Page 15 of Perfectly Grumpy

“Yeah, I don’t let other people affect my mood.”

“Your mood being…avoiding feelings with logic?”

He grins, and a deep, unexpected laugh slips out, completely at odds with the usual stoic Sheriff. “It’s not about mood. It’s about approach. I analyze before I react. Everyone calls that grumpy, but it’s just”—he searches for the word—“methodical.”

“You over-analyze everything,” I suggest.

“I process thoroughly,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“Really? Do tell,” I ask, propping my chin on my hand, genuinely curious about this side of him.

“People see quiet and think detached. They see careful and think cold. What they don’t see is that I’m cataloging every variable, considering every outcome. I don’t avoid feelings. I just don’t let them cloud my judgment when there’s a logical solution available.”

“So you’re saying you’re misunderstood?” I tease.

“I’m saying most people don’t have the patience to understand.” He leans back in his chair, thoughtful. “It’s easier to make quick assumptions than to accept someone might just see the world differently.”

“Well, right now, you’re not exactly coming across the way you need to in the public eye and that’s a problem.”

He leans back, arms crossed. “You think I care about what the public thinks?”

“No, but you need to start caring. You don’t smile for pictures, you avoid interviews, and you talk like your goal in life is to drive away your fans. That’s why you’ve become my next project.”

He groans. “Can you please stop calling me your ‘project’?”

“Fine,” I say. “But if you want a career in the NHL, we need to make you newsworthy—for the right reasons.”

“I thought I already was. That’s what got me in trouble in the first place.” He gives me a dry grimace.

“There’s no magic fix. But we’ve got the summer to show people who you are outside of hockey.”

“Wait—allsummer?” He shakes his head. “You don’t get it. I’m private. I don’t share personal stuff online. And I usually spend the summer hiding out at my parents’ place in California.”

“Okay, we’ll work around the trip,” I say. “But we are going to show people the real you.”

“Well, the real me hates this.” He pulls off his cap and drags a hand through his hair before jamming it back on. “But apparently, the real me also agreed to meet you before nine a.m., so clearly I’ve lost all control of my life.”

My phone buzzes against the table top again, and I give Tate an apologetic smile before picking it up.

Olivia

So you’re ghosting your own sister now? At least send a thumbs-up so I know you’re not in a ditch somewhere. Also, I have news. Call me or I’m showing up at your office with two adorable rug rats who will color with Sharpies on your walls.

With a sigh, I tap the thumbs-up emoji. “I get the wanting-to-be-left-alone part.”

“Is someone else giving you grief today other than me?” The corner of his lips lift, his gaze on me.

I look back at my computer, bristling under his focus. Normally, it doesn’t bother me to be the center of attention, but there’s something about his that’s different. Maybe because I’ve never had anyone read me so accurately.

“My sister wants an answer about the family reunion this summer.” Granny started the reunion when Mom got married. My mother kept the Williamson name, and so did I. The women in my family are strong, opinionated, and impossible to budge—especially when it comes to things like family reunions.

“You’re trying to get out of it?” he guesses.

My head snaps up. “How’d you know?”

“You frown every time you read your texts. You don’t do that when you get work texts.”

“It’s complicated.” I exhale. “Especially when we’re all crammed together for a week in a big lodge just outside of Sully’s Beach. It’s chaotic and loud, everybody up in your business. My family drives in since most of them live a few hours away. It’s basically summer camp for grown-ups.”

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