Page 95 of Perfectly Grumpy

I carefully slide out of bed, grabbing clothes and heading to the bathroom. When I emerge, Tate is sitting up, hair adorably rumpled, glasses slightly askew as he checks his phone. My heart slides into my throat, making everything harder.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep.

“Morning,” I reply, keeping my tone casual as I busy myself with packing up some of my toiletries. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah.” He hesitates, like he wants to say more, but instead asks, “What’s on the schedule today?”

“The kids have their own Nerf gun battle followed by hide-and-seek.” I don’t look at him as I tuck my toothpaste away.

“Sounds fun.” He watches me for a moment. “Lauren, about last night?—”

“Last night was perfect,” I say with a forced smile, the one I use at my job when smoothing over things. “Everyone totally bought it. Even Bart looked convinced.”

His brow furrows slightly. “That’s not…”

“And then Olivia texted this morning…” I say, rifling through my luggage, refusing to look at him. “Said everyone understood why we wanted to spend some time together instead of go to the bonfire. So, mission accomplished on the boyfriend front. You’ve definitely earned your PR makeover.”

I’m doing this all wrong, but I can’t seem to stop. It’s like watching myself sabotage the very thing I want, but protecting yourself is a powerful instinct. Better to frame everything as part of our arrangement than risk him letting me down gently.

Before he can respond, I quickly add, “We should get going, otherwise we’ll miss breakfast. Granny hates when people are late.”

He frowns slightly, but nods. “Sure.”

As we walk to the main lodge, I can’t help wondering what’sreal and what’s just part of our arrangement. The way he looked at me last night felt real. The way he held my hand felt real.

But maybe that’s just Tate—steady, reliable Tate who commits fully to whatever task he takes on, even if it’s pretending to be my boyfriend. Maybe I’m just projecting my own growing feelings onto someone who’s simply doing me a favor.

And now Lydia wants to talk.

That just makes me sad. Sad that I let myself believe this could be real. Sad that I’m stupid enough to fall for someone who’s going to choose someone else.

Annie trots happily between us, oblivious to the silent tension between us, occasionally bumping against our legs.

“So,” I say, trying to fill the silence, “just a few days left before we pack up. Then it’s back to real life. We fooled everyone, right?”

Something flickers across his face. Disappointment? Relief? I can’t tell.

“Right,” he says quietly, studying me with that careful gaze.

I look away. I don’t want him to see how bothered I am. How this week has been the best week of my life. How being with him has made me feel safer and happier than I’ve felt since Mom died.

Worst of all, it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t posted that picture of Tate and Annie, Lydia never would’ve reached out. If I hadn’t been so determined to boost his public image, his ex wouldn’t be sliding into his messages. That’s the cruel irony of it all. I made him a star only to lose him in the process. The ultimate PR backfire—I succeeded too well at my job.

But I’m the only loser here.

We reach the main lodge where my family gathers for breakfast, and I steel myself for another day of pretending. Another day of wondering what might have happened if we hadn’t been interrupted. Another day of trying not to fall for someone who’s probably already thinking about reconnecting with his ex.

Tate reaches for my hand as we approach the group, his fingers warm and sure as they lace through mine.It feels so natural now, so right, that for a moment I let myself forget it’s all for show.

That’s the worst part of pretending—when you start wishing it was real.

Breakfast is a blur of pancakes, coffee, and forced smiles. I focus on helping Dad flip pancakes at the griddle, grateful for any excuse to keep my distance from Tate.

It’s Kaylie who finally ends the tension after breakfast, tugging on Tate’s sleeve. “Can you show us how to shoot a Nerf gun?”

Tate glances at me, like he’s asking permission, but I just nod and turn back to the dirty dishes in the sink. The kids drag him outside, while I help Granny wash up the breakfast dishes, scrubbing maple syrup from plates with unnecessary force while she chatters on about Tate.

“He’s so good with the children,” she notes, watching him out the window with the kids. “That’s always a positive sign. I’m sure he’ll make someone very happy.” She gives me a wink and smiles.

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