Page 99 of Perfectly Grumpy

Remember, he’s pretending.His ex wants to meet up with him. This isn’t real, no matter how real it feels when he looks at me.

Aunt Karen clears her throat. “Before we begin, the current standings are as follows…”

She reads from her clipboard, announcing that Bart and Abby have decided to compete separately, so they’re both technicallytied for first place. Tate and I are close behind, which means we’re still in the running if we can pull off a win today.

Olivia leans over and whispers, “Jake and I are throwing the competition for you. We’ll hide somewhere obvious.”

I squeeze her hand in silent thanks, even as guilt prickles up my spine. My entire family is all-in on supporting my relationship with Tate, completely unaware it’s built on a foundation of half-truths.

“Okay, the rules are simple,” Aunt Karen says. “I’m the one who finds each of you, and the last one left hiding wins. You can go anywhere, but no leaving the property. Got it?”

We all agree, including the kids, who are eager to compete against the adults. Annie is with Granny for the afternoon, probably being spoiled by too many treats and belly rubs.

“Remember, once you’re found, you have to come back to the lodge and wait,” Aunt Karen adds. “No helping others hide better or giving away positions. That means you, Ray,” she says, giving her husband a pointed look.

As soon as my aunt blows the whistle, everyone takes off running in all directions, except for Tate. He turns toward me instead. “Let’s plan a strategy.”

“But we only have five minutes to hide,” I say, watching the group scramble toward their hiding spots, the pressure of the ticking clock bearing down on us. “If we don’t go now, we won’t get a good place.”

“Better to have a plan than to rush into something,” Tate says, looking like he’s about to launch into a slideshow presentation. “Research says that people who plan things have a thirty percent better success rate…”

“Tate,” I interrupt, setting my hands on my hips. “Skip the research and just tell me where we should hide.”

“People will expect us to spread out, to go as far away as possible from the lodge. But what if we hid where people least expect because it’s right under their noses?”

“And where is that?”

“The lodge,” he says. “In the basement storage closet.”

I frown. “But that’s always locked.”

“Not if you have the key,” he says, pulling it out of his pocket and showing me the silver object in his hand.

“How did you get that?” I whisper, glancing around. “Granny never lets anyone use it.”

“I borrowed it when I offered to help Granny mop the floor and never gave it back.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“I know,” he says, looking quite proud that he fooled Granny.

We take off toward the lodge at a jog, careful to stay low and use the bushes for cover whenever possible. Tate keeps glancing back to make sure we’re not being followed.

“Coast is clear,” he whispers as we reach the back porch. Through the window, I can see the house is empty—everyone else is outside searching for hiding spots among the trees and outbuildings. The perfect time to execute Tate’s plan.

We slip inside, our footsteps quiet on the hardwood floors. Tate motions toward the basement door. “Nobody thinks to hide inside when the whole property is available. And they especially won’t check the storage closet in the basement.”

We head through the large game room to the back of the basement, where a small hallway leads to a utility room and locked closet. Tate slides the key in, and with a swift turn, opens the door.

I step inside the tight space, which has enough room to store tables and folding chairs—and definitely wasn’t meant for humans. It’s probably no bigger than the elevator we were trapped in.

He shuts the door and then turns around. His mouth tightens, a small muscle clenching in his jaw. “This place is smaller than I remembered.”

I can see how his shoulders hunch slightly, and his eyes dart around like he’s looking for an escape. With his broad frame, hemust feel like a giant trapped in a dollhouse. Immediately, I can sense how much he hates this.

“We can leave,” I say, giving him an out. “I know small spaces make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to stay.”

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