Page 10 of Make Out With A Merman

The kids blink at him. One of them coughs. Another whispers, “Is he a robot?”

I slap a smile on my face and clap my hands. “Translation: we’re gonna paddle stuff and not crash. Hopefully.”

Ryder’s jaw ticks.

Jason, who’s helping us kick things off, hands out life vests with a grin so wide it makes up for the glacier standing next to me. “All right, team! Who’s ready to show off their paddling prowess?”

All twenty kids scream “ME!” and charge for the canoes.

Ryder flinches like he’s been shot.

“Chaos,” he mutters.

“Optimism,” I counter.

Fifteen minutes later, we’ve got three groups in canoes, paddling erratically toward floating markers. I’m with Team B, trying to coach a left-handed eleven-year-old who insists on paddling only in reverse. Ryder’s in the rescue kayak, hovering like a very stern water vulture.

Jason’s floating nearby on a raft with a waterproof whiteboard, because he decided without telling us that the kids should score our teamwork on a ten-point scale.

This is going great.

“Callie,” Ryder calls out across the water, “you’re off-course by twenty degrees.”

“Appreciate the update, Your Saltiness!” I call back. “Now if we can get Bennett to stop yelling ‘I’m the Kraken!’ we might actually make it to the buoy.”

“I’m THE KRAKEN!” Bennett yells gleefully and jumps, which rocks the canoe so hard I grab both sides and shout, “Hold formation! I repeat, HOLD THE”

The canoe flips.

Like, spectacularly flips. Full 180. We go in backward, Bennett howling with glee while I go under and come up sputtering lake water and glitter from my freaking bathing suit.

“Oh my gods,” someone on the dock yells, “they sank it!”

Ryder’s there in two seconds flat, gliding over like the current obeys him. “Callie.”

“I’m fine,” I say between coughs, trying to gather my braid and my dignity. “I’ve been dramatically tossed from floaties twice as big.”

He eyes me. “You’re bleeding.”

I glance down and see a neat little scrape across my shin from the edge of the canoe.

“It’s a scratch,” I say, brushing it off. “I’ve had worse from tripping over lawn flamingos.”

“Get on the raft,” he orders, pulling it beside us with one hand.

“Bossy,” I mutter, climbing on.

“You’re lucky that wasn’t a head injury,” he snaps.

“You’re lucky I didn’t drown the Kraken.”

Jason’s wheezing with laughter. “Ten points for drama! Eleven for unintentional capsizing!”

The kids are chanting now.

“TEAM CALLIE! TEAM CALLIE!”

I glance at Ryder. His face is locked tight, unreadable.

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