CHAPTER TWENTY
Having slept next to Grant and lived to tell the strictly uneventful tale, I’m feeling a little more calm. Things don’t seem quite so dire this morning.
Which says a lot, given that it’s Murder Day.
We decide brunch in the lounge is the best place to begin our search for the lone wolf. I start to leave, but Grant puts a hand on the door before I can open it.
“Wait. What are we going to say when we find him? What’s the plan?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Wing it.” He lets out a harsh little laugh, whose tone I don’t particularly appreciate. “Something funny?”
He scratches the back of his head, looking innocently at me. “Just—you’re sure you don’t want to think up some talking points first? No offense, but you’re not the world’s greatest improvisational actor.”
I scoff at him. “First of all: that’s because Ryan Stiles is the world’s greatest improvisational actor.
Second: if that’s a reference to Swedishgate, that is so eight to ten chapters ago.
And third: I have more than enough experience being condescended to by people in relationships. I’ve got this. I know the game.”
“Fair enough,” he says, tossing up his hands in surrender. “As opposed to being Swedish, when you clearly don’t know what Sweden is.”
On my way out the door, I flex my acting skills by giving him the stink eye with hardly any amusement peeking through.
The search for our target is a short one; we spot him instantly in the lounge, surrounded by couples chatting over omelets and fruit salads.
He sits at a four-top with a glass of orange juice, a plate of toast, and a laptop for company.
Grant and I move in, hand in hand. I do an impressive job of ignoring the current that darts up my arm from the touch.
This is going to be fine, I have decided.
As long as I keep my guard up and focus on the mission, I won’t get swept away. It’s playacting. It’s nothing.
Besides. Pretending to be in love might be a dangerous game, but pretending to be the worst people ever? That, I can do.
“Excuse me,” I say in a voice far too chipper for this uncaffeinated hour. “Are these seats taken?”
The man looks up in surprise. There are at least three empty tables around us, but he smiles and gestures to the chairs opposite him. “All yours!”
We thank him profusely and sit down as Paul comes to take our breakfast orders. Grant asks for the Belgian waffles to share. I add a coffee and turn to our tablemate, who is typing merrily away across from us.
“I’m Rebecca,” I say, then give Grant’s arm a little pat. “This is Nathan.”
The man beams and offers his hand. “Pleased to meet you! I’m Martin.”
“Lovely to meet you, Martin,” I say. He gives a firm handshake. It’s hard to imagine these friendly hands choking the life out of people. I guess that means he’s good at his job. “So, what brings you to the Inn at Bluebird Hill? On Lovers’ Weekend, of all times?”
“Happy accident!” He closes his laptop, chuckling. “Booked a solo trip before the weekend theme was announced. It does seem a lovely spot for a couple’s getaway.”
“It really is,” says Grant. I flash him the kind of smile normally reserved for 1950s television hosts on uppers, but the one he returns is earnest. It’s the kind of smile that implies our bed was not divided with pillows last night, and he’s fondly remembering what happened there.
He slides an arm around my shoulders and turns back to Martin.
“Maybe for your next trip. Do you have someone special at home?”
“Just me, I’m afraid,” says Martin, cheerful as ever. “Well, me and my cat, Frankie. He’s all the company I need most days.”
“You know, I always say cat guys are the unsung heroes of our world,” says Grant. He and Martin laugh.
I join in and add, “And I always say if he loves cats so much, he should just marry them. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried!” Grant only laughs louder and pulls me closer.
Martin’s laughter wanes to a contented hum. “Of course,” he says, “that’s not to say I wouldn’t trade in the cat-bachelor life if the right gal came along.”
I cluck in hideously condescending sympathy. “And who could blame you? There’s nothing like finding your better half.” I reach up to pat Grant’s cheek, miss and land awkwardly on his ear, then overcorrect and get him in the eye. I can feel him trying not to flinch.
“It really is … the most amazing feeling,” he forces out, then gently pulls my hand away to entwine it with his own.
“Good for you two,” says Martin, as if he means it. He leans forward on his arms. “How did you meet?”
“Oh,” I say. “Funny story.” I look to Grant. I can’t believe we forgot to decide this part. “You want to tell it, babe?”
He grins at Martin. “It all started when she stole my cab.”
“Accidentally,” I add, smiling. I take Grant by the shoulders and give him a vigorous jostle. “And he instantly thought I was the coolest woman in the world. Didn’t you, babe?”
He laughs. “I don’t recall putting it that way.”
“You did. Verbatim.” I turn my attention back to Martin and tap his laptop. “So! Are you hard at work on this solo trip, or what?”
He blushes a little. “Actually, I’m here on a self-styled writing retreat.”
“You’re a writer?” asks Grant with genuine interest. Too genuine. “No kidding. I’m actually—”
“A neurosurgeon,” I remind him, with raised brows. “Which is nothing like a writer, is it, babe?”
“Right,” he says, adjusting back into character. “Although, I have been called the Ernest Hemingway of the OR.”
“Have you, now?” Martin leans in with interest. “How intriguing! In what sense?”
Grant’s frozen expression is pleasant enough, but behind his eyes I see the panic of one who has improvved a bit too close to the sun.
“In that I’m very good,” he finally says.
“He really is,” I say, leaning in to fiddle with his shirt collar. “In fact, he saved my life. That’s how we fell in love.”
Martin frowns a bit. “Didn’t you say you met in a cab?”
“Yes, but then I fell out of it,” I say quickly. “Headfirst.” Martin nods with polite confusion, then turns his focus to his toast. I can’t resist the opportunity to lean toward Grant’s ear and whisper, “And that’s how it’s done.”
Paul brings our food and we keep chatting with Martin, pulling out all the stops.
The problem is, we seem to have different definitions of what the stops are.
I’m going for the kind of performative affection designed to piss other people off; Grant’s is too sincere and intimate.
While I drop babe bombs and make passive-aggressive digs at Martin’s singledom, Grant just holds me close—idly playing with my hair, rubbing my back.
Martin can’t even see my back. The closest Grant comes to my brand of corny coupledom is when he feeds me a bite of waffle, which he follows up by swiping a drop of syrup away from my lips with the pad of his thumb.
But his quiet laugh makes the gesture more sweet than schmaltzy and gives my heart an unfortunate stutter.
Still, if I were a third-party observer, I imagine I’d be thinking get a room at us right now. But Martin is unfazed. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was positively charmed by us.
It’s only when he starts enthusing about how lovely it was to meet us and excuses himself to go cycling that I wonder if we’re beginning to get to him.
“Have fun,” Grant says, with a tinge of disappointment. He waves goodbye, but sets his arm right back around my shoulders after, his hand grazing my neck. I feel very aware of my skin, and his, and what a shame it is that there hasn’t been more touching in our past missions.
And that thought trips an alarm in my brain, blaring sirens and waving a big red flag.
With no Martin to focus on, there’s only Grant.
And with only Grant, every feeling gets magnified a thousandfold. An accidental brush of hands turns electric. Eye contact stops my breath. Even being in the same room as him feels treacherous.
As he watches Martin go, his eyes catch on me and the troubled look I’m giving him. “What?”
“We’re crashing his bike ride,” I say, disentangling myself from him. “Obviously.”
· · ·
NEVER IN MY life have I encountered someone as maddeningly unflappable as Martin.
You’d think having two clingy strangers intrude on his bucolic solitude would rattle a person just a little, but no.
He welcomed the company. He whistled as we picked out bikes.
Now, he smiles brightly into the sunshine like a squat, mustachioed Fr?ulein Maria as we pedal through the countryside.
He’s playing the long game, and it’s shortening my fuse by the second.
“Can you slow down just a little?” I beg Grant when we’re out of Martin’s earshot. Our turquoise tandem bike had better be as annoying to look at as it is to ride. “I can’t keep up with your freakish six-foot-seventy legs.”
“You know you don’t actually have to pedal, right?” he says over his shoulder. “You can just sit there and enjoy the view and not criticize me relentlessly.”
“I don’t know if you realize this, Grant, but my view is pretty much your back and shoulders.” Which is a view I’m specifically trying not to enjoy.
When Martin catches up to us, we laugh psychotically.
“Oh, you,” I say, batting Grant’s arm.
“Ah, young love,” says Martin as he glides past.
When we get back, Grant unclicks the helmet he insisted on wearing and the one he forced me into, his fingers softly grazing the underside of my chin, and it takes all my strength not to slap his hands away or pull them closer.
Then Martin leaves us to take a nap, wishing us a splendid afternoon with a sincerity that makes me want to shake him by the shoulders and scream KILL US ALREADY!! Panic gathers in my stomach at the prospect of being alone with Grant.
It’s a mercy when the patio make-out couple corners us by the garden. They introduce themselves as Heather and Nicholas Fiorello, or @fiorellosinlove.
“Nearly to 600K on Instagram,” says Nicholas, and both he and his wife cross their immaculately manicured fingers.