Page 71 of Perfectly Grumpy

“It’s. Not. Helping,” I grit out.

“Try again,” he says, somehow keeping us both afloat.

I point my toe to my knee again and this time, the muscle begins to ease its death grip on my leg.

“Any better?” he asks.

“I think it’s working,” I say, suddenly aware that I’m practically wrapped around him like a koala. My arms are locked around his neck, my body pressed against his chest. “But this is ridiculous. I’ve been swimming since I was four.”

“And yet here we are—with you clinging to me like a barnacle.” His hands continue working my cramping muscle.

“I am not—” I start, but at that exact moment, a larger wave rolls through, lifting us both. My arms tighten around his neck. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m clinging a little.”

“A little?” He raises an eyebrow as he suppresses a smile. “You’re basically using me as a floating dock.”

“It’s this or I drown,” I point out. “And if I drown, who’s going to make you smile for pictures?”

“Fair point,” he says. “How’s the leg now?”

The pain is subsiding, but the muscle is still tight. “Much better, but still hurts.”

“We need to get you back to shore,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the beach. “Think you can swim yet?”

I try to kick and the muscle starts to tighten again. I shake my head. “Nope. Definitely not.”

“Then hold on,” he says, maneuvering me so that I’m essentially hanging on to his back. “I’ll tow you in.”

“While the family watches? This is mortifying,” I say into his shoulder.

“More mortifying than dying in front of your entire family?” he asks, starting toward the shore.

“I wouldn’t have died,” I argue. “I would have just—flailed pathetically.”

“While screaming in pain,” he adds helpfully.

I can see my family watching us from the beach. From theirvantage point, it must look like I’m embracing Tate from behind, my arms wrapped around his neck as he swims us in, like I’m one of those fish that cling to sharks, hitching a free ride.

“Great,” I sigh. “Now everyone’s going to think we’re having some romantic moment in the water.”

“We are, aren’t we?” he says, clearly amused by this situation. “Nothing says romance like a charley horse and near-drowning.”

I can’t help but laugh. At least he can make light of it. If it had been Bart, he would’ve complained about me dragging him down. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Tate swims forward, his strokes evenly paced, like I’m weightless. “I’m just saying, most women would have to fake a leg cramp to get their hands on me.”

“Believe me,” I say, “if I were faking, I’d come up with something better than feeling like someone’s stabbing my leg repeatedly.”

We reach shallower water, and without warning, he turns and scoops me up into his arms.

“What are you doing?” I ask, suddenly at eye level with him, my arms automatically going around his neck, our wet bodies suddenly very close.

“What does it look like, Sunny? I’m carrying you,” he says matter-of-factly, like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Unless you want to hop to shore on one leg?”

I open my mouth to protest, then close it. He’s right, and we both know it.

“Just so we’re clear,” I say, giving him a stern look, “this is a medical emergency, not a romantic gesture.”

“Of course. Not romantic at all.” His face is perfectly serious, but his eyes dance with amusement. “I’m merely providing necessary medical assistance.”

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