“Well, that’s dysfunctional, not that it surprises me. You hide behind that charming smile of yours⁠—”

“You think my smile’s charming?” I ask, cooing and smiling wider.

He chuckles. “I also called you dysfunctional.”

“Well, I try to focus on the positives, Grady,” I smirk.

“Seriously, Marina. Frowns, fears, and tears are okay. Necessary, even.”

“Not for me.” I huff. It’s rare for me to feel annoyed, but the niggling sensation grows the longer he dissects me with his ice-cutting eyes. It’s like he wants me to fall apart. Would that bring him some strange satisfaction? What good would falling apart do, anyway?

“When you’re ready,” he says, many heartbeats later. “I promise. I will catch you.”

“Oh, Grady Tripp, one accident doesn’t mean a lifelong commitment.”

“I want to be here,” he shrugs. He steps closer again. “So, forget no frowns, fears, or tears. The next time you’re pushing yourself through a mess, just think… Whatever I am, Grady’s got me.”

I break free of his intense stare, fixating on the water where the green algae and lily pads mix with blue sky reflections. Tears well in my ducts again, like they, too, are begging to satisfy Grady Tripp. Not today, tears. Not today.

“Hmm,” I chuckle, “mine was catchier. Besides, if that’s true, stop asking to help out and ask me to hang out instead. Marigold had fun with me. You might, too.”

The idea transforms him into Grouchy Tripp in a flash. His grimace snuffs out all our earlier sparks like a bucket of ice-cold water. Ouch.

“Um, I don’t know if⁠—”

“Nevermind. Dumb idea,” I say, waving my hand between us. “Now, you’ve got fish to catch, and I have worker bees to wrangle⁠—”

“No, wait. The other night, you said something about your next place having a peephole. What did you mean? Your next place?”

My head tilts in a silent sigh. Since my conversation with Peter Pike about my future tenancy, I’ve busily pushed that problem out of my mind. I can’t think about moving now. I can’t.

Smiling, always smiling, I bring a hand to Grady’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “There are those impressive shoulders again, trying to carry everything. Relax, Grady.”

He shadows me as I leave the pier, stepping over worn boards and dodging mud patches along the swamp bank. Near the store’s side, Christie and Roy argue about hanging a pin-up calendar of scantily clad women inside the smoker’s porch—a nice diversion from Grady’s rejection. I’m officially bothered—he wants to be there for me, but draws the line at hanging out? That’s fine—I won’t make the mistake of asking again.

Grady veers toward the parking lot without a goodbye, and it’s a relief watching him go.

28. Grady

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Grady