“My fans.”
“Your fans.” I stare at him. “Your fans just chased us through a public park.”
“They do that.” He sounds completely unapologetic, which is either confidence or delusion, and I genuinely cannot tell which.
“That’s not a normal thing.”
“It is for me.”
My heart is pounding, and I demand, “Why didn’t you just stop and give them an autograph?”
Grayson’s jaw tenses, and when he looks at me, I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise, like a predator is looking at me through his eyes. “Nobody knows about Ethan, and I expect it to remain that way.”
There is a thinly veiled threat behind those words, and it makes me bristle.
“I don’t have time to go around spreading your business everywhere.” I give him a dirty look.
I look at Ethan, who is gazing at me like we’ve just stepped off a roller coaster. I check his hands and arms. Still scraped, nothing new. His cap has gone sideways. He looks thrilled.
When I look up, Grayson is watching his son. The hard lines of his face have shifted into a different emotion, something quiet and complicated, equal parts love and guilt. He reaches over and straightens the cap on Ethan’s head. “Don’t take this off until we’re back home. Understand?”
Ethan nods with great solemnity.
“We’re going home.” He takes Ethan from my arms, and the small, warm weight of him disappears all at once. “I knew bringing you out today was a bad idea.”
Ethan’s face starts to fold.
“But I’m hungry,” he says in the tone of someone announcing a great tragedy. “You said I could have food. My tummy really really hurts.”
“You can eat at home.”
“But home is far.” His voice climbs. “And I’m hungry now.”
“Ethan—”
“It hurts, Daddy.” He presses a hand to his stomach for emphasis.
I look across the alley. There’s a small pizza place tucked between two shops with checkered curtains and a handwritten specials board in the window. I can smell melted cheese and garlic from here, which means Ethan absolutely can too.
“There’s a pizza place right there,” I say.
Grayson doesn’t even look. “No.”
“Small. Corner table. Nobody’s going to care about you in a pizza place at noon on a Saturday.”
“I said no.”
“Your son is performing a one-man tragedy in an alley and there is food twelve feet away.” I look at Ethan. “Pizza?”
His whole face changes like someone flipped a switch. “Yes please!”
Grayson looks at his son. Then at me. His jaw works through what I can only assume is a short list of reasons this is a terrible idea. None of them win.
“Fine,” he says like the word physically costs him.
“All right then.” I wipe my hands on the back of my shorts. “It was lovely meeting you, Ethan. I have to get going no—”
I’m already two steps away from them when Grayson’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder, his grip tight. “And where do you think you’re going?”
