Page 2 of Summer Showdown
But had I? Being accused of leaking confidential information about the Apex-Meridian merger—a client I'd personally brought to the firm, no less—felt like the ultimate professional betrayal. I strongly suspected Andrew Cavendish was behind the allegations. We'd been neck-and-neck for the single partner position opening this year, and my success with the merger had put me ahead. But suspicion wasn't proof, and without evidence, I couldn't fight back effectively. Now here I was, exiled to Montana while Andrew probably had his feet up on his desk, congratulating himself on eliminating his competition.
I slipped the ring onto my right hand, the familiar weight centering me. Grandmother had given it to me when I graduated law school, telling me to wear it whenever I needed to remember who I was.
"A Hayes doesn't run from a fight," she'd said, her voice strong despite her eighty-three years. "We strategize, then we win."
I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fresh linens and old wood. Perhaps this wasn't running. Perhaps, as I'd told myself in my Chicago apartment, this was calculated distance. Time to clear my head. Space to plan my counterattack.
My phone buzzed again, and this time I glanced at the screen.
Sloane:Andrew's assistant let something slip today. Call me.
I silenced the phone without replying. Whatever new development had occurred at Keller & Benson, it could waituntil tomorrow. Tonight, I needed space from the tight coil of professional dread that had taken up residence beneath my ribs since Andrew's accusations.
After a quick shower, I changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a light blouse, leaving my still-tagged swimsuit in the suitcase—today was just for reconnaissance, not swimming. After slipping on sandals, I headed downstairs, waving to Rory as I passed through the foyer. She mentioned a few dinner options in town, but I was more interested in exploration than food at the moment. The early evening air was warm against my skin as I followed the path she'd mentioned, leading from the inn's side lawn through a small copse of trees. The scent of pine and sun-warmed earth replaced the city smells I was accustomed to, and despite everything, I felt my shoulders relaxing incrementally.
The path opened onto a clearing, and suddenly the lake stretched before me, a vast blue expanse glittering in the golden hour light. Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks still holding patches of snow despite the August heat—an impossible contrast to Chicago's flat skyline.
The public access area was well-maintained: a wooden dock extending into the water, a small beach area with sand that looked deliberately imported, and a roped-off swimming section. A few families were packing up to leave, shaking out towels and collecting scattered toys. I made my way toward the dock, drawn by the clear water and the promise of solitude once the remaining sunbathers departed.
That's when I saw him.
He emerged from the water in one clean surge, vaulting onto the dock with the unconscious athleticism of someone who'd spent a lifetime in motion. Water cascaded down his tall frame—he had to be at least six feet—tracing rivulets over broadshoulders and a chest that tapered to a flat stomach. Sunlight caught each droplet, turning them momentarily to amber. A quick shake of his head sent water flying from dark brown hair that summer had bleached golden at the tips. He tossed back his head, laughing at something shouted from the water, revealing a thin white scar that cut through his right eyebrow.
A bright red rescue buoy sat at the edge of the dock, and I noticed a "LIFEGUARD" emblem on the waistband of his board shorts. His gaze swept over the swimming area with practiced vigilance even as he bantered with friends in the water. This wasn't just recreation—he was working, responsible for the safety of everyone enjoying the lake.
I hadn't planned to stare. Ogling half-dressed strangers wasn't exactly my style. But there was something magnetic about his movements—like watching a big cat stretch—that hooked my attention longer than I'd intended.
He turned, still mid-laugh, and caught me watching.
Rather than pretending sudden interest in the horizon (the coward's way out), I tilted my chin up slightly and met his gaze with the same unflinching directness I'd perfected for shareholder meetings. His smile shifted, deepening at one corner, and impossibly blue eyes crinkled at their edges. The light stubble framing his jaw caught the sunlight as he gave me a slight nod before returning to his conversation.
His smile held none of the practiced polish I'd grown used to in Chicago's glass towers—no strategic warmth designed to disarm, no choreographed charm. Just unfiltered enjoyment of a perfect summer day. It sparked an uncomfortable recognition: his self-assurance mirrored that of men who'd never had to prove their right to exist in every room they entered. Yet unlike them, I couldn't simply categorize and dismiss him with a mental eye-roll.
I turned away, annoyed with my own reaction. I hadn't come to Montana to analyze the authenticity of a stranger's smile, no matter how annoyingly attractive he might be.
The click of a camera shutter broke my reverie.
"Oh, that's perfect!"
I turned to find a young woman with an asymmetrical, purple-highlighted bob crouching nearby, her bulky camera aimed directly at where the lifeguard and I had just shared that brief glance. She wore frayed denim cutoffs and a faded lilac tank top with "Got Secrets?" printed across the front. An overstuffed tote bag rested in the sand beside her, emblazoned with a distinctive logo—a pair of hot pink lips with a finger pressed against them in a "shh" gesture, the words "Wintervale Whispers" curling around them in looping script. Multicolored pens stuck out from every pocket, and what looked like three different phone chargers dangled from the side loops.
"Excuse me?" I said, my voice sharp with surprise.
She lowered her camera, her expression bright with enthusiasm. "Sorry! I'm Zoe Blake from Wintervale Whispers—I'm doing a photo series on summer at the lake." She thrust out her hand. "You're not from around here, are you? I know pretty much everyone in town."
"Did you just take my picture?" I asked, ignoring her outstretched hand.
"Well, yes," she admitted, turning her camera so I could see the display. "But it's a great shot—you and Wade together! The lighting is perfect with the sunset."
The photo showed me in profile, looking toward the dock where the lifeguard—Wade, apparently—was smiling in my direction. The angle and timing made it appear as though wewere sharing some meaningful exchange rather than the brief, impersonal acknowledgment it had actually been.
"Delete that immediately," I said, my voice dropping into the tone I reserved for difficult opposing counsel. "I didn't give you permission to photograph me."
"But it's for the Whispers!" she protested. "Our readers love—"
"The what?"
"Wintervale Whispers. The local blog." She reached into her tote and pulled out a business card with a logo matching the one on her bag. "I cover all the local happenings. And summer at the lake is our most popular feature."
