GRAYSON

“THIS IS GRAYSON, KATE’S SON FROM HER FIRST marriage.”

Mr. Motherfucking Home Wrecker introduced me to yet another member of his family, his voice dropping slightly at “first marriage,” like what he really wanted to say was, This is Grayson, worthless knob. I have no genetic ties to him . It was my first Thanksgiving Easton‑style, and I played my role as the good stepson, pumping hands and fielding generic questions about school and life, all the while wishing I could tear the sweater off my back because it was itching like hell.

In the unofficial handshake over “little shit we don’t need to get serious about on legal papers,” Thanksgiving was my mother’s holiday. Pop’s one condition was that he had me in the morning to go to the annual St. Gabe’s/Bergen Point Turkey Day game to relive his glory days. Then in the afternoon, he’d ship me out to Connecticut to spend the day with them. For one reason or another, the Thanksgiving bondage with Mom and Mr. MFHW never happened. Until today.

Mr. Motherfucking Home Wrecker’s real name was Laird Easton, which can only sound cool if you’re a surfer dude and not an ass‑clown investment banker. The first time we met was at a company outing at Yankee Stadium before my parents’ breakup. I was eleven and caught up in the total awesomeness of being in a luxury box–steak sandwiches, all the soda I could drink, cushy seats. Laird even got me Mo’s signature on a game ball. He shook my hand, told me what a valuable asset my mother was to the corporate‑credit department. It was only later that I realized what he should have been saying was, Hey, kid, I’m balling your mom. Here’s a game ball for you. Why don’t we call it even?

Later that year, Mom stopped being Katie Barrett from Bayonne, New Jersey, and became Kate Easton from Darien, Connecticut. A few years later, I unloaded that game ball through Spiro. Luke thought I’d been nuts to get rid of it, but I couldn’t stand having it in my room.

The Yankees game was the first and last time Laird ever went out of his way to be nice to me. Most of the time it felt like he tolerated me simply because I was “Kate’s son from her first marriage.” Anytime he said it, it was like a disclaimer to my presence. The only bright points in the Easton union were my half sibs, Ryder and Grier, who both didn’t give two shits I’d been kicked out of school and treated me like I was Santa with an armload of toys any time they saw me.

Ryder was five, and his only fault was that he was a mini‑Laird, complete with side part and upturned polo collar. I loved how he’d come out with this random stuff like “I don’t cry” and “Unown is my favorite kind of Pokémon.” He saved me from a college chat with Mom when I first arrived by shoving his Nintendo DS in my face and begging me to help him battle Zoroark.

Grier was three, and all Mom. Brown eyes and light hair, with a ginormous white ribbon perched on the front of her head. She had trouble pronouncing her Rs, which was pretty adorable. We had an ongoing dialogue where she’d try to get me to pronounce her name correctly, but I would pronounce it just the way she said it. . . .

“No, Gwayson, it’s Gweewah.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Gweewah.”

“No, no, no . . . Gweewah,” she’d say, louder, stomping her foot for emphasis.

“Yes, Gweewah, that’s right, isn’t it?”

She’d put her hands over her eyes and collapse into a fit of giggles until her face was bright red.

If only it were that easy to talk to Wren.

Insane as it sounded, Wren had become a safe haven. A place my mind gravitated to whenever I didn’t feel like dealing with what was in front of me. I replayed that day in the park in my head, how I’d do things differently so she’d give me her number. During calculus. While driving. When I had trouble falling asleep. And now, as I dodged any serious chats during Thanksgiving at Mom’s.

“DinnaweddyGwayson,” Grier said, in one long breath. She grabbed the tips of my fingers with her tiny hands and yanked. I played along, pretending I needed help off the sofa, then grabbed her, spun her around, and set her down. My reward was another round of giggles and a smile from my mother.

“Grayson, sorry I’ve been stuck in the kitchen all day,” my mother said, lacing her arm through mine and leading me toward the dining room.

“It’s cool, Mom. Smells good.”

“We’re so happy you’re here. Ryder and Grier especially.”

“Yep, it’s a blast hanging with them.” They don’t ask me questions about my future .

“Laird’s off tomorrow. Ryder wants to skate at Rockefeller Center like we did last year. Maybe you could stay the night? Join us?” she asked.

“I sort of have plans, but thanks,” I lied.

“Well, if your plans change, please consider meeting us. It would be fun,” she said. When we reached the dining room, she went back to playing hostess.

A giant cornucopia with dinner rolls spilling out of it sat in the center of the Thanksgiving table. Each plate had a folded napkin and a clumsily colored turkey‑shaped place card that must have been fashioned by either Ryder or Grier. I sat at the end of the table by my mother. On the other side of me was Laird’s grandmother, who looked old enough to have been at the first Thanksgiving.

“Dinner is buffet‑style, everyone. Food’s in the kitchen. Don’t be shy,” my mother said. I slid the napkin and place card off my plate and followed everyone to the kitchen. I stuck to the basics (turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes) and kept thinking that, after eating, I’d be that much closer to leaving.

I tried not to scarf down everything too quickly, but it was hard. The food was mouthwatering. Not that I didn’t get a home‑cooked meal now and then from Pop or Tiff, but it wasn’t like this. I was practically humming halfway through my plate. My guard down, I locked eyes with the blond dude sitting diagonally across from me.

“So, Grayson, are you training for the season yet?” he asked, slicing up his turkey and putting a piece in his mouth.

I blanked on his name. Porter? Cooper? Something with an ‑er at the end. Laird’s brother‑in‑law. What was he asking?

“I’m sorry?” I said, leaning toward him.

“Your mom told us what a great lacrosse player you are. When does the season pick up again?”

The questions were like getting shot in the head. I froze.

“I don’t play anymore.”

His brows came together in momentary confusion as he turned to Mom, who straightened up in her chair.

“Injury?” he asked.

“No, the school I go to doesn’t have a team,” I said, shoving some more turkey in my mouth.

“You’re at Saint Gabriel’s, no?”

Mom reached for her glass of wine.

“I’m at Bergen Point now,” I answered, making it sound like a school he should know.

“I’m surprised you’re not here in Darien. Blue–”

“Wave, I know,” I said, cutting him off. Darien High School’s nationally recognized lacrosse team. That was one of Mom’s selling points during her campaign for me to move in with them when I was a freshman. Screw Blue Wave. If it meant having to live with Mr. MFHW, I’d choose no lacrosse, every time.

“Have you found any rec leagues?” Laird asked, from his seat at the head of the table.

“No. I’m fine. Don’t miss it,” I answered, scraping the last of the mashed potatoes off my plate.

“That sort of thing can open doors, Grayson,” he pressed on.

Just. Shut. Up .

“Laird, honey, we’re out of the Larkmead down here,” my mother said, lifting up the wine bottle. Laird wiped his mouth and excused himself. My mother launched into a report on their fall trip to Napa–it was a banner year for cabernets–ending the awkwardness.

I stared at my plate, wishing I hadn’t inhaled the food so damn fast so I had something to do with my hands. What did I expect? That my mother and Laird would brag about me getting kicked out of school? Of course no one knew. I reached over for another dinner roll. Granny Easton grabbed my arm.

“Greg, would you get me some more of that sweet‑potato soufflé? If I get up, I’m not getting down again,” she said.

“Sure.” I excused myself and wandered toward the kitchen, pausing in the hallway when I heard Laird’s voice. He was talking to his brother‑in‑law. About me.

“Why no more Saint Gabriel’s? I thought Kate mentioned something about college scouts? A possible scholarship?”

“How do I put this?” Laird said, his voice rough as though he were struggling. A soft pop of a wine cork followed. “They asked him to leave.”

“Why?”

I wanted to barge in, stop the conversation. I hated the idea of Laird talking about me, but at the same time I was curious to hear his take on it. Would he tell the truth? His voice was low. The glug, glug of wine being poured into a glass drowned out the whispers. A vein in my temple throbbed.

“Wow,” the brother‑in‑law said.

“Wow is right. He was damn good, Coop. Could have had a free ride. Smart too. We don’t know what he’s going to do now though.”

“Gwayson!” Grier yelled, jumping in front of me with arms open.

“Hey, Grier,” I said, startling slightly. My reaction didn’t please her; she pouted and stomped away.

There was a controlled silence in the kitchen. I coughed deliberately and walked in, keeping focused on the task at hand. Laird brought out the wine to the dining room. Coop pressed his lips together and lifted his wineglass to me, then exited. I piled way too much sweet‑potato soufflé onto the plate and brought it back into the dining room to find that Granny Easton had left the table. She sat in an easy chair by the fireplace, Grier twirling in front of her.

“Mom, I’m gonna head out,” I said, placing the plate on the edge of the table.

“Aw, don’t go,” she said, standing up with her plate in hand. “I baked a pumpkin pie just for you.”

Laird butted in. “Grayson, stay. We’ve hardly seen you.”

I met his stare and bit back the words As if you care .

“I have this killer party to go to, lots of people home from school,” I said, giving a general wave to everyone, then leaving the room before anything else was said.

I grabbed my coat. The rack wobbled and landed on the hardwood floor with a crack . Grier shrieked. I barreled through the front door, punching one fist then the other through my jacket.

“Grayson, wait!” my mother called.

Even in the dark, the Chrysler stood out like a rusty spring on the sedate street of Escalades and Beemers. I kept moving forward, pretending I didn’t hear my mother’s footsteps. My fingers just about grazed the door handle when I felt her clutch my shoulder.

“Honey, c’mon. Stay. You’ll have time to make your party.”

“There’s no party,” I said, spinning toward my mother.

“What?”

“Do you know what a douche I felt like when Cooper asked me about lacrosse?”

My mother bristled momentarily at the word douche and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She sighed, then peered up at the starry sky.

“Grayson, I’m sorry. We haven’t seen Coop in a long time. He doesn’t . . . didn’t know about your circumstances,” she said, leaning against my car. “He’s such a competitive ass. Always bragging about his kids’ IQs or some exotic place they’ve all been. You were always our trump card. Smart, athletic, and handsome. His kids have zero physical ability.”

Trump card? I chuckled. Hardly the way to describe me now.

We stood in silence, staring back up at her house. It had one of those glass storm doors that gave a perfect view of the foyer. Someone had picked up the coatrack. Ryder and Grier tore across the hallway from one side to the other. Silhouettes of people enjoying the holiday moved behind the illuminated curtains. My awkward departure was forgotten. I felt a momentary pang of loneliness; did anyone even care that I was gone?

“I don’t belong here,” I said.

“Grayson, yes, you do. We’re family.”

“No . . . those people in there? That’s your family,” I said, taking out my keys.

“At least consider meeting up with us in the city tomorrow. You can–”

“You know that’s not going to happen,” I said, shutting down the idea.

Her eyes welled with tears. I knew I should apologize, but I didn’t.

“Fine. I wish you’d reconsider.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said, opening the car door.

She stopped me, giving me a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Safe home,” she whispered.

I revved the engine while my mother shut the door. She backed away and stood in front of her house, watching, as I pulled out of the spot and tore down the street, leaving a wake of dead leaves swirling behind me.

I drove until I saw an open diner. Slinking out of Mom’s was such a wimp‑ass thing to do, and now regret was seeping in. Should I go back? I thought of her face, her tears, as I’d left. I’d made her cry. That was on my shoulders. No one had asked me to leave. Then Laird and his “that kind of thing can open doors” statement popped into my mind, and any guilt I felt for leaving disappeared. Did he think I didn’t know that?

The diner was dotted with people in booths here and there; a few busboys crowded around an overhead TV and watched the Jets/Patriots game. I took a seat on a spinning stool at the end of the empty white counter, my fingers numb from the cold. Coffee. I needed coffee.

I couldn’t go back to my mother’s . . . to the inevitable looks of pity. No matter how much I kept telling myself that starting over was just what I needed, the fact remained–I pitied myself too. In my lowest moments, I still missed St. Gabe’s. I missed the challenge of taking a class like Philosophy and grabbing a coffee with Luke before Lit in the morning. I missed crushing our opponents on the lacrosse field, walking down the halls like fucking rock stars. I missed it so much, sometimes my fingers got blistered from pounding away the memories on my drums. It was easier to deal with the physical pain than think about the future I might have had if I hadn’t been caught.

A young waitress came over, order pad at the ready. Early twenties, I guessed. Her brown hair was piled on top of her head in some crazy do.

“Why would anyone come to a diner on Thanksgiving?” she asked, handing me a sizable menu with a picture of a milkshake on the front.

“My family sucks,” I answered.

Her eyes lit up and she laughed, deep and raspy.

“Hmm, now that I can understand. What can I get you?”

“What have you got?”

“Name it, we got it,” she said, leaning on the counter. Her blouse fell open to reveal the lacy trim of her baby‑blue bra. She smelled like patchouli, a hint of cigarette smoke around the edges.

“I’d like dessert,” I said, holding her gaze.

Just what I needed. A little harmless flirting to make the world go away.

“We’ve got cheesecake . . . chocolate mousse . . . pie . . . What do you like?”

“Surprise me.”

“A challenge? I’ll take it. Drink?”

“Coffee, black.”

“For real? You will be a challenge,” she said, grabbing a cup and saucer and putting them in front of me. “So what’s your name?” she asked as she poured the coffee.

The familiar buzz of the chase coursed through me.

“Mike,” I answered.

“I’m Mia. Mike and Mia, that sounds good, that’s . . . oh crap, what’s that called?”

“Alliteration,” I said.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said. “Cute and smart. Bet you’re in from college for Thanksgiving.”

Compliment and info dig. I was so in.

“See, I’m less of a challenge than you think.”

“Let me get that dessert. Stay right where you are. You’re, like, the most entertaining thing that’s happened in this sleepy, little dump all day.”

Mia kept her eyes on me until she disappeared into the kitchen.

Luke Dobson would be proud. I could almost hear him say, See how easy it is to get back in the game?

Is this really what I wanted though? Did I want to wedge my way into a girl’s heart to sniff out if she’d be a good hit? Or just a lovely distraction? Mia fit the second bill nicely. She probably lived paycheck to paycheck, so no bank there. But she was as sexy as hell. Killer rear view.

Christ, Grayson, stop lining up her stats .

Mia came back. She placed a large slab of pumpkin pie in front of me, took whipped cream, and, without asking, put a generous spray over the top.

“How’d you know that was my favorite part?”

“Lucky guess,” she said, taking her finger and swiping a bit from the top. She put it in her mouth. “I can’t believe I just did that! You make me feel a little wicked.”

The moment was interrupted by the ding of the order‑up bell and a loud shout of “Mia!” from the kitchen. She rolled her eyes and huffed. “Be right back, Mike.”

The pie sat in front of me. If I took a bite . . .

This wasn’t who I was anymore. It felt wrong to be playing Mia for my own amusement. I couldn’t go backward. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself about getting kicked out of St. Gabe’s, because the truth was–I was the one who screwed it all up. Me. Term‑paper pimp. Cheater. No spin‑doctoring that. And I needed to figure out how to move forward. I was so damn sick of standing still.

I reached into my inside jacket pocket for my wallet. Right on the top, in front of my license, was Ruth Caswell’s card from the Camelot Inn. Wren. I would not mess up this second chance fate had tossed in my path.

“Hey, dontcha like it?” Mia asked.

“Oh, yeah, Mia, but . . . my buddy just called. I have to run. Just the check,” I said, getting up. She pouted and scribbled on her order pad.

“Well, if you’re bored later, stop by. I get off at midnight.”

I took the bill up to the register, ignoring the flirty tone in her voice.

“Here, I think she wants you to have that,” the cashier said, handing me back my change along with the check. In bold print it said, MIKE, U R HOT, CALL ME! (heart) Mia with her number beneath it. I turned to see Mia, behind the counter, helping another customer. I waved the check at her: “got it.”

Then I trotted down the steps, crumpled the check, and tossed it in the trash can out front.

A new plan formed as I slid behind the wheel.

And it started with Wren.

SEVEN

WREN

“MORNING,” I SAID.

My father sat stoically at the kitchen table, reading the New York Times . I fixed a bowl of Apple Jacks and sat across from him, wondering if I should bring up what happened last night. He beat me to it.

“Your mother is already at the Inn for that big wedding today. Brooke spent the night at Pete’s parents’ house. Probably best if things cool down between Brooke and your mother,” he said, eyes still on the paper. He reached for his coffee mug.

“So you’re okay with it?” I asked.

His piercing blue prosecutor’s eyes bored into me over his reading glasses.

“Let’s just say this isn’t what I envisioned for your sister, but I’m dealing with it.”

“It’s kind of exciting, don’t you think, Grandpa ?”

My father closed the paper, folded it neatly in front of him, and pushed his reading glasses back into his graying hair. Maybe the Grandpa mention wasn’t the best route.

“What?” I asked, wiping a milk dribble from the corner of my mouth.

“You do realize this isn’t the best path for her to follow? Or you.”

“Oh, God, Dad,” I said, blushing. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just–she’s an adult. In a relationship with someone she loves. You and Mom–”

“Exactly. Your mother and I have been through it. Student loans. Baby food. Sleep schedules. It’s hard enough juggling a new family, but throw in law school? Lots of sacrifices. For both parties. I just hope Brooke can handle it.”

“Handle what?” Josh asked, breezing in with a trail of frigid air–a full brown paper bag under one arm, the Daily News under the other. He dropped the bag on the island and placed the paper in front of my father. Josh was in the same clothes he’d been wearing last night.

“How industrious. Out early?” Dad asked, suspicious.

“Sure, Dad,” Josh answered, winking at me. I knew otherwise, since I’d woken up at 4:00 a.m. in his room, where he’d left me, surrounded by three years’ worth of St. Gabe’s yearbooks. After my first pic of Grayson, I’d needed more. I’d spent the rest of the night poring over Grayson Barrett: The Earlier Years , piecing together what I could about him from the little info the yearbooks gave. He’d had a major growth spurt between freshman and sophomore year. He was captain of the JV lacrosse team and an alternate on varsity when he was a sophomore. He was also in the Key Club and the chess club. Not that it mattered, since I was never going to see him again.

“Here,” Josh said, putting an everything bagel in front of Dad.

“Some example you’re setting for your little sister,” my father said, slicing his bagel in half.

“Dad, don’t be a buzzkill. Had to celebrate Saint Gabe’s huge win yesterday,” Josh said, flopping down in his seat and grabbing a bagel. “I work hard, party harder . . . your motto, remember?”

I raised my eyebrows at my father as he pushed Josh’s hat off his head, revealing his usual dirty‑blond mass of unkempt bedhead.

“Don’t give away my secrets, Josh. Wrennie’s my easy kid. I’d like her to stay like that.”

“Great,” I said, pushing away my bowl of cereal. “Why don’t you just call me boring?”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “You remind me of your mother, always something going on behind those eyes of yours. You think before you leap. Quiet is not a bad thing.”

“You know what they say: It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for . . . all those secrets,” Josh said, taking a monster bite of his bagel.

“Not my Wren,” my father said, giving my hand a squeeze.

Josh mouthed Grayson behind Dad’s back and put a hand over his heart, batting his eyes in an exaggerated way. I crumpled up my napkin and threw it at him.

“Cut it out!” I said, getting up from the table. “All this bonding over bagels was fun, but now I have to go to work. Are you coming with me today?”

“Um, no. Dad and I have a big day of college football planned. Right, Daddy‑O?”

My father sighed, but even he wasn’t immune to Josh’s charms.

“I’ll give you a ride when you’re ready, Wren,” Dad said, picking up his paper again.

“Can I drive?” I asked. He nodded.

I ran upstairs to shower and change. With my hair still damp, I put it in a loose fish‑tail braid. The easy kid . There were worse things to be, I guessed. I didn’t dazzle like Brooke or light up a room like Josh, but there was something about me . . . wasn’t there? Something that made Grayson seek me out at school, for more than just to thank me. I held that thought as I went downstairs and off to work.

When I arrived at the Camelot, I found Mom in her office. She remained silent, going over a contract on her desk, as I walked in.

“Missed you this morning,” I said, hanging up my coat.

“I take it your brother chose not to come in with you?” she asked, still focused on her work.

“Right. Wanted to bond with Dad over football, I guess.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

“Mom, last night–”

“Wren, I’m not ready to talk about last night. We’ll get through this, I know, but right now I need to focus on this wedding. It’s deluxe, soup to nuts, so you’d better get to work. By the way, there’s a new waiter. We’re so strapped, I hired him over the phone this morning. Just, you know, keep an eye on him.”

“I’m on it,” I said, heading toward the Lancelot.

Eben was busy with the new hire, showing him how to set up the silverware. I tapped on the edge of the table, and they looked up. My jaw dropped.

“Grayson?”

“Hey, what’s up?” he responded, reaching for another setup. I tried to mask the surprise on my face. It was unsettling to see him here, on my turf, especially after I’d spent the night before creating a mental dossier about him to entertain myself.

Eben spoke. “Are you all right?”

“Um, yeah. I forgot to tell Mom something.”

I practically bumped heads with my mother as she walked out of her office.

“I’m walking down to see Hank. Talk to me,” she said, moving like a missile toward a target. She pushed the Down button on the service elevator and glanced back at me. “Well?”

“Do you know who that new hire is, Mom?” I asked as we stepped into the elevator and it descended with a shudder.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s the guy I saved from choking. Grayson Barrett,” I said.

She nodded as the doors slid open with a clank and jog‑walked off the elevator, me trailing behind. “Yes, we did have a conversation about it. Why?”

I didn’t want to get into his past. She didn’t need to know he got kicked out of school for being a term‑paper pimp. Or that he usually wore a barbell through his eyebrow. She also didn’t need to know that being around him made me hyper‑aware of every cell in my body. The fact that he’d almost died up in the Lancelot should have been enough for him to never set foot in this place again, right?

“I don’t know. I’m just surprised to see him, that’s all.”

She ran a hand through her hair and scratched the back of her head in thought. Her eyes were sleepy, bloodshot. I felt bad for questioning her about hiring him. It’s not like I minded that much. I just needed to wrap my own brain around him being here.

“He seemed nice, polite. Like he needs someone to give him a chance. But I’m so desperate for manpower, I might be blind. Do you think it’s a bad decision?”

Hank came up behind her, red‑faced and about to explode. He pointed to an elaborate tray table.

“Cupcakes? I’m supposed to arrange five hundred cupcakes on this monstrosity. Idiots. Sie können mich alle am Arsch lecken! Excuse me, Wren.”

I tried not to lose it.

“What did he say?” my mother asked. I’d taken two years of German at school, but it was Chef Hank who taught me the best slang.

“Something about someone licking his ass.”

She put her fingers up to her mouth, stifling a giggle. It was good to see her happy, even for a brief moment.

“What’s wrong with cake?” he asked. “Normal, layered wedding cake.”

“Cupcakes are in , Chef,” I told him.

My mother placed a hand on my shoulder. “She’s right, Hank. When are you going to get with the program?”

He tried to keep his hard edges but lost them around Mom.

“Fine, but if they fall . . .” Hank said, mumbling the rest in angry‑sounding German as he walked away.

“So we’re okay about Grayson? Consider today a trial; if he’s not pulling his weight, let me know,” my mother said, running off after Chef Hank again.

“Yep. Sure,” I answered, wondering how I was going to keep an eye on Grayson and keep my composure at the same time.

Half the room was finished with setups by the time I got back. I busied myself with stacking the cold plates for the cocktail buffet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grayson coming toward me.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked. He had his hands in his pockets, and his usual fringy bangs were more subdued, kind of pushed to the side, dark eyes more prominent than ever. I dropped a plate and grimaced, waiting for the crash. Thankfully it bounced off the carpet. He bent down to pick it up and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re surprised to see me,” he said.

“Well, yeah, kind of,” I answered, putting the dirty plate under the cart. “Are you stalking me or something?”

“Ha . . . Well, I’d rather think of it as strategically putting myself in your path so we can be friends . . . But if you want to call it stalking, okay.”

“Okay, but why here?”

“If you don’t want me here–”

“No, it’s not that. This is probably the last place I expected to see you, that’s all.”

“I could use some honest work–gas isn’t exactly free–and, well, I felt like I might have made the wrong impression the other day in the park. And where else would I get to hang out with you?”

“Hang out? Get ready for a rude awakening,” I said, pushing the cart of plates toward him. “You can start by stacking these plates in rows on this table. Then I’ll think of something else.”

“You’re sort of my boss–I dig it,” he said, flashing that grin.

I pressed my lips together and walked away. That grin was pulling me into the deep end of the pool. The scary part, the part that made me search desperately for some other task I could lose myself in, was that there was a small, insistent voice urging me to dive right in.

I successfully avoided Grayson during the rest of setup. He met me downstairs in the kitchen as we assembled to take the trays of hors d’oeuvres up to the cocktail hour. I got lucky with lobster ravioli. Grayson, on the other hand, was a bit green as the tray of cocktail franks was pushed his way.

“How’s that for karma?” he asked, grabbing the tray.

“I’ll trade you,” I said.

He considered it. “Nah, gotta get back on the horse, right?”

“On the upside they go pretty fast,” I said, climbing the stairs to the long corridor leading to the main ballroom.

“So what’s the downside?” Gray asked, keeping up with me easily.

“Talk to me in about ten minutes.”

“Hmm . . . sounds serious,” he said. We walked out the double doors into the cocktail reception. I was tempted to follow him, to see how he would handle it, but I went the opposite way. I only made it halfway around the room before my tray was clean. When I went to the back, Grayson was standing there, just beyond the door, tray empty.

“You must have thought I was a supreme dick at my cousin’s wedding,” he said, falling into step with me.

“Tough crowd?”

“No, really. I’m sorry,” he said, bowing his head slightly, humorous sincerity lacing his voice. “I had no idea what a hassle people can be. I apologize on behalf of my obnoxious uncles.”

“No worries. That was a pretty entertaining night. Well, before–”

“I almost choked to death,” he finished.

“Definite buzzkill,” I agreed, discreetly checking him out before we trotted down the stairs. He held out his hand for me to go first.

“Do you know someone asked me what I was serving?”

“Oh yeah, that happens at least once a party,” I said, over my shoulder. “Eben and I have a running game with it–you make up some wild name that makes pigs in a blanket sound exotic.”

“So what’s the best name you’ve come up with?” he asked.

Not that the hot‑dog game was a secret Eben and I swore to take to our graves, but what if Grayson thought I was a complete dork? I faced him as we waited in line for our next round of hors d’oeuvres. He seemed sincere, interested.

“Nitrate‑laced mystery meat wrapped in fatty dough,” I said, fighting the blush that was creeping across my face. “But I’ve never said that out loud to a guest. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

“Nice one,” he said as we reached the serving station.

A tray of cocktail franks was pushed my way by Chef Hank, an evil glint in his eyes.

“Figures,” I said, groaning. Gray snatched the tray before I could.

“I got this one,” he said.

“Really?” I grabbed another round of ravioli.

He swiped a hot dog off the tray, tossed it in the air. I held my breath as he executed his trick to perfection, chewing triumphantly.

“Game on,” he said. “Stay close.”

I followed him upstairs and back into the crowded ballroom. We worked the right side of the room. I kept my distance from him but stayed within earshot. Sure enough, Grayson walked up to a circle of older ladies, and a moment later one of them asked the dreaded, “Ooh, and what are these?” question.

In the smoothest, most serious‑sounding voice, he answered, “Micro tube steaks in puff pastry.”

I bit my lip to keep from bursting but shook a little and snorted. Eben caught my eye as he passed by both of us and mouthed, Funny . Grayson kept a straight face, charming the ladies into cleaning his tray.

We met in the back after my tray was emptied.

“So how’d I do?” he asked.

“Pretty good,” I said.

“Pretty good? I thought that was kind of killer.”

“Okay, better than pretty good. I nearly lost it,” I admitted.

“I know. That was the best part,” he said, winking. He was one of those guys who could say things like “I dig it” with a wink and make it seem natural. There was something I still didn’t quite trust about it, about him being here, but he was slowly winning me over to Team Grayson. The cocktail hour had never been this fun.

Working at the Camelot had never been this fun. Period. With Grayson there, the night flew by. I found myself making excuses to be near him, all under the guise of helping him out, like showing him the best way to stack dirty dishes to get the most on a tray or the difference between the decaf and the regular pots of coffee–as if any of that took a degree in rocket science. He mastered it all, easily, and more than once I caught the guests flirting with him. I wasn’t the only one influenced by his stellar grin.

“So now what?” he asked, coming up behind me after he’d finished taking the last tray of dirty dishes to the kitchen.

“Just waiting until everyone leaves,” I said, peering out the windows in the double doors. “Then we can break down the room.”

“And then what?” His voice was quiet, low.

I spun to face him, aware of the short distance between us.

“And then . . . we–”

Eben joined us, peering out the door. “Are they ever going to leave?”

“I know, right?” I said, dropping Grayson’s question without answering.

And then what? My mouth went dry.

“Hey, I’m starving. Want to hit Leaning Tower after this? You can tell me all about Brooke and your Thanksgiving drama,” Eben said.

“Yes, that sounds great,” I answered, looking back at Gray.

“Why don’t you join us?” Eben asked him. My heart froze, waiting for his response.

“If Wren doesn’t consider it stalking, sure, I’ll go,” he said, eyes on mine.

“Yeah, you should come.”

“And they’re out,” Eben said, throwing open the door. The rest of us followed him, a black‑and‑white wave pulling tablecloths and stuffing them into giant laundry bags. I couldn’t finish the last task of the evening quickly enough, the thought of sitting across from Grayson propelling me at record speed. As I yanked the tablecloth off the last table, someone wrapped their very cold hands around my eyes.

I jumped, peeling back frozen fingers...

“Mads!” I dropped the tablecloth at our feet.

“Surprise!”

“What are you doing here?” She was dressed in thigh‑high black boots and a black micromini, which would have been obscene if she hadn’t been wearing black tights. Her bronze ski jacket gathered at her waist, and her short hair was tousled and feathery. In my Camelot duds, I felt like a prime candidate for an ambush makeover.

“Bringing you a present,” she said, motioning toward the front doors of the ballroom. Zach was there, posing in a lewd way next to Sir Gus, while another, taller boy took a picture with his phone. A present?

“Mads?”

“Before you say no, he’s Zach’s cousin from Baltimore, in for the weekend. If you don’t like him, you never have to see him again, and hey, if you do, Baltimore is, what, like three or four hours away? Win‑win, Wren.”

“Hey, you,” Eben said, coming up behind Maddie with an armload of tablecloths. “Come on, let me see this ensemble you’re rocking.”

Mads pivoted gracefully on one foot and curtsied.

“Gorgeous as always,” Eben said. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Eben, pretty, pretty, pretty please release Wren from her servitude for some fun!”

Just then Zach entered the ballroom with a howl, lumbering across the dance floor toward us like an escapee from the zoo. For the life of me, I did not understand what Mads saw in him. She was artistic, smart, and cool. He was picking a college based on its Greek life. My “present” trailed behind, his head down, keeping his distance.

“Mads, I sort of have plans,” I said, right before Zach engulfed her in a bear hug from behind.

“Oh, Wren, please,” Eben said, waving me off. “Go. Have fun. You can–”

“Grayson!” Maddie said, prying Zach’s hands off of her.

“Hey, Maddie,” Grayson said, plopping a giant laundry bag in the center of our circle.

“Since when are you working here?” Maddie asked, eyes darting between us. Once she and Grayson were talking, I got Eben’s attention.

“I really want to go to Leaning Tower,” I said low, trying to motion behind me by tilting my head toward Grayson.

Eben squinted a moment until a lightbulb finally came on. “Oh, wow. Wren . . .”

“. . . so you see I’m not taking no for an answer . . .” Mads said, tugging on my arm to face a tall boy with chestnut hair. Whoa . This guy wasn’t one of Zach’s soccer dudes. I took a step back, suddenly self‑conscious in my work clothes. He smiled, almost apologetically, and chuckled through his nose. His only apparent flaw? He wasn’t Grayson.

“Caleb, this is Wren. Wren, Caleb,” Zach said. He and Maddie were beaming, as if Caleb and I were getting betrothed in front of them.

“Hey,” we said together. Caleb pawed the dance floor with the tip of his Timberland. I turned to Grayson.

“Go. We’ll hang another time,” he said.

My heart deflated. For real? “Oh, um, okay. Sure you don’t mind if I skip out now?”

“Baby, we got this,” Eben said, stuffing the rest of the tablecloths into the laundry bag. “Go!”

Maddie linked her arm through mine, and we followed the boys to the lobby, where Zach continued to act like a five‑year‑old with Sir Gus. I fetched my coat and purse from the office.

“Hey, why don’t we ask Grayson to hang out too?” I asked.

Maddie frowned. “Wren,” she whispered, “it’s a party for four. And it’s Zach’s cousin . Please do this for me?”

I shrugged on my coat and looked into the ballroom. Grayson was still there, giant laundry bag slung over his shoulder. He waved. I waved back, hoping the gesture would communicate . . . what? That I wanted to stay? That I was sorry Maddie showed up unexpectedly with a boy toy for me for the evening? Did he really mean we’d hang out another time?

“Sure,” I said, committing to my decision. “But at least let me stop home to get changed first.”

EIGHT

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 551