibrating with tension, that Jackson would love to be the one to undo him… figuratively, of course.
“Right through here,” the guy says, opening the door to an office that looks like it was last renovated during the Clinton administration: all painted concrete block and humming fluorescent strip light. A single golden pothos languishes on the windowsill, sending out runners like it’s looking for a more hospitable home. Somehow it still smells faintly of fish, even all the way up here.
Jackson takes the guest chair, waiting to be offered coffee or water. Maybe the chance to flirt.Could I get your number instead?floats through his mind. But before he can deliver the line, the guy hustles behind the other side of the desk.
“So, uh, where do you want to start?” he says.
That immediately throws Jackson off his game. According to the photo on the company website, Ben Whitaker, theself-described ‘Seafood Packaging and Processing King of the Eastern Seaboard,’ was a man in his late fifties with dark hair giving way to gray at the temples. This fresh-faced blond definitely isn’t that. “Sorry. I’m actually here to interview Ben Whitaker.”
The guy looks like he’d rather dissolve into the upholstery than face whatever’s next. “Right… so, that would be me. Ben Whitaker. The Third.” He rather helplessly holds up three fingers for emphasis. “My father is Ben Whitaker Jr.” He hesitates. “I realize it can be confusing. He’s out of town this week, though.”
“Oh. So I’m getting the Fish Prince instead of the Seafood King?” Jackson jokes lightly.
The flick of Ben’s eyes to his watch is fast, but not fast enough to hide the wince. “Sure.”
Usually nepotism gives people a lot more unearned confidence than this. Ben Whitaker III seems like he might crumple like a styrofoam cup if you put the slightest pressure on him. None of this is remotely funny to him.
Jackson recalibrates, a little softer, a little more formal. “Really, it’s no problem, Mr. Whitaker. Thanks for fitting me in on short notice.”
That seems to do the trick. Ben’s shoulders relax a fraction of an inch, and Jackson presses on with his reporter spiel. “I’m writing a piece on local businesses. Whitaker Seafood’s a huge part of this community. Figured it deserved the spotlight.”
“We’re always happy to support the Gazette, Mr. James,” Ben says, textbook polite. “I’m sure my father will appreciate the attention on the plant.”
Jackson notes that carefully.My father will appreciate.“Absolutely,” he says, paging open his notepad. “So give me the scoop: how long has the plant been in operation?”
Ben clears his throat, shifting into full company-spokesman mode. “We were the first processing plant in Silver Shoals. Opened in ’95, started small, then grew fast. My grandfather was a fisherman, and back then, people had to haul their catch to Chatham or Brant. My dad saw an opportunity and built this place from the ground up.” It sounds like a memorized speech, almost verbatim from the ‘About Us’ page on their website.
Jackson scribbles a few notes. “And what’s your official role?”
“I’m the Production Manager. My dad likes to joke that every fish that goes out the door should have my signature on it,” Ben says with a nervous laugh, like he’s repeating a line he’s heard a hundred times too many.
