Page 19 of Summer Showdown
"We're just happy to contribute to the town's success," Wade said, deftly deflecting. "Speaking of which, we should probably get back to practice if we want to make a decent showing on Saturday."
Zoe seemed to accept this dismissal with good grace. "I'll let you get back to it. But expect to see yourselves front and center in tomorrow's update. Wintervale's summer sweethearts take to the water!" She sketched an imaginary headline in the airbefore collecting her camera bag and heading back toward the path.
As the sound of her car faded, I turned to Wade with raised eyebrows. "Summer sweethearts?"
He groaned, the tips of his ears reddening slightly. "Zoe's never met a nickname she didn't love. Last month, she was calling the mayor and Edna 'Wintervale's Silver Fox Lovebirds.'"
"At least 'sweethearts' is relatively tame," I laughed. "And apparently effective, if ticket sales are up thirty percent."
"The power of a good story," Wade agreed, his eyes lingering on the flower still tucked behind my ear. "People love to believe in summer romance."
Something in his tone made my pulse quicken, and I busied myself with collecting our paddles to hide my reaction. This was all for show—a mutually beneficial arrangement that would end in less than two weeks. I couldn't afford to forget that, no matter how natural it felt to play along.
"So," I said, changing the subject. "What's next on our fake-dating agenda?"
Wade checked his watch. "It's getting close to dinner time. The inn doesn't serve evening meals, right?"
I shook my head. "Rory mentioned a few restaurants in town, though."
"Or," he said, his tone casual but his eyes watchful, "you could come to my place. I make a decent pasta, and we could work on our kayak decorations for tomorrow."
The invitation hung between us, weighted with possibility. The sensible answer was to decline—maintaining distance, keeping things professional. But the memory of his fingers against my cheek as he tucked the flower behind my earlingered, and suddenly professional distance seemed like the last thing I wanted.
"Dinner sounds nice," I heard myself say. "As long as I'm not imposing."
His smile was worth whatever boundary I'd just crossed. "Never. Let's get these kayaks unloaded at my place and then I'll show you where the magic happens."
"The magic of pasta-making?" I asked lightly.
"That too," he replied with a wink that sent a rush of heat spreading through me that had nothing to do with the sun.
***
Wade's home was exactly what I should have expected, yet it still managed to surprise me. The modest craftsman-style house sat on a quiet, tree-lined street about ten minutes from the lake. A wraparound porch featured a handcrafted swing and several potted plants that looked suspiciously well-tended for a bachelor's home.
Inside, the space was open and warm, with hardwood floors that gleamed in the early evening light. But what caught my attention immediately were the custom-built furnishings throughout—a dining table of rich mahogany, bookshelves that curved perfectly into the wall's contours, a coffee table whose intricate inlay work looked like something from a high-end design magazine.
"You built this dining table?" I asked, running my fingers over the smooth surface, marveling at the craftsmanship.
Wade nodded, a hint of pride in his expression. "Most of the furniture, actually. It's how I unwind after dealing with teenagers all day."
I circled the table slowly, taking in the perfectly mitered corners, the subtle variations in the wood grain that had beenmeticulously matched. "This is museum quality," I said honestly. "You could sell pieces like this for thousands in Chicago."
He shrugged, seeming genuinely unbothered by the commercial implications. "I like knowing they're being used and appreciated. Mass production takes the soul out of woodworking."
His answer was so contrary to the profit-driven mindset I was accustomed to that I found myself momentarily speechless. In my world, exceptional talent was leveraged for maximum financial gain. The idea of creating beauty simply for the sake of it was foreign—and oddly compelling.
"Make yourself comfortable," Wade said, gesturing toward the living room. "I'll get dinner started. Wine?"
"Please," I replied, still distracted by the revelation of his artistic side.
While Wade moved around the kitchen with easy familiarity, I explored the living room, taking in the personal touches that revealed more about him than our conversations had thus far. A shelf held framed photos—Wade with an older woman who shared his smile (his mother, I assumed), a teenage Wade in swim team gear with trophies, a recent picture of him with Logan at what appeared to be a woodworking competition, both beaming with pride.
A glass of red wine appeared at my elbow as Wade joined me by the bookshelf. "Family stalking?" he asked lightly.
"Just curious," I admitted. "You seem close to your family."
"We are," he confirmed, his expression softening. "Mom raised me on her own after my dad left when I was ten. She worked double shifts as a nurse to make sure I never felt the absence. My aunt Diana—Logan's mom—helped out a lot too."
