Page 3 of Summer Showdown
"I don't care if it's the New York Times," I said firmly. "Delete the photo."
She sighed dramatically but made a show of pressing buttons on her camera. "Fine, fine. Gone." She tucked the camera into her bag, then pulled out a small notebook. "So, are you visiting or staying in town? We don't get many new faces around here."
"That's not really—"
"Where are you staying? The Evergreen Inn is the best place—Rory Lancaster runs it. Totally renovated the place. Used to be this creepy old mansion." She scribbled something in her notebook. "I didn't catch your name?"
"I didn't offer it," I replied coolly. "And I'd appreciate privacy during my stay."
Instead of being deterred, she grinned. "A woman of mystery! Even better. Chicago, right? I can always tell by the accent."
I blinked, thrown off by her accurate guess. "I don't have an accent."
"Everyone has an accent," she laughed. "Yours says big city, East Coast influence but Midwestern roots. Corporate world, definitely. Law or finance, I'm betting." She glanced at my watch and raised an eyebrow. "Nice Cartier. Lawyer?"
For a brief, unsettling moment, I wondered if she'd somehow researched me before this "chance" encounter. But her expression held genuine curiosity, and I suspected she was simply nosy.
"Look," I said, "I'm not interested in being featured in your blog. I'm here for quiet and privacy."
"Of course, I totally respect that," she said, though her eager expression suggested otherwise. "But if you change your mind, here's my card. And just so you know—" she nodded toward the dock where the lifeguard was now pulling a t-shirt over his head, "—Wade Foster is single. And he doesn't usually smile at strangers like that."
"I'm not—" I started, but she was already moving away, camera raised toward Wade.
I heard the distinctive click of the shutter as she captured him, now fully turning his attention her way with an expression of familiar resignation. Clearly, he was used to her antics.
This was exactly what I didn't need—attention, questions, my name in any kind of publication, even a small-town blog. I'd come to Wintervale precisely because it was nowhere, because no one would know me or care about the professional scandal I was fleeing.
"Calculated distance," I reminded myself as I followed the path back to the inn. "A well-timed vacation. Not running away."
But as I climbed the steps to the wraparound porch, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd made a mistake coming here. Small towns meant small-town curiosity. And small-towncuriosity was the last thing I needed while trying to rebuild my reputation.
I twisted Grandmother's ring, watching the sapphire catch the last golden rays of sunlight. For fourteen days, I needed to keep my head down and my focus on survival. Instead, I'd been in town less than three hours and already caught the attention of a gossip blogger and exchanged loaded glances with a lifeguard who looked like he'd stepped out of a swimwear ad.
So much for strategic retreat.
Back in my room, I tossed open the windows, letting in the pine-scented evening air. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, I'd remember who I was: Lark Hayes, senior associate, merger specialist, future partner. Not some tourist caught staring at the local eye candy.
No matter how piercing his blue eyes were.
Chapter Two
Wade
"Legs straight but relaxed, arms out to the sides. That's it, Sophie—perfect starfish position!"
I treaded water a few feet away, watching my youngest student finally master the back float after three lessons of determined tries. At seven years old, Sophie Anderson had the kind of stubborn persistence I admired. The morning sun caught her gap-toothed smile as she gazed up at the cloudless Montana sky, her body finding that perfect balance between tension and trust.
"I'm doing it, Mr. Foster!" she called out, voice wobbling with the effort of staying still.
"You absolutely are," I confirmed, keeping a watchful eye as she maintained the position. "Great work, kiddo."
Logan, my thirteen-year-old cousin and unofficial teaching assistant, gave her an encouraging thumbs-up from the dock where he was organizing the foam kickboards for our next activity. His dark hair was still wet from demonstrating thebackstroke earlier, the ends curling against his neck in a way that reminded me of myself at that age.
Pride swelled in my chest watching him. Three years ago, Logan had been pulled unconscious from this same lake, water filling his lungs while I was two hours away at a teaching conference in Bozeman. By the time I'd gotten the call, a passing kayaker had already performed CPR and the ambulance was screaming toward Wintervale General. I still remembered my mother’s tear-soaked voice on the phone telling me he might not make it.
"Time's up, Sophie. Awesome job!" I called, pushing away the memory.
She flipped over with newfound confidence, treading water with the skills we'd practiced last week. The other five students in my Wednesday morning class were already working on their flutter kicks.
