Page 25

Tate resurfaces with a laugh, shaking the water from his hair, looking as good as he did for the pictures earlier.

Not that I’m staring or anything. He’s just unfairly handsome when he grins like that, probably because he doesn’t do it a lot.

His smiles are like buried treasure—and I want to find every one of them.

Stripping off my cover-up, I take a deep breath and wade into the water.

Tate has his back to me, launching the kids into the waves, while they squeal and beg for more.

He turns around mid-laugh—only to freeze when he sees me already knee-deep in the water.

The grin falters, his eyes catching on me like he wasn’t expecting this version of me.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” I say, suddenly wondering if I should’ve stayed on the beach. Away from him and this pull between us.

“No, it’s just…I wasn’t expecting you to take off that cover-up. I figured you were parked on the blanket for the day.”

Before I can respond, Kaylie’s shrieking puts an end to our moment. “Aunt Lauren, let’s swim out to the sandbar!”

“Okay,” I say, grateful for the interruption. “Race you there!”

Tate follows a few paces behind, and I can feel him observing me as we wade into deeper water. After thirty minutes of water tag, Jake comes and gets the kids for a juice break, leaving us alone on the sandbar.

“Well, that was quick,” I say, watching them run up the beach. “One mention of juice boxes and I’m completely forgotten. Although it’s probably good, because they wore me out.”

“Want to head back?” Tate asks.

I look out at the open water beyond the sandbar, suddenly feeling adventurous. I like being out here alone with Tate where no one can bother us. “Actually, let’s swim out a little further. Just to see what it’s like.”

“Really? I thought you said you were tired.”

“It was just the kids,” I say. “Besides, I’m an excellent swimmer.”

“Let’s go, then,” he says, following as I wade into slightly deeper water beyond the sandbar.

The bottom drops away more quickly than I expect, and suddenly I can’t touch.

I begin treading water, noting how the water feels different out here.

Each wave lifts me higher than the last, and the current I barely noticed before now seems to pull me under with surprising strength.

A larger wave rolls in, lifting me up and then dropping me into a trough that’s deeper than I think it should be.

For a split second, my head dips under, salt water burning my nose.

I come up sputtering, kicking hard to keep my head above water, and that’s when it happens. My left calf cramps violently, a charley horse so sudden and intense that I gasp.

“Cramp!” I yell.

I reach down to grab my leg while simultaneously trying to stay afloat—a feat that’s next to impossible while fighting the waves.

Tate dives under the water and is next to me in an instant. “Lauren? Where is it?”

“Calf,” I groan through gritted teeth. The pain is excruciating, like someone’s driving a knife into my muscle and twisting. “Left leg.”

Tate’s arm wraps around my waist. “Stop kicking,” he orders. “You’re making it worse.”

“I kind of need to kick to stay above water,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I’ve got you, Lauren,” he says calmly. “Just let your leg relax.”

Easy for him to say, he’s not in paralyzing pain. “I can’t—the muscle won’t release.”

Another wave hits us, and I instinctively grab on to his shoulders to keep my head above water. “It’s so painful. Just make it stop.”

“Here,” he says, shifting his body slightly in the water. “Hold on to me.” I cling to him as his hands move to my calf, his fingers pressing into the knotted muscle. The initial pressure makes me gasp as pain shoots through me.

“I’m so sorry, Lauren,” he says calmly. “But try to point your toe toward your knee.”

“I can’t,” I say, the cramp drilling into me. “It hurts too much.”

“I know. But trust me, it works. Just follow my instructions.” His voice is steady, while his hands work the muscle. I try to move my foot, but the pain makes me want to swear like Big Bertha .

“It’s. Not. Helping,” I grit out.

“Try again,” he says, somehow keeping us both afloat.

I point my toe to my knee again and this time, the muscle begins to ease its death grip on my leg.

“Any better?” he asks.

“I think it’s working,” I say, suddenly aware that I’m practically wrapped around him like a koala. My arms are locked around his neck, my body pressed against his chest. “But this is ridiculous. I’ve been swimming since I was four.”

“And yet here we are—with you clinging to me like a barnacle.” His hands continue working my cramping muscle.

“I am not—” I start, but at that exact moment, a larger wave rolls through, lifting us both. My arms tighten around his neck. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m clinging a little.”

“A little?” He raises an eyebrow as he suppresses a smile. “You’re basically using me as a floating dock.”

“It’s this or I drown,” I point out. “And if I drown, who’s going to make you smile for pictures?”

“Fair point,” he says. “How’s the leg now?”

The pain is subsiding, but the muscle is still tight. “Much better, but still hurts.”

“We need to get you back to shore,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the beach. “Think you can swim yet?”

I try to kick and the muscle starts to tighten again. I shake my head. “Nope. Definitely not.”

“Then hold on,” he says, maneuvering me so that I’m essentially hanging on to his back. “I’ll tow you in.”

“While the family watches? This is mortifying,” I say into his shoulder.

“More mortifying than dying in front of your entire family?” he asks, starting toward the shore.

“I wouldn’t have died,” I argue. “I would have just—flailed pathetically.”

“While screaming in pain,” he adds helpfully.

I can see my family watching us from the beach. From their vantage point, it must look like I’m embracing Tate from behind, my arms wrapped around his neck as he swims us in, like I’m one of those fish that cling to sharks, hitching a free ride.

“Great,” I sigh. “Now everyone’s going to think we’re having some romantic moment in the water.”

“We are, aren’t we?” he says, clearly amused by this situation. “Nothing says romance like a charley horse and near-drowning.”

I can’t help but laugh. At least he can make light of it. If it had been Bart, he would’ve complained about me dragging him down. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Tate swims forward, his strokes evenly paced, like I’m weightless. “I’m just saying, most women would have to fake a leg cramp to get their hands on me.”

“Believe me,” I say, “if I were faking, I’d come up with something better than feeling like someone’s stabbing my leg repeatedly.”

We reach shallower water, and without warning, he turns and scoops me up into his arms.

“What are you doing?” I ask, suddenly at eye level with him, my arms automatically going around his neck, our wet bodies suddenly very close.

“What does it look like, Sunny? I’m carrying you,” he says matter-of-factly, like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Unless you want to hop to shore on one leg?”

I open my mouth to protest, then close it. He’s right, and we both know it.

“Just so we’re clear,” I say, giving him a stern look, “this is a medical emergency, not a romantic gesture.”

“Of course. Not romantic at all.” His face is perfectly serious, but his eyes dance with amusement. “I’m merely providing necessary medical assistance.”

“Exactly.” I nod. “You’re basically a first responder.”

“Although,” he adds, looking at the beach, “no one else knows that.”

I follow his gaze, where my entire family is taking us in with interest. Granny is practically crowing with delight while my sister wears a smug I told you so grin.

“Well, we are supposed to be dating,” I say, attempting to rationalize this, even though I’m very aware of his arms around me. “This works for our cover.”

“Always thinking about the PR angle,” Tate murmurs. “That’s my Sunny.”

My heart does a strange little skip at the words “my Sunny.” Maybe it’s the muscle spasm making my heart jumpy or the lingering adrenaline.

I force myself to remember that he’s helping me through this reunion just like I’m helping his PR image. This is a transaction, not a romance. Besides, he’s still a hockey player—and I’ve learned the hard way that I shouldn’t mess with athletes. Bart is proof of that.

As we reach the shore, I wriggle out of his arms. “You can put me down now. I think I can manage.”

“You sure?” He nods toward my leg. “That was a pretty bad cramp.”

“Very sure,” I say firmly, though as soon as my feet touch the sand, the muscle begins to seize again, and I grab his arm to steady myself. “Okay, maybe not entirely sure.”

“Here,” he says, guiding me to a beach blanket. “Sit down and stretch it out.” As I sink onto the towel, Tate kneels in front of me, his hands sliding to my cramping calf.

His thumbs press into the tender muscle, working it slowly and carefully.

The same hands that can deliver crushing body checks during a game are now easing my pain with surprising gentleness.

It’s not meant to be romantic—I know that.

But I can’t remember the last time someone took care of me like this.

“Having fun yet?” he asks, looking at me with that hint of a smile that never fails to make my stomach flip. I can sense my family’s curiosity, but all I can focus on is the way his hands move on my leg, the relief that spreads through my muscle as the cramp finally releases.

“I’m having… something ,” I admit reluctantly.

His hands pause. “Good something or bad something?”

I look up at him, his face still speckled with water droplets, those brown eyes studying me with an unexpected intensity that makes my stomach feel funny.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I answer honestly.

His smile spreads, deliberate. “Let me know when you do.”