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Grayson shifted his weight.
Noah walked toward his truck, stopped, and turned. “I’m sure you had your reasons for staying away, but you’re here now. Clean up. Head into town.” He dug into his pocket and tossed a key to Grayson. “You’ll need this. There’re fresh linens on the bed. Meet me back here at five and I’ll walk you through the horses’ feeding routine.”
With the departing crunch of Noah’s truck on the graveled drive, Grayson hauled the saddle back to the tack room, grabbed his duffel from his rig, and walked into the barn. Everything in him still wanted to flee.
Because he was the guy who’d run away, as far from Deep Haven as he could, almost before his graduation cap even hit the ground. Buried himself in work and spent late nights at Rowdy’s bar, finding comfort with any number of women on the dance floor. Darts. A few games of pool. He hadn’t needed alcohol.
Just something to occupy his mind at the end of the day. Enjoy the attention, then go home. Alone.
Never getting attached.
Even that had cost him. Memories of Harper Pennington’s bright smile and blue eyes wheedled into Grayson’s consciousness, followed by the sharp sting of reality. She’d deserved better.
Even now, after finding his tentative way back to faith, shame and regret dogged him. And not even a shower in Trinity’s barn apartment could wash that away.
* * *
“You’re dead. Stop moving,”Vivien called out.
Beth Strauss grimaced at the black-painted ceiling, the cold floor seeping through her thin summer T-shirt and a spreading pool of corn-syrup blood probably turning her light-brown hair auburn. Yep. The sum of all things in her life led to being a corpse on the floor of the Deep Haven playhouse.
But how could she have said no to Vivien?
She scratched at the tickle on her nose. Wondered if she’d remembered to put Dad’s laundry into the dryer.
Vivien Buckam cleared her throat. “I saw that.” She tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear, looking retro-stylish even in her maternity blouse and crop pants. Not that she was showing much yet. “I do think that’s the perfect recipe for the blood.” Vivie pinched her lips together. “Hmm…I hope that was the non-staining one.”
“Really?” Beth groaned, rolled to her side. “I’d rather not have to exfoliate half my head to remove it.”
Her assailant, known under the alias Courtney Wallace in real life, stood nearby and shoved her fake gun into the waistband of her shorts. “Come on, Beth. We’re almost done and I’m starving.” She pulled her strawberry-blonde hair back, took a hair band off her wrist, and made a quick messy bun.
“Et tu, Courtney?” Beth frowned. “I don’t know why the detective gets shot. She’s the best character in the whole show.” She wiggled around, trying to find a comfortable position on the hard floor.
Being dead was so disagreeable.
“It’s in the script—that’s why it’s a called amurder-mystery comedy.” Vivien paced the front of the stage.
“Don’t you think that’s an oxymoron?” Beth asked.
“You’re just a stand-in. You don’t get a vote.” Vivien winked and flashed a smile.
Stand-in. Yeah, that was about right. In the theater. In life. But not even her fake role was real.
Well, not once she secured the camp assistant director spot. Then, maybe—just maybe—she’d find her path to independence. Perhaps even move out of her dad’s house permanently and prove Lyle Fredrickson wrong.
Lyle. The name had the full-on effect of being at the bottom of a lake, the surface too far above, running out of air.
The burning ache, the panic. The crushing pressure.
Nine months had passed, and yet she could still see him standing there in front of Licks and Stuff, his hand outstretched, asking for the ring back. Telling her she had to choose.
Marry him and go to Texas, or stay with her dad in Deep Haven.
How could she choose between two people she loved? How could she choose him if it meant abandoning her dad?
Lylewaswrong. Dependable didn’t mean afraid. He didn’t understand that sometimes—most of the time—the needs of others trumped her own.
She sat up. “You can practice without me. I’m not actually doing anything.”
