Grayson Ward shows up smoking, broke, and full of himself. Like a designer-shoe disaster dumped on my curb.
I hand him a broom on his first day, and my employees haze him for weeks.
He doesn't quit.
Somewhere between teaching him to hold a wrench and watching him survive my niece's pop quiz, he gets under my skin.
He starts showing up for people who aren't his to show up for.
I tell myself it's nothing. Then his hands are on me at the workbench, and nothing turns into everything.
He says he's never done laundry. He says a lot of things.
By the time he says he loves me, I already know I'm too deep to pretend otherwise.
Turns out "Grayson Ward" doesn't exist.
His real name is the one stamped on the company circling my garage.
I finally let someone in, and he was holding the knife the whole time.
Now the whole town's watching.
And God, help me, I don't think I'm smart enough to walk away.
