“Not worked up,” Grayson mutters as he hands Mrs. Henderson her change.
“Sure, sure. That’s why you’re following her around town, right? Standard procedure for all out-of-town visitors?”
He ignores me, turning to the next customer with a grunt that passes for a greeting in Grayson-speak.
I wander away from the counter, pretending to browse the shelves while I consider the situation. Something is definitely up.
A plan forms in my mind—ridiculous, over-the-top, and guaranteed to annoy Grayson. Perfect.
I make my way to the back where the bulk grocery items are stocked. Cases of canned corn are stacked in a precarious tower. Waiting until Grayson is looking in my direction, I deliberately knock one of the twelve-can boxes off the shelf, letting it land squarely on my foot.
“AAAAAARGH!” I howl, dropping to the floor and clutching my foot. “MY FOOT! I THINK IT’S BROKEN!”
The customers turn to stare. Grayson’s expression doesn’t change, but I can practically hear him counting to ten in his head.
“GRAYSON!” I wail, writhing dramatically on the floor. “I NEED MEDICAL ATTENTION! YOU HAVE TO TAKE ME TO THE CLINIC!”
“Get up,” he says flatly.
“I CAN’T! THE PAIN! IT’S UNBEARABLE!”
An elderly woman peers down at me with concern. “Should I call an ambulance, dear?”
“No!” Grayson and I say simultaneously, though with very different tones.
“No need to bother the medics,” I explain, giving her my most pathetic look. “This probably just needs an X-ray. Maybe some massage, or whatever you call that, you know, uh…medically.”
Grayson comes around the counter to survey my injury. “Look’s fine.”
“But Graaaaayson,” I whine, “what if it’s broken? What if I never snowboard again? What if gangrene sets in and they have to amputate?”
“I have customers,” he says, unmoved.
I clutch at his pant leg. “Please! I’m in agony here! Look at my foot—it’s already swelling!”
It’s not, of course, but I’ve always been an excellent actor. The high school drama teacher said I had a natural flair for the dramatic right before she kicked me out of the spring showcase for what she called a distracting amount of improvisation.
Grayson stares down at me, his eyes narrowing above the bandana. I can tell he knows exactly what I’m doing, but he’s also weighing the social cost of letting me continue this performance in front of his customers.
Marjorie Whitesong, who’s been quietly observing this whole scene while waiting to pay for her fishing line, nods with a knowing smile. “Go on, I’ll mind things here.”
“You’re an angel, Margie!” I call out, then yelp as Grayson hauls me to my feet with unnecessary force.
“Put weight on it,” he orders.
I do so gingerly, keeping up the charade with a pained wince. “It hurts, but I think I can hobble there if you help me.”
The look he gives me could curdle milk, but he doesn’t call my bluff. Instead, he loops my arm over his shoulders and half-drags me toward the door.
“You’re the best, Grayby,” I say cheerfully as we exit the store. “Always looking out for me.”
“I’m going to kill you,” he replies conversationally.
“Probably. But not before I meet our mysterious Dr. Chang properly.” I don’t drop the act when we reach the street, enjoying making him practically carry me. “Come on, admit it—there’s something about her that’s got you curious. Both of you.”
Grayson says nothing, but his silence speaks volumes.
“Fine, keep your secrets,” I sigh dramatically. “But just so you know, I’m expecting someone to give me a sponge bath while I recover.”
