Page 85 of Perfectly Grumpy

My laugh comes out like a low rumble. “I knew you’d like it.”

“Oh, hush. No rubbing it in,” she says, falling back on her pillow, trying unsuccessfully to hide her smile behind her blanket. “One more chapter, please? From the beginning?”

Warmth spreads through me. Lauren Williamson—PR queen and self-proclaimed fantasy skeptic—is asking to hear more of my story.

With that, I turn the page.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Tate

The reading session from last night still lingers in my mind as we make our way to the pond with Annie for the canoe races this morning. I read to Lauren for almost an hour, and her unfiltered reactions were pure gold—gasping at plot twists I’d deliberated over for weeks, questioning character motivations I’d been unsure about, and getting frustrated at exactly the cliffhangers I’d designed for maximum impact. It’s strange—Lauren thinks she’s getting bedtime entertainment while I’m getting some of the most valuable feedback of my life. Another benefit of this fake relationship.

“You ready to crush the canoe race?” Lauren asks as we follow the path through the pines toward the pond.

“Of course, Sunny. Races are where I shine,” I say.

When we reach the water’s edge, reality dampens our spirits. There’s only one canoe left, and it’s practically a wreck. “All the good canoes have been taken,” Lauren notes as we look at the lone canoe. One seat is broken, and there are some suspicious-looking cracks in the bottom.

“Early bird gets the worm,” Bart says as he practices his laps around the pond in his shiny, and obviously newer, canoe.

Lauren kicks the boat with her foot. “We used this one last time. It’s perfectly fine. It still floats.”

I push the canoe into the water, grabbing a red life vest. Guys race first this morning, which means all the men are already at the starting line at the end of the pier. The rest of the family watches from the water’s edge, while Lauren stands on the pier with Annie and Aunt Karen.

I glance over at Bart just in time to see him flex his bicep a little, like he’s trying to remind everyone how strong he is, which is laughable because I know for a fact I could out-lift him on my worst day with one arm tied behind my back.

I paddle next to his canoe, splashing a little water his way. “Hey, man, maybe save the flexing for the mirror and focus on not losing to me.”

Bart’s face turns the exact shade of his life jacket, but he doesn’t say a word—just stares at the water like he’s plotting his revenge.

“All right, everyone, you know how this race works,” Aunt Karen says, holding her clipboard and a timer. She points to the far end of the pond. “You have to paddle to the end of the pond, turn around, and come back. First, second, and third place will get points, and those will combine with your partner’s after they race. On your mark, get set, go!”

Bart explodes from the starting line, taking the lead ahead of me. I’m hot on his tail, my canoe almost brushing against his. I could try to pass him now, but I don’t want to waste all my energy too early in the race. So instead, I hold back, calculating the right moment to make my move.

As we approach the curve at the far end of the pond, Jake attempts to gain position by cutting inside Bart’s line. It’s a risky strategy that might have worked against someone less aggressive. But Bart, never one to yield, veers sharply into Jake’s path. Their canoes collide with a hollow thunk, sending both off course and creating a chain reactionbehind them.

I veer away from the pileup, taking a wider turn that costs me time, but puts me in position to take the lead.

Bart’s head whips around, reality dawning as he figures out my strategy. In a desperate move, he jams his paddle against Jake’s hull, shoving himself clear of the tangle. But those precious seconds of distraction cost him. I’ve already slipped past, gaining the lead by a mere paddle’s length.

This is my moment, and I decide to go all in.

Thank goodness for Brendan, our conditioning coach, who spent last season torturing me on the rowing machine. Those brutal training sessions are paying dividends now. I’m in the best shape of my life, and it shows with every pull of the paddle. I lean into a rhythm, each stroke smooth and deliberate—gaining inches, then a foot, then more—before I hear Bart’s desperate splashing behind me.

One quick glance over my shoulder tells me everything: he’s gasping, sweat streaming down his reddened face, his form deteriorating with each stroke.

I snap my focus back to the finish line, Coach Jenkins’ words echoing in my head: “If you’re watching the person behind you, you’re already two moves too late. Focus on the goal.”

My goal is to win—for Lauren.

She’s on her feet at the pier, hands cupped around her mouth as she cheers. Not for the Crushers or for some PR opportunity—just for me. She tracks my every move, and I have to remind myself: this is all pretend, right?

But now I’m not so sure because of the way she looked at me when I wiped frosting off her lips. For a second, I swear she wanted me to kiss her. Her pupils were dilated, lips opened slightly, breath catching—all the physiological responses that can’t be faked. But that’s the danger of pretending. You start looking for signs that aren’t there.

A quick glance over my shoulder tells me Bart’s canoe is losing ground. I keep my focus locked on Lauren, pushing through to the very end, passing the finishline in victory.

Lauren barrels into me the second I step out of the canoe, throwing her arms around my neck with such force I nearly stumble backward. This full-body hug has the same intensity as when she clung to me in the ocean—except this time, there’s no cramp, no reason other than she wants to.

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