Page 51 of Perfectly Grumpy

“Sunny, you walk fast when you’re on a mission. Is this how it’s going to be all week?”

There’s a hint of amusement in his voice, like he knows exactly why I’m moving myself away from him.

“I’m like a bullet, Tate, fast and efficient. Keep up, orbe left behind,” I say, pushing the cart toward the tomatoes next, trying to regain my composure. Focusing on groceries is infinitely safer than dwelling on those dimples or how his voice does that thing when he’s being playful.

“So maybe you could fill me in on what exactly this Family Olympics involves?” he says, changing the subject. “Because apparently the rest of the town knows more about it than me.”

He picks out two beefsteak tomatoes that look absolutely perfect. I should really bring him shopping every time. He knows vegetables. He knows what melon is ripe by smell. He probably knows the square root of pi, too. What I used to call nerdy, I now call suspiciously useful fake boyfriend material.

“You didn’t get the schedule?” I frown.

“Did you forget my grand entrance with a puppy during dinner?” He quips, bagging the tomatoes with a perfect flourish of a knot.

“Oh, right,” I murmur, taking the bag from him. “Each day, we have a different competition, sometimes even more than one.” I grab some locally grown peaches that Tate takes from my hands to look over. “First, second, and third place get the most points, but you also get points just for finishing. By the end of the week, the pair with the most points wins.”

“And tomorrow’s activity is the water balloon toss?” he asks.

“Are you any good at catching things?”

“Well, I’ve caught a few pucks in my lifetime,” he says, then his dimples flash just long enough for my heart to do that swooping thing.

“We also have canoe races, hide-and-seek, and the big finale…” I pause for dramatic effect. “Paintball.”

“You guys are serious if you’re shooting family members for fun.”

I turn the cart toward the meat freezers. “But you’re by far the best partner I’ve ever had, so I think we’ve got a good shot at winning.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Tate says, stopping next to me. “You want me to do everything I can to keep Bart from winning?”

“Exactly,” I say sweetly.

Tate laughs. “Isn’t this supposed to be fun?”

I innocently blink up at him. “Destroying Bart’s egoisfun, Tate. It’s very therapeutic, but with the added bonus of getting to see his face when he loses.”

He tilts his head, a tease on his lips. “What would your mom say if she could hear you now?”

“If Mom were here,” I say, “she’d probably tell me to crush him.”

“And now I see where you get your drive.”

I pick up the value-size bag of hamburger patties and drop them in the cart. “I’m not worried about the games as much as you not knowing how to answer all the questions you’re about to be bombarded with.”

“What kind of questions?” Tate asks, comparing prices on the hamburgers and swapping out the bag in my cart with a different one.

“About us. Your background. Anydeep dark secretsI should know before my family googles your name?”

He throws me a side eye. “Sunny, my nickname isSheriff.”

“What about your childhood?”

“My sister and I mostly played with Lego sets, read, and did math workbooks,” he says, dropping the sausage links I forgot into the cart.

“Well, that’s pretty uninteresting.”

“My parents were busy most of the time,” he says. We turn into the cereal aisle, and I immediately head for all the colorful boxes loaded with enough sugar to power a small carnival.

“You did math workbooks for fun?” I ask. “Tate, that’s literally the definition of boring.”

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