Page 18 of Story Of My Heart

Taking the few minutes that I have left to myself, I finish up my shower, toweling my hair and applying some serum to try and tame the fly-aways I get from the humidity this time of year. I slap some make-up on in an attempt to look alive and alert, and compose myself before leaving the bathroom. Holding my head up high, I emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and moisturizer, ready to have a serious discussion about our boundaries in such a small space.

Instead, Tate ambushes me with his laptop, cornering me onto the sofa to show me the work he has completed so far.

“Beta testing. Here. In Sunset Lake. Yes?” He fires the words off a mile a minute, staring at me with a childlike excitement. There isn’t quite enough connective tissue between them, and I struggle to grasp at what he’s trying to communicate to me.

I tug at my glasses. “I don’t follow.”

“I want to do a trial run of the new dating program while we’re here. Kill a few birds with one stone.” This is classic Tate behavior. Once he has an idea, he has to test it out. The man has zero impulse control. “We have the perfect, self-contained guinea pig population of all my friends and family, in a picturesque setting with all kinds of low stakes activities. They play cornhole here, for Pete’s sake.”

I’m not entirely sure what cornhole is, but I can see his point. And I know from experience that there isn’t going to be any talking him out of this. Balanced next to him on the arm of the sofa is the remainder of last night’s chocolates. He’s never been one for a balanced breakfast. Popping a candy into his mouth, he rolls it around on his tongue in thought.

“Could you do chocolate making as the first activity?” he asks, wiping a loose smear of truffle from his lip with the back of his hand. “Some people think chocolate is an aphrodisiac, and people love activities where they get to bring home a souvenir.”

“As long as you get me an industrial kitchen.” I find myself very quickly warming to the idea. It would be nice to do something other than be an assistant for the day. “It’s too hard to do in a residential one with a bunch of people.”

“Your wish is my command. I bet the VFW would let us do it there. We can’t use the resort’s since we have so many guests that need to be fed multiple times a day.”

The idea of Tate stepping foot in somewhere like a VFW hall is immediately comical to me, but it’s likely the best choice that we have. “That works. And we should do something super casual, too. Three group dates, right?”

“Yes,” Tate nods, pulling up a spreadsheet full of potential activities and scheduling ideas.

“So… a barbecue?” I offer, reaching over Tate and taking one of the truffles for myself, my stomach rumbling in neglect.

“With cornhole. We want people to actually show up and interact.”

Again with this cornhole thing.

“Good. Then chocolate making. What’s last?”

“Escalating romance…” Tate trails off, humming to himself in thought and tapping against his thigh with his pen. “Guess that means the Couples Cruise. We’re going to charge people for all of these things. And… make back some of the money on my pontoon yacht. How was I not even consulted on this frivolity?”

I can feel him starting to slip into another party barge fugue-state, his brow furrowing and the look on his face darkening. That boat is going to haunt his nightmares like his own personal white whale. I’ve never seen a man harbor so much resentment for a single watercraft.

“Let it go,” I plead, considering putting a hard ban on all party barge or pontoon yacht discussion until the next time we need to go on said watercraft. I shift in my seat and immediately displace a notebook, which bumps into a sheet of papers, sending them cascading onto the ground. “Also, if we’re going to be at this for a while, we should work in the lodge. Get out for a bit. We can spread out.”

“We’re looking at one laptop and a notebook,” he counters, pointing at each object. “How much space do we need?”

Standing from the sofa, I make my way to my suitcase, rummaging through for my favorite sweater and slipping it over my shoulders. I’m not giving him the opportunity to be a hermit the entire day. “And I need coffee. You said Fallon makes the best.”

“But if we go there, Ledger is going to ask me to work. And my overbearing brother’s idea of work does not align with mine.”

At least I’ve gotten him to admit the real issue out loud.

“I guess that’s a risk we have to take.” Standing by the door, I make a show of tapping my toes against the hardwood floor. “Let’s go, boss.”

Tate sighs, accepting defeat. “One minute. I’m sending an email to the lawyer that manages the shell company.”

“Oh, hell. You made a punch list already?” Of course. We haven’t even been here that long, and he’s already making demands. “You couldn’t wait until we made it home.”

“It’s just a little one,” he offers, raising his hands.

“You’re the worst at keeping a secret.” He’s really cutting things close here. There’s no way a list as specific as the one that Tate’s drawn up could be written by someone who hasn’t seen the property in person. Meaning, the buyer or an agent of theirs must be here. His family may not have his financials, but they aren’t dumb. “If they don’t figure this out…”

He grunts. “They won’t. Lawyers are notoriously slow.”

I won’t argue the point with him, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s playing with fire. I decide to wait outside of the cabin, unable to watch him dawdle with the email any longer. After what feels like a minor eternity, he emerges from inside and we make our way together to the main lodge. It’s early enough in the day to not be terribly crowded. All of the early morning people have already had their breakfasts and coffees before heading out to the lake, while the late risers haven’t shuffled out of bed yet. I circle the massive stone fireplace, admiring its construction while seeking out two very comfortable chairs for us to work in. It is at this moment that Tate’s worst nightmare is realized. He is spotted by his brother, Ledger, and corralled over toward the front desk. I settle on two seats close enough to hear everything that’s going on, without being too noticeable of an eavesdropper. I never get to hear what normal, non-billionaire Tate sounds like, and I’m not missing the opportunity today.

“So, Tate,” Ledger starts, before there’s a rustling noise from the large metal cage behind the desk. A blur of white feathers bangs around the bars, before settling on a post and making a noise that can only be described as a squawk, before a series of whistles and clicks.

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