Page 50 of Perfectly Grumpy

How Delilah knows these things, I’ll never know. Apparently, this market is ripe with predictions about my family.

“Bart is a meathead,” Tina mutters, piling Delilah’s brownie mixes into a bag. “He doesn’t stand a chance against Tate even if he has competed in these games before. Tate’s got brains. Bart is an idiot.”

“Well, thank you for your vote of confidence, Miss Tina,” Tate says proudly.

Rourke strolls up to the checkout counter next with a tub of cookie butter ice cream and a bag of beef jerky.

“What are you doing here?” Tate asks, looking over his questionable food choices.

“Late-night snack,” Rourke says, grabbing some breath mints next to the register. “Just for the record, I’m placing bets on Bart and Abby for the win.”

“Excuse me, but how do you know about my reunion?” I ask, setting my hands on my hips. I’m not surprised Delilah knows since she’s got nothing better to do, but Rourke isn’t even from around here.

“Word gets around when your entire family descends on a town,” Rourke says. “Anyway, you’re going to have to get Sheriff here to loosen up if you want to survive, since he overthinks everything.”

“I do not overthink things,” Tate fires back, flashing a look at his teammate. “I’m just strategic. There’s a difference.”

“Not for you,” Rourke says. “You’ll be halfway through the balloon toss before he even finishes explaining the physics of the perfect toss. And heaven forbid there’s a canoe race involved—he’ll probably lecture everyone on water safety and kill the mood.”

Tate scowls. “Thanks, Rourke. Helpful.”

“Any time,” Rourke says. “My other prediction is that you won’t last the week together before Lauren will get sick of you.”

Delilah’s jaw drops. “So, it’s true that you’re dating?”

“Well, if you believe Rourke,” I say, shooting a glare at him.

Delilah picks up her grocery bags quickly, like she’s suddenly remembered something. “I need to get home. I think I left my oven on.” She looks like she can’t race out of here fast enough to share this juicy turn of events.

I whirl around to Rourke, who is only too happy to stoke the fire of this town’s insatiable appetite for gossip. “Rourke, I have a special PR assignment for you when the season begins.”

He smirks. “Oh, really? Do I get to pose on your bike this time? I won’t need driving lessons, unlike Sheriff here.”

“Nope, sorry.” I chuckle lightly. “I have something extra special for you, involving a ridiculous costume and small children.”

Rourke’s face falls. “Oh, well, I might not be available for a few weeks…or years. Actually, I might be moving to another country.” Hequickly hands Tina his money before bolting toward the door. “Keep the change, Miss Tina.”

I give Tate a smile before heading toward the produce section.

Tate stares at me as I circle the melon table. “What?” I finally ask.

“You are the only person I know who can scare that man,” Tate says.

“It’s a gift,” I say. “I’m exceptional at scaring hockey players. I scared you with my PR plan, didn’t I?”

“Maybe.” Tate stops and tosses a melon from one hand to another like it’s a basketball. “But I think the bigger problem is that you make it hard to concentrate. And when I can’t concentrate, it throws me.” The way he says it—eyes steady, voice low—makes me feel like we’re suddenly talking about something much more serious than hockey PR.

I stare at him for a second before focusing on the cantaloupe. “What melon should I buy?” I squeeze the first melon I pick up. It’s rock hard.

Tate reaches for a smaller one. “You should smell it first.” He lifts the melon to his nose, then lowers it slowly. “You can learn a lot from how something smells.”

“Like what?”

“Like whether you’ll remember it. Or think about it later.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Well, now I’ll never look at a cantaloupe the same again.”

I quickly head toward the lettuce section, putting some much-needed distance between us. These moments when Tate shifts from logical to whatever this is, throw me completely off balance. It’s easier to handle Sheriff when he’s serious than this version who makes my pulse skip.

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