Page 68 of Perfectly Grumpy

Tate tips his head back and closes his eyes. “I hate everything about this.”

“Less complaining, more smiling,” I chirp, giving him a playful nudge toward the water. “It’s only a few shots.”

“At least let me take my shoes off first.” He peels off his sandals and tosses them in the sand. “Let me guess, you’re going to pull a Rourke and make me strip down?”

I cross my arms. “Just your shirt, Sheriff. Nothing else.”

He offers a quick, shy smile, the kind that makes his dimples appear for just a second—before methodically removing his shirt.

“Ready when you are,” he says, throwing his shirt to the side.

I amnotprepared for the body underneath.

I knew Tate was meticulous about his training, but seeing the results in broad daylight is an entirely different experience.

“Is this better?” he asks, stepping into the water. Waves splash against his skin as droplets roll down the ridges of muscle.

“Uh, yeah. That’ll do just fine.”

I snap a few photos, trying not to make things more awkward for him. These shirtless shots will thrill his fans, but I can see the subtle tension in Tate’s posture—the tiny furrow on his forehead. No wonder he hates photo shoots. The real Tate Foster isn’t social media eye candy; he’s methodical, thoughtful, private. And I’m asking him to be something he’s not.

I glance at Annie, who’s been enthusiastically rolling in wet sand until she resembles a furry, damp peach.

“I know what will help,” I say, lowering my camera. “Pick up Annie.”

“Really?” Tate’s eyebrow lifts skeptically. “That’s your brilliant PR strategy?”

“Yeah, I think it’ll be cute. People connect with authenticity.”

Tate scoops up Annie, and she immediately starts licking his face.

“Come on,” he groans, pretending to hate it, but I can see the beginnings of a smile. “This is going to ruin my reputation as a serious player.”

Then Annie shakes her head vigorously, spraying Tate with a shower of wet sand.

Something magical happens—Tate laughs. Not his usual controlled chuckle, but a full, unguarded laugh that consumes his body. In that moment, the calculating, logical defenseman dissolves, revealing something softer beneath all that armor.

And even more magical? How the sight of his defenses dropping somehow manages to dismantle mine.

This is the Tate Foster his fans deserve to see.

“People are going to fall all over themselves,” I say, mostly to distract myself from the fact that I am very much falling already.

He looks up from Annie, his gaze catching mine. “You have a way of making me forget why I hate having my picture taken.”

I stare intently at my phone screen, pretending to check the photos but really just hiding behind it. Because the scariest part isn’t what he said—it’s that some small part of me liked hearing it.

Out of the corner of my eye, a group of people comes into view. I slowly lower my phone. “I forgot. It’s beach day.”

Tate sets Annie down, and she wanders off to investigate a piece of driftwood. He turns around just in time to see my family making their way down the beach—coolers, towels, and umbrellas in tow. They’re descending on us like a swarm of bees. I scan the group, relieved that at least Bart and Abby aren’t among them.

Granny strolls over to me, taking an appreciative once-over of Tate’s torso. “Oh, honey, if only I were a younger woman.”

“Granny!” I laugh, shaking my head.

Tate’s lips quirk. “Just for the record, I was coerced into a photo shoot.”

“You got pictures?” Granny elbows me. “Smart thinking. It’ll last longer.”

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