“Shit,” I say, a bit winded. “He’s gone.”
“Damn.” Grant plops back in his chair. “Maybe we annoyed him too much.”
I survey the patio, but there’s no sign of him. The hot chocolate couple from earlier are behind us, though, sharing yet another series of sloppy kisses in front of a propped-up phone. “Maybe it wasn’t us.”
Grant follows my eyeline and grimaces. “We might have to up our game,” he says, and my heart gives a traitorousthump.
With the patio clearing out, I suggest we try to track Mr. Loner down, because I’m diligent about my job and not because I’m trying to postpone going back to our one-bed room. But he’s nowhere to be found. We cover the whole place until our steps drag and I’ve run out of places to check, and we have no choice but to turn in for the night.
The extra pillows I requested have been delivered by the time we arrive, and I set about arranging them in the middle of the bed as a divider. Grant gives me a bemused look.
“What?” I say, fluffing the pillows. “I like a little personal space when I sleep, Grant. Sue me.”
“Whatever you say,” he replies.
After that, we don’t say much of anything. We take silent turns changing and brushing our teeth, then retire to our separate sides of the bed. Grant reaches up to turn off the light.
“Good night,” he says.
“Night.”
And when I wake in the morning and the pillows are intact, and I’m on my side of the bed and Grant is on his, I think,Good. As it should be.
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’resureyou 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 issoeight 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?”
