Page 30 of What Happens at the Lake

“It is, actually. I like dirty martinis best. But tonight I was in the mood for something sweet.”

Fox sipped. “I would’ve taken you more for the wine type.”

“What does that mean? What exactly isthe wine type?”

“The kind who wears flowy skirts to sheetrock.”

“It was one of the few things I had left that was clean. The washing machine is broken, just like everything else around here. I have a new one coming in a few days.” I sighed. “The real estate agent said the place needed some sprucing up. I was expecting painting and new carpet. I didn’t expect to be doing construction. Sorry I didn’t pack my steel-toe work boots and Carhartts.”

Fox squinted. “You have steel-toe work boots and Carhartts back home?”

“No.” I grinned. “But I could’ve bought them and packed them if I’d known.”

Fox chuckled into his lemonade.

The sun was almost gone now, but a lone golden streak sliced through the trees and marked a trail across the calm water of the lake. “It must be pretty incredible to live here and see this every night.”

A stretch of silence fell between us. “It’s been a while since I appreciated the view.”

“Really? How come?”

“Just a lot of memories.”

I assumed Fox meant memories with his fiancée. It was the second time today I’d dredged up his past. “I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier, but I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Fox caught my eyes but said nothing. I couldn’t tell if he was upset I’d brought up the subject or just wasn’t good at talking about it. I wasn’t even sure how recently he’d lost her. He picked up his glass and chugged the rest of the lemonade. I thought he was doing it to get the hell out of here. As he swallowed, I noticed the way his throat worked. The bob of his Adam’s apple made my insides feel tingly.

Great. The man is obviously struggling with the loss of his fiancée, and I’m ogling him as he does it.

When he finished, he held up his glass. “Still parched. Think I need another. You mind?”

“Not at all.”

He eyed my still-full drink and left it behind. When he came back out, he knocked back another long swig.

“So how do you know Evie’s father?” he asked.

“Evie?”

“Evie Dwyer,” he said. “Tom is her father. Renee is her stepmother and grew up in Laurel Lake.”

Oh!Evie. Fox’s fiancée.

“It’s sort of a long story.”

He shrugged. “Got nowhere to go at the moment.”

I spent the next ten minutes telling Fox the story I’d shared with Opal the other day—about my friend Chloe and her family hanging Christmas cards from strings, and how cards from the amazing people of Laurel Lake adorned my walls for most of the year.

Fox just stared at me.

“You think I’m a weirdo, don’t you?”

“Yep.”

I laughed. “You were supposed to say ‘Not at all. I think it’s a heartwarming story.’”

“I’m not much for lying.”

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