Page 87 of Perfectly Grumpy

I blink at him, caught off guard by the way he’s looking at me—like I’m the trophy worth winning. Like this moment, righthere in the middle of a pond with my hair plastered to my face, is worth more than any medal or bragging rights.

He clears his throat lightly, breaking the spell. “Can I help you into your canoe?”

I nod, my breath caught somewhere between my ribs. Tate moves closer, his hands finding my waist beneath the edge of my life vest. His touch is deliberate, like he’s memorizing every curve, studying where he’s allowed to hold me.Alwayscareful.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “I’m going to lift you in now.” His thumbs press gently against my sides, and though there are probably a dozen more efficient ways he could get me into this canoe, I suddenly don’t want any of them. I like his hands here, the way his fingers fit against me, like they were designed for exactly this purpose.

In one fluid motion, I’m rising from the water, his arms guiding me effortlessly over the side of the canoe. For a beat, my body brushes against his, and something electric courses through me before I’m seated in the canoe.

I look down at him, still in the water, shoulders gleaming in the sun. He doesn’t even look winded, while I, on the other hand, might be experiencing cardiac issues from his touch.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to slow down my heart. “That was…impressive.”

“Impressive? You know I could bench-press you without breaking a sweat,” he says, with that slight curve to his lips that makes his dimples appear.

“Should we test that theory when we get back to dry land?” I ask.

His grin deepens. “Sunny, if you want my hands on you”—he pauses just long enough to make me hang on his words—“you just have to fall in the water more often.”

TWENTY-NINE

Tate

“Are you staying for the family volleyball match?” Lauren asks as I towel off after the canoe races. She’s holding Annie’s leash as the rest of the family drifts toward the sand court.

I run a hand through my wet hair, trying not to notice the way her eyes track my movement. “I’ve got a few things I need to take care of. Would you be okay if I didn’t stick around?”

Her smile falters for a second before she shakes her head. “Sure, go enjoy some quiet time.” She glances at her phone, then back at me with a slight head tilt. “Though I was hoping to show you something interesting.”

“What’s that?” I ask, taking Annie’s leash from her.

She holds up her screen, radiating excitement. “I was checking my social media after the race. Your Instagram post has officially gone viral. The beach photo with Annie has more shares than any other post.”

I groan lightly. “That’s great—for Annie. Personally, I’d prefer to be an anonymous guy with a private account and a picture of a dog for his profile.”

“Well, at least there’s a silver lining,” she says. “The shelter is getting more attention.”

“That would be the only redeeming thing about that picture,” I say.

She looks from the picture, then to me, like she’s thinking. “Tate, you know this is bigger than the shelter now. Already the PR inquiries are blowing up my DMs—podcasts, magazines, even a YouTube interview request with the headline:Hockey Grump Turned Viral Hunk.”

I stare at her blankly. “You’re joking.”

She shakes her head. “Tate, I never joke about trending topics.”

“Guess it’s time I relocated to that cabin in the woods permanently.”

“This is an opportunity,” she says with a gleam in her eye, the same one I see when she talks about PR. “People want to know who you are. And you haven’t even told people about this…” She touches Hope’s bracelet lightly.

I pull my arm back slightly. “I don’t talk about Hope to the press, Lauren.”

“They just want to hear your story, and I can help you tell it right.”

I take a deep breath. “That’s just it, Lauren. Hope’s story isn’t a story—it’s my life. My family’s life.” I need her to understand this part of me. “I don’t want to be someone who turns personal tragedy into content for attention. And I don’t want to measure my worth in likes or comments.” I turn the bracelet on my wrist, my fingers absently spinning the beads. “I only agreed to your PR plan to fix that mistake with the commissioner’s wife. But Hope is different. Some things should stay private, even in a world where everyone shares everything.”

She studies my face for a second. “I get it,” she says quietly, glancing at her phone, then back at me. “I just see all these opportunities, and my first instinct is always to grab them. That’s who I am.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” I tell her. “It’s what makes you good at what you do. But it’s not who I am.”

---