Chapter 6

Carl didn't sleep much and when he did, he was plagued by dreams of Grayson in grey, staring at him with intense dark eyes. Carl kept running from him, but every corner he turned, wham, he toppled into the man again. Good thing the guy was attractive or it would've been frightening for sure. As it was, smacking into him was wildly pleasant for a few moments before that gaze once more sent him fleeing.

He woke screaming for Scorpio to stop stirring stuff up! And wagged an extra warning at his tented bedsheet. "This guy is something else."

He made Carl feel like he was on a boat. In choppy seas. Which was fair. Carl had mostly admitted the truth before he bolted last night, and he didn't know what to expect from Grayson going forward. That in itself was enough to make his stomach churn.

But there was something else... exhilarating and terrifying. Throwing him off balance. Overboard!

Grayson was his cliff-top hero. The guy with the big heart.

There was more to Grayson than vanity and a tinny fa?ade. He was kind. Constantly helping others. How earnestly he had talked with Carl yesterday...

And that penetrating gaze. Carl had thought it judgy, but... Grayson searched for the real in people. No wonder he needed to keep looking at him.

"Enough. Think of other things."

Like how he'd tune Linda's piano.

He groaned, rolled out of bed, and decided it was early enough. He'd take Toto for a ride.

The wind was roaring outside, and biking became near impossible around some bends, but it was pretty good procrastination. Soon enough, though, the time had come, and he was knocking apprehensively on Linda's door.

She ushered him inside, taking Toto and sitting it with his jacket beside a giant fish tank. "Piano's this way. Come, come."

With a plastered smile and a bag full of tuning instruments he'd found in Jason's closet, Carl followed Linda to a lacy living room and sank onto the piano seat with a rampant pulse.

Linda patted his head and her eyes glazed. "You're a good man, and you're on the right path. Keep walking, the grass will only get greener. Then you'll find your happiness. You'll see."

Wee bit dotty, but a dear. Carl wiped his clammy palms over Jason's ridiculously tight jeans and nodded. "Um, could I get a cup of tea?"

Linda swept out of the room saying she'd return with a hot Earl Grey shortly, and Carl whipped out his phone to the tab he'd opened on how to tune a piano. Everything he'd looked up said tuning was a challenging job that should be done by a skilled professional. Clearly Jason had such skills, but Carl... well, faking it could be an expensive ordeal.

He had a plan for this.

He opened the piano lid—check. He held the electronic chromatic tuner device thingy—check. He pressed a few keys while maintaining a sombre expression—check. And when Linda re-entered the room—check—he sucked in sharply, looked at her with a grimace, and said, "I'm sorry, Linda. My equipment is malfunctioning. Looks like we'll have to call in another professional."

Linda set his tea on a doily on the coffee table. "Oh dear. Will that be very expensive?"

Probably. Who knew? Of course, Jason would. And he'd probably have colleagues he knew who might do it for a deal. He certainly wouldn't leave Linda hanging like this. "Let me call in a favour."

He plugged in a number for a piano technician he'd found that morning, and hit call. He'd simply hire someone, pay out of his own pocket, and pretend—

No one was picking up!

Linda was looking at him like he was her saviour!

What was plan B?

The ringing had long ended, but he held the phone to his ear, smiling and nodding and murmuring, "Won't be long, Linda. We'll sort this out. Absolutely in time for your granddaughter."

Inside, he was one very long groan. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

The doorbell chimed through the bones of the house, and Linda blessedly left the living room to answer. Carl sagged to the piano stool. Maybe he should call his brother. Tell him he was getting in all kinds of trouble, and could he somehow actually call in a favour?

He had his thumb hovering over the call button when Linda returned. Carl glanced over with an automatic wave, then whipped his head back and stared.

Grayson slung a bag off his shoulder and crossed over to him. "You promised you'd help me perfect the art of tuning, remember?" He raised both his eyebrows with a pointed ‘play along'.

"Ah, so I did," Carl said slowly. "Unfortunately, my thingy is malfunctioning."

Grayson patted his bag. "Mine works."

Yours? You tune pianos as well as... everything else?

Carl was a series of rapid blinks.

"Shall we start?" Grayson asked. "May I take the lead and you give me tips where you see need for improvement?"

More blinking.

Grayson set Carl's bag aside and perched next to him on the piano stool, the lengths of their arms mashed together. Under his tongue, for Carl's ears only, he murmured, "You're drooling."

Carl slapped a hand over his mouth and then scowled. He was not.

Grayson smirked.

There was that mischievous, vain side of Grayson again—the side that loved the idea Carl was his newest groupie. Carl dug an elbow into his side and spoke in Grayson's ear. "Tune this and I might drool for real." He turned his head to Linda and grinned. "It's important no one else is around while we do this as any background noises can affect the quality of tuning."

Linda breezed out of the living room with a dreamy smile, telling them to take their time.

Grayson pressed the C key and side-eyed Carl. "You bullshit convincingly."

"Get this done, and then you can chastise me all you want."

Grayson busied himself with tuning the piano. He removed cabinet doors; dusted strings; checked for damaged or muted strings, and gently tuned the flat keys. By the end of it, the piano sounded crisp, and Carl couldn't lie. He was impressed. "I'm impressed." He eyed those dextrous, handy fingers, and briefly remembered their gentleness guiding him out of a crouch. "How do you know how to do this? Don't say you're an accomplished pianist."

Grayson shook his head. "Sam played the piano. That's why I learned the skill."

"Sam?"

Grayson stared down at the ivory keys. "My ex."

There was heartbreak here. Carl could hear it—no, feel it. A familiar heavy throb in the air around them. He found himself nodding.

And leaning in. "Sam—Samuel? Or Sam—Samantha?"

Grayson glanced at him out the corner of his eye, and shook his head. He wrapped an arm around Carl's neck and patted his shoulder. "Just Sam."

The playfully patronising pat had Carl grumbling and tossing off Grayson's hand. "That wasn't fishing for useful information."

"No-no, of course not."

"I mean it. It was curiosity."

"Sure."

God, this man was infuriating! Also, super amazingly helpful in today's predicament. But really annoying! "I come from a tiny town. Being nosy is a requirement. It's in my blood to pry into people's business."

Grayson looked at him, head cocked, a small smirk at his lips. "That begins to explain things. This town, is it in Oz?"

The conversation was bound to turn in this direction. From the moment Grayson entered Linda's living room, Carl knew an explanation was on the horizon. He flattened his lips and took a few calming breaths, then swivelled on the stool, knocking their knees. "Tassie. I run a convenience store there. I'm actually Carl Birch; Jason Lyall is my twin. We've... swapped lives. Temporarily."

"Sounds like the plot of an old movie."

"That might've been where I got the ingenious idea."

"Ingenious?" Grayson looked sceptical.

Carl sort of understood since, well, look at the trouble he'd got himself into. However, this was still better—infinitely better—than helping his ex prepare to marry another bloke. "Anyway, the point is I'm not an accomplished pianist, and I'm grateful for your help today. You think you can keep this identity swap thing to yourself? I'm only here another week or two, and when the real Jason returns, he'll carry on the charade. No one will get hurt, you'll see."

A long sigh. "So that's the conversation we supposedly had yesterday."

Carl smiled sheepishly, and then prodded Grayson's arm. "I have a question." Grayson motioned for him to go ahead, and Carl scooched closer, breathing in a whiff of oaky aftershave. "I drank a bit the other night. What did I do to trigger that conversation, exactly?"

"You sat alone in the corner of the pub moaning over your phone."

Carl... vaguely recalled scrolling through a Remember This Day photo collection of him and Pete.

"Then you told the couple at the neighbouring table to make sure they weren't mistaking their relationship. That it might just be friendship."

Carl winced. There was a partial memory of a young couple...

"You said they should figure it out right away and not be blindsided years later when the other person meets the ‘true love of their life'."

Carl smacked a hand to his forehead. The words were true, but the fact he'd said them...

"And then—"

"There's more?"

Grayson smirked. "Something about getting accomplished. Being desirable and having journalistic integrity. It got a bit bizarre at that point—the beauty of boulevards and three-lane highways? And then—"

"Oh God."

"—you said you'd ‘walk it off'."

"I do remember walking."

"Mm. I was afraid you might head up the hills again, so I followed."

"Ah. Right." Carl paused and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Did you weed-wack next door on purpose?"

"When I helped you home, I noticed the neighbour's yard was due a trim."

"Sure."

Grayson winked, and Carl was hit with a thought that had him grabbing Grayson by his grey collar and gaping at his handsome face, suddenly only an inch away. "You helped me home?"

"You couldn't find your keys." Grayson pried Carl's fingers off him. "They were in your pocket."

"You reached into my pocket?"

"You really wanted me to."

"Outrageous."

"My thoughts exactly. I used a gardening fork."

"I . . . I . . . honestly don't know what to say to that."

"You're welcome."

Carl laughed and buried his face in his hands. When he looked at Grayson again, he'd reined in most of his fickle feelings and spoke seriously. "Thank you. For helping me home. For having that conversation with me. For today, too." He nodded. "Under it all, you're a big heart."

Grayson frowned, and all traces of vanity vanished. There was something raw and tender in the way he stared at the piano keys and shook his head.

"Why do you keep dismissing it when I say that?" He'd done the same thing coming down the hill that first night, too.

A sigh and tired pause followed, and Carl's instinctive urge was to pat his shoulder. The instant his hand touched down, Grayson stiffened and rolled the slouch out of his shoulders with a hollow laugh. "A big heart would let you get away with these lies." He leapt to his feet and grabbed his bag, flinging a misty gaze Carl's way, masking it with another laugh.

On the one hand, Carl felt there was something deeper at play here. Something to probe beneath the reaction. On the other hand, he had to protect himself. "What do you mean you won't let me get away with it?"

Grayson walked out of the living room. "I plan to extort you."

Carl learnedthe next morning exactly how he'd be extorted. It wasn't for money.

He sadly tucked his wallet into his back pocket and followed Grayson into Over The Raindough's kitchen.

Grayson shook out a floor-dusted tin-foil-like apron, came behind Carl, and slipped it over his head. "Arms up."

"Can't believe you'd rather have me glaze your cupcakes."

"I would rather." Grayson tied a bow behind Carl's back, murmuring cheekily in his ear. "And there's a whole lot more you'll have to swallow."

"Aren't you a master at doing these jobs yourself?"

"Always better with a helping hand."

"Fine." Carl picked up an icing pouch thingy. "Show me how."

"Don't squeeze so hard."

"I didn't think it'd shoot out so fast."

"Try again. Gently. Until the tip glistens. Now start glazing. The cupcakes!"

"Your hand was in the way. Just lick it off."

"You missed the cupcake again."

"I want a taste too."

"Let go. I'll do it. What's that look for? You didn't want to do this to start with."

"I changed my mind. I also really fancy biting into that cupcake."

"Leave my cupcakes alone. Out."

Carl rounded to the other side of the counter and plunked himself on a high stool. "Sure I can't pay you to keep quiet?"

Grayson laughed from deep behind some ovens, making it sound somewhat maniacal. "You're my PA for a week, Carl Birch. I'll make sure you're too busy to pretend to play piano."

"About that . . ."

Grayson emerged from behind kitchenware and resumed glazing his cupcakes with a quick look Carl's way.

"I have to be a professional pianist again tomorrow. Last time, and that's it."

Grayson stopped glazing and stared at him.

"This time it's important," Carl explained. "It's for Leo's school assembly."

"School assembly... Are you actually out of your mind? I asked you yesterday to press C and you pressed F."

"I'm not saying the gig is without difficulties—"

"You are not a pianist!"

"Well, sometimes pretending is the best thing to do. It can be healing. That's what I'm doing for Leo."

Grayson wagged the icing pouch in his direction. "Being yourself always wins in the end. I'll prove it to you. Ah! I have another job for you."

Grayson briefly abandoned his cupcakes, came to the counter and pulled out a box of receipts and a laptop. He started it up, did some clicking, and turned it to Carl. "Simple enough. Plug the totals from those receipts into this spreadsheet, in the correct category, to tally up these expenses."

Carl stared at all those swimming numbers and nodded. He did this stuff at home, too. Not in Excel though. All those grids looked a bit daunting, but he'd manage. One by one, Carl collected numbers and used his phone calculator to determine the totals. An hour passed, and the bakery opened for business, and Carl squirrelled away in a corner to finish the box.

An hour after that, with a few receipts to go, Sage arrived, all bright smiles and boundless energy. She played a song from her phone and Grayson whisked her into a dance; they moved and laughed like they did this as a daily tradition. Carl kept peeking over, amused, mesmerised. What comfort with one another; what fun to have at work.

Grayson caught him watching mid-spin and smiled smugly, and Carl ripped his attention back to the computer. Scorpio will not stir him up. Any-which-way. Out of sheer stubbornness, if for no other reason!

But of course, there were other reasons.

Pete had broken his heart. He was here to nurse it. Not hand it over to this handsome heartbreaker to do worse damage.

After the song-and-dance ended, Grayson signed out of his morning shift, slipped behind Carl, and peered over his shoulder. "Thank you for—what are you doing?"

Carl glanced over his shoulder at Grayson's puzzled frown focused on his Excel sheet.

"Tallying the numbers."

"You didn't need to do your own calculations. This tab is set up to run those for you. You only need to pop the numbers into this column."

Heat whipped Carl's cheeks and he shut the laptop, glad Grayson couldn't see his face.

"Nothing to worry about. I'll fix it later. Let's move on." Grayson called to Sage, "I'm borrowing the laptop."

"Sure! What happened to yours?"

Grayson patted Carl's shoulder. "Need a second one today."

Carrying two laptops, Carl followed Grayson quietly to his next gig—typing for Mr Wilson, a former Air Force pilot who'd recorded his daring adventures by hand and now wanted them typed into a document so he could self-publish his life story. They followed him through his old home to the back garden, where a standalone unit held a bed, desk, corner kitchen, and a dozen boxes of journals.

"How long do you think it'll take?" Mr Wilson asked.

Grayson took the laptops and set them on a long desk. "I'm halfway through. With Jason's help, we might even make it by the end of the month."

"Good, good. I'd like to see it released before I kick the bucket." Mr Wilson pointed a shaky hand at the kitchenette in the corner. "Tea and coffee, and in that cupboard there's a bunch of vitamins. Help yourselves."

"Thanks," Grayson said, pointing for Carl to bring one of the boxes from the bed to the desk. "We will."

Carl heaved the box as Mr Wilson inched his walker out the door. "Remember, the door's bung. Don't shut it all the way. Call the landline if you get locked in, I can't hear you yelling from here."

"I know the drill."

Mr Wilson raised a hand in a wave and stop-and-started his way back to the main house.

Carl dropped the box on the desk beside Grayson. "Seriously, how many jobs do you have?"

Grayson pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and passed it over. Carl stared at the colour-coded timetable filling up fifteen-plus hours of every day. "When do you sleep?"

"I finish at seven and start at four thirty. That's plenty of time to have dinner, clean up, and go to bed."

His monthly schedule looked insane. It ran weekends, too. Only this coming Saturday was free from things, but one free day hardly seemed enough. "How many jobs do you have?"

Grayson waved it off and slid his phone back into his pocket. "Let's get started. Mr Wilson's handwriting is a bit special, but I'll clue you in." He touched his throat with a wince. "First, tea."

Carl's tea went cold before he could even think to drink it. Mr Wilson's handwriting was not special, it was atrocious. While Grayson rat-a-tap-tapped on his keyboard, gaze flying over lines of journal with apparent ease and words flying onto the laptop screen with incredible accuracy, Carl squinted at the yellowed pages, searched for the letters, and prodded them two-fingered. Grayson had done ten pages by the time Carl finished one.

"How's it going?" Grayson asked, taking a break to make himself another tea. "Is it too cold in here?"

Cold? Carl was sweating. Hyper-aware of his lack of touch-typing skills, and conscious of all the red-squiggled lines where he'd spelled things incorrectly. "It's going fine," Carl lied. Enough to feel incompetent. He didn't need to voice it.

"Honey, honey, honey."

Carl whipped around in his chair, startled. For a moment there, he thought Grayson was throwing out the endearment to commiserate with him. But Grayson was searching the cupboards.

Another hot tea landed beside him, and Carl was fairly sure this one would go cold too.

"Another couple of hours here, then we'll stop for lunch and head to the library."

"What do we do there?"

There, they offered help to the local community. Editing CVs. Giving feedback on cover letters. Helping build websites.

None of which Carl had any clue how to do himself. Even with the templates Grayson gave him as a guide, Carl was way out of his depth. He smiled and nodded his way through his line anyway, and sent most of the people who approached him over to Grayson.

By the time they'd wrapped up, Carl wanted to sink into the ground and never rear his head again. The day couldn't get worse.

And then his twin rang.

Carl smuggled the ringing phone outside, jostled up as much humour as he could pretend and answered, laughing. "Uh-oh. What have I done now?"

Jason answered far too quickly. "Nothing." Then he paused. "I mean, other than flashing your mum."

Carl... honestly had no words to respond to that.

Jason cleared his throat and continued, "The reason I'm ringing is..." There was a pause before the rest came out in a rush. "Cora needs to know you love her. That you know she had twins and adopted us out, and you've found your brother, and you still respect her. Hold her dear in your heart."

The idea was suffocating. Telling his real mum that he knew... What would that mean for their relationship? How might it change their dynamics? Make things awkward?

Make things better?

"I can't—"

"Sooner or later she'll find out. Don't let her turn down living with a good man and his daughters because of an uncomfortable conversation."

Cora had been seeing her partner for a while now; they seemed good together. It was strange, though, watching her take part in other children's lives. Over the past year, without seeing it herself perhaps, she'd taken on the role of step-mum, and watching her with those girls... hurt.

She gave them hugs, took them for outings, ate dinners around a family table that Carl was never at.

Carl shut his eyes and swallowed hard. Why couldn't she have looked after them? Been like Sage, embracing motherhood despite her young age. His voice stuck in his throat. Scratched its way out. "I... Don't say anything. Not yet. I will tell her. After the wedding. I just need a little longer. Keep up the act, please? It'll be easier once Pete's married."

There Carl went again. Excuses. A verbal running away.

It would be just as difficult then as it would now. Carl was simply spineless.

The library doors rolled open behind him and Carl hurriedly stuffed his phone away.

Grayson emerged, clearing his throat and rubbing it. "Packed up for you. We're done here."

Carl had to gobble back his relieved sigh when Grayson added, "Just one more appointment."

More? Carl was utterly depleted. Heavily, he followed Grayson to where they'd locked their bikes. "What will you have me do next?"

"Something fun."

"Fun?"

"You sound suspicious." Grayson's phone buzzed and, still smiling, he answered. "Hello! How can I—really? Right. I suppose I can swing by now. Mm. Be there soon." He hung up and looked over at Carl while tapping the phone against his chin. He nodded to himself, like he'd thought of a good idea.

"What is it?" Carl asked, swinging Toto onto his head.

"That fun thing. You'll have to stand in for me until I get there."

Carl smiled wanly. "Where should I head, boss?"