Page 66 of Perfectly Grumpy

“I don’t like to break the rules,” he says, “but I’ll break them for you. Because I’m ready to prove something to you this week.”

“Yeah?” I challenge. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“By showing you that sometimes,” he says, “the best strategy isn’t the one you plan—it’s the one you discover along the way.”

“And what exactly is this strategy?” I ask, breathless from this game we’re playing.

“I want you to leave with better memories than the ones you came with.”

I back up another step, my body trapped against the fence. “If you were really concerned about my happiness this week, you’d avoid hitting me with that water balloon.”

Tate tilts his head as if contemplating. “Interesting theory. According to my research on happiness, sometimes the most joycomes from the unexpected.” He tosses the balloon lightly between his hands. “I’ve been taking notes on what makes you smile, Sunny, and it’s rarely when you’re safe and comfortable.”

“Remember,” I say, eyeing his water balloon, “as your girlfriend, I won’t let you get away with it.”

I lunge forward, attempting to steal the balloon from his hand. But he’s too fast for me, probably from years of honing his reflexes. The second I tackle him, he smashes the water balloon against my shoulder, soaking both of us as we tumble down into the grass, laughing. He doesn’t let me hit the ground hard. Instead he cradles me in his arms, rolling so that he takes the brunt of the fall, before he spins me to my back, pinning me down, his arms bracketing my head.

I’m drenched but don’t care, because when I glance up, Tate has his gaze on me, like he’s suddenly aware of our bodies touching the same way I am. Heat travels like a current every place we touch.

I suddenly feel alive again in a way I haven’t in a long time. And it’s thoroughly confusing.

Because Tate isn’t my usual type. Instead of flashy, he’s quiet and observant. Where others have been emotionally unavailable, he’s steady and measured. He’s the kind of man who remembers what you said three conversations ago, which means he actually listens. I completely misjudged him at first, mistaking his resistance for grumpiness, when all along he was just uncomfortable being molded into someone he’s not.

I, on the other hand, have a very specific track record: egotistical charmers with commitment issues who can smell emotional attachment from a mile away and sprint in the opposite direction.

But Tate’s different. He’s not afraid of commitment or uncomfortable with emotion—he just approaches both with the same careful consideration he gives everything else. Why else would he show up for me this week?

“Tate?” I feel almost out of breath. Because for one terrifyingmoment, I can actually picture myself falling for someone like him.

But that’s insane. I can’t fall for Tate. Not after months of butting heads over his public image. Not after swearing I’d never fall for another athlete, much less a hockey player. And absolutely not when he’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s finally figured out.

Someone coughs, and I’m ripped out of our moment. I turn toward the sound and realize we’re not alone: the entire family is watching us.

“So, how’s this for giving your family a show?” he teases.

“I knew you were going to make a great boyfriend,” I whisper, trying to ignore the sudden heat creeping up my neck. “But I didn’t know it would involve full-contact sports.”

Tate’s lips curve, but he doesn’t move. “I’m in the business of full-contact sports, Sunny.”

Oh, I am well aware.

But this feels different. This isn’t just Sheriff Tate; this isoff-season Tate—a guy who, beneath all that seriousness, is actually fun.

“They’re so cute together,” Patty says from the sidelines. “Don’t you think, sweetie?”

I turn my head just in time to see Patty nestled against Dad’s side. He slides his arm around her, bringing back the memory of that kiss I walked in on.

The happiness I felt seconds ago disappears, replaced by a familiar ache of missing Mom. “I think the show is over,” I say quietly.

Confusion crosses Tate’s face as I stand.

“Lauren?” Tate’s voice follows me as I stride across the lawn. “Do you want to do something else?”

I stop and turn to Tate, pasting on a forced smile that says I’m fine. “I just want to be alone right now. Thanks, though.”

I try to step around him, but suddenly his arm hooks mywaist, holding me in place. The move is so unexpected, I suck in a breath, startled by the feel of his hand—warm, steady, comforting.

He leans into my ear. “Something tells me you shouldn’t be alone right now,” he says. “And that you need a distraction. Let me help.”

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