Page 67 of Perfectly Grumpy

I should brush him off. Say I’m fine. But for some reason, I don’t.

Instead, I just stand there, fully aware of every little thing—his firm hold on my waist, how his entire presence tunes into me. I’ve always been able to fool everyone with misdirection. But not Tate. He catalogs my smallest reactions and measures my defenses. And that’s what scares me the most—he sees what I try to hide from everyone else.

I cross my arms. “You don’t have to hang around me every second of the day.”

“I know I don’t.” His fingers slide to my side, then shift against my elbows, where he gently unhooks my arms. “I’m just being your friend. And I think you could use one right now.”

I swallow, unsure of how he can force me out from behind this wall, when all I want right now is to be a turtle tucked safely under my shell.

“What would make you feel better?” he asks.

I force out a laugh, shaking my head. “You mean other than clocking Bart in the head with a very large shovel?”

Tate smirks. “Yes, Sunny. Something that doesn’t involve violence.”

I glance over at the kids, who are throwing a ball to Annie. “How about we take Annie on a walk at the beach nearby?”

A pleased smile spreads across his face. “See? I told you that dog would come in handy. Now, let’s get out of here.”

TWENTY-THREE

lauren

We head to the public beach a few miles away, where we change into our swimsuits in the world’s most questionable public restrooms. As much as I’d love to avoid parading around half-dressed in front of a professional athlete with fan-club-worthy abs, I give myself a pep talk before slipping into my buttercup-yellow swimsuit. Over top, I throw on a gauzy white cover-up—sheer enough to hint at my swimsuit, but just enough fabric to keep me from feeling like I’m parading around in my underwear. Because even though Tate’s my pretend boyfriend for the week, he’s still my client.

“Ready to hit the beach?” I say when I come out of the restroom. Tate is staring at his phone, totally engrossed in some article as Annie sniffs around in the grass.

“Did you know that the NHL team in Kansas City fired their…” Tate looks up from his phone and does a quick double take, his mouth opening slightly as he takes in my see-through cover-up, before he snaps his attention back to his screen.

“Who?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “Their PR manager.”

“Interesting,” I say. “Did they say why?”

“A change in leadership,” he says as we head toward the far end of the beach, where it’s less crowded.

“Maybe I should apply,” I say.

His face snaps up. “You can’t leave. Who’ll force me to smile against my will?”

I laugh. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll survive. I’m easily replaced.”

“No one is as good as you,” Tate says.

“There are plenty of suitable candidates who’d love to take my job. Which reminds me,” I say, digging through my beach bag to find my phone. “I need to take some pictures of you to keep up the ‘approachable hockey player’ image we’ve been working on.”

He groans. “You’re disrupting my nice beach stroll with Annie.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you not want to make it to the NHL?”

Tate sighs. “Fine. What embarrassing thing are you making me do this time?”

I scan the shoreline for the perfect shot, then grin. “Get in the water, Sheriff.”

He stares at me. “Lauren, I amnotabout to frolic in the waves for your Instagram.”

I tilt my head, smiling. “Then I hope you enjoy playing in the minors forever.”

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