Chapter 17
The Dinner Invitation
Kate
I'm washing dishes when I hear the car pull up.
Through the kitchen window, I see Mrs. Everly's ancient station wagon rolling to a stop in front of the cabin. She emerges with a basket covered in a cheerful checkered cloth and that determined smile I've come to recognize.
"Grayson," I call toward the living room, where he's been holed up since our awkward conversation yesterday. "We have company."
He appears in the doorway, sees Mrs. Everly through the window, and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse.
"Be nice," I warn, drying my hands on a dish towel.
"I'm always nice."
"You're tolerable. There's a difference."
The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile—before he schools his face back to neutral.
I open the door before Mrs. Everly can knock.
"Mrs. Everly! What a lovely surprise."
"Kate, dear!" She sweeps past me into the cabin like she owns the place. "I brought blueberry muffins. Fresh from the oven this morning." She spots Grayson and her eyes light up. "And there you are, hiding in the back like always."
"I wasn't hiding," he says. No heat in it.
"Mm-hmm." She sets the basket on the kitchen counter and turns to face us both, hands clasped. "Now. I have the most wonderful news."
I exchange a glance with Grayson. His expression says: here we go.
"The Annual Harvest Dinner is in two weeks!" Mrs. Everly announces this like she's revealing a royal wedding. "It's our biggest event of the year. The whole town comes together, everyone brings a dish, there's music and dancing—absolutely magical."
"That sounds lovely," I say carefully.
"And you two simply must attend. As a couple, of course. It's tradition. Everyone brings their partners." She pulls out her phone and shows us an event page. "See? I've already added you to the couples list."
I lean in. Sure enough: Grayson Hart & Kate Morgan.
"Mrs. Everly," Grayson says, his voice carefully neutral, "we appreciate—"
"But nothing!" She waves a hand. "People are already talking about how lovely you two are together. They're dying to see you at a proper event."
"That's exactly the problem," I mutter, before I can stop myself.
Mrs. Everly's gaze snaps to me. Sharp and knowing. "Problem, dear?"
"What Kate means," Grayson steps in smoothly, moving close enough that his arm brushes mine, "is that we prefer to keep things low-key."
"One dinner won't hurt. And it's for a good cause—we're raising money for the library expansion." She tilts her head at me. "You love reading, don't you, Kate? I've seen you in the library."
I open my mouth. Close it.
"I do love reading," I admit.
"Then it's settled! Two weeks from Saturday, six o'clock. Bring a side dish or dessert. And wear something nice—there's always a photographer."
"A photographer?" My voice comes out higher than intended.
"For the town newsletter." She's already at the door. "Don't worry, you two photograph beautifully together. I saw the pictures from the fundraiser. Don't forget—muffins are best warm!"
And she's gone.
I close the door and press my palms to my eyes.
"We can't keep doing this," I say.
Grayson's still in the middle of the living room, hands in his pockets. "I know."
"Eventually someone's going to figure out we're faking."
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" I drop my hands and look at him. "Grayson, they're putting us on couples lists. Taking photographs for newsletters. Mrs. Everly probably has our wedding colors picked out."
He doesn't smile at the joke. Just looks at me with those gray-blue eyes that see too much.
"Then maybe we stop faking."
I freeze.
The words hang between us, heavy with implications I'm not ready to unpack.
"What does that mean?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper.
Grayson steps closer. Not touching. But close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw, the conflict in his eyes.
"Maybe we just..." He stops. Starts again. "Maybe we stop performing. And whatever exists between us—we let it exist. Honestly. Without deciding what it has to be."
"But what—"
"I don't know what it is, Kate." His voice is quiet and certain at the same time—a strange combination. "All I know is that being around you stopped feeling like pretending a long time ago."
My heart does something complicated in my chest.
Before I can answer, the smoke alarm goes off.
We both spin toward the stove. Something is very definitely burning.
"The vegetables—" Grayson lunges for the pan, cursing under his breath.
I can't help it. I laugh—deep and genuine, the tension shattering completely.
He shoots me a look over his shoulder. "You're not helping."
"I know." Still laughing. "But it's kind of perfect."
He shakes his head, fighting a smile, and rescues what he can of dinner.
Standing in the smoke-filled kitchen, watching him try to save the stir-fry while I laugh at the absurdity of all of it, I think maybe this is what real looks like.
Imperfect. Unexpected. Absolutely terrifying.
And somehow, exactly right.
—
I end up at the lake.
It's becoming my thinking spot. The place I go when the world feels too complicated and the cabin feels too small.
I find the bench at the water's edge and sit, pulling my jacket tight against the evening chill. The water is calm, the fading sunset reflected in shades of orange and pink.
Maybe we stop faking.
I pull out my phone. I already know what I'm going to say.
I know you planned this. Not just the exile. All of it.
The dots appear immediately.
What makes you say that?
I type fast, not stopping to second-guess.
You sent me to his cabin specifically. You talked to him privately when you dropped me off. You told me to "stay a little longer" before anything even happened. You knew.
A longer pause this time.
I knew he needed someone who wouldn't let him disappear completely. I thought you might be that person. I didn't know it would go this far.
How far has it gone?
I stare at the water.
What do you know and how did you know about me and Grayson? But… to answer your question, I don't know yet.
Yes you do.
My jaw tightens. He's right and it's infuriating.
Maxwell. Is there something about him I should know? Something you're not telling me?
The longest pause yet. The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
That's his story to tell. Not mine.
Ask him, Kate. It's time.
I pocket my phone and watch the last of the light leave the sky.
He's right. It's time.
Whatever Grayson is hiding—I need to know.
Not because it changes how I feel.
But because it might change everything else.
—
By the time I get back to the cabin, it's fully dark. Lights on inside, warm through the windows.
I find Grayson in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for what looks like a second attempt at stir-fry.
"You didn't have to wait," I say.
"I know." He doesn't look up from the cutting board. "But I did."
I lean against the counter and watch him work. His movements are precise. Methodical. Calming.
"I've been thinking," I say.
"Yeah?"
"About what you said."
He sets the knife down and turns to face me.
I take a breath. "You're right. It doesn't feel like pretending anymore. I don't know what it is. But it's not that."
Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile. Something more careful than that.
"So what do we do?" he asks.
"I don't know." I hold his gaze. "But I need you to be honest with me, Grayson. About who you are. About whatever you're keeping back. Because whatever this is between us—I can't build it on something I don't understand."
His jaw tightens. Not anger. Something more like resolution.
"Soon," he says quietly. "I promise."
It's not the answer I wanted. But it's the most honest thing he's said all night.
"Okay," I say. "Soon."
We hold each other's gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then he turns back to the stove and I reach past him for the cutting board.
We make dinner together without saying much.
It's enough.
—
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling.
The candles on the windowsill are still lit, casting soft patterns across the walls. Outside, wind in the trees. The distant sound of an owl.
Maybe we stop faking.
What if we did? What if I let myself fall completely, knowing I might get hurt? What if I already have?
That last thought should terrify me.
It does.
But it also fills me with something that feels dangerously like hope.
Tomorrow I'm going to ask him.
Not about the town. Not about the fake relationship or the dinner invitation or what happens when I go back to the city.
I'm going to ask him what he's hiding.
And this time, I'm not letting him deflect.