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TWENTY-FOUR

Tate

I’ve been pacing outside Lauren’s room for the past hour, checking my watch every few minutes.

Patty had kindly offered her bed at the lodge after our beach incident, but the complete silence from behind that door is making me uneasy.

No movement, not even her cute little snore.

And the whole family has been asking how she feels after the charley horse incident.

I’m beginning to think she’s avoiding everyone—including me.

Finally, I knock, unable to wait any longer.

“Come in,” she says, hardly sounding sleepy.

I open the door and see her sitting on the bed, a computer in her lap. “Sheriff, for the sixth time today, I’m fine,” she says. “Seriously, I feel great. No more cramps.”

I shove my hands in my pockets. “According to the Emergency Water Rescue Handbook… ”

Lauren looks at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. “Tate, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not dying.”

“Then what are you doing?”

She shifts her computer away from me so I can’t see the screen. “Uh, nothing.”

“You aren’t working, are you?” I narrow my eyes. “Because no work is allowed this week. ”

“It’s not work.” She shifts on the bed. “It’s just an application.”

“For what?” I lean forward, catching the words Employment Application at the top of the screen. “Are you applying for a job?”

She looks up at me. “It’s not against the law to look for work on vacation.”

“It can’t wait a week?”

“I can’t stop thinking about the Kansas City job you mentioned earlier. I’ve always wanted to move up to the NHL. I’m applying for their PR manager position.”

“Does your family know you’re applying for this job?”

“No,” she says quietly, then points at me. “And you can’t say anything either.”

I tilt my head. “But Kansas City? That’s so far away. Why not wait until a position opens up closer?”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I love my job with the Crushers, but this is the NHL we’re talking about. Every PR person dreams of making it to the big leagues.” Her fingers trace the edge of her laptop. “I can’t let the opportunity pass without at least trying.”

She closes the computer and sets it on the nightstand. “But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Right now, we have a more pressing crisis—the family baking contest.”

“Wait—what baking contest?”

“We have to make a dessert together for the Family Olympics.”

“Who’s watching Annie during all this?” I ask.

“The kids have basically adopted her for the day,” she says. “Last I saw, they were teaching her to fetch.”

“You didn’t tell me about needing culinary skills,” I say. “I thought this Family Olympics was only fun and games.”

“This is fun and games,” she says. “With flour and eggs.”

I look at her skeptically. “You know I’m a hockey player, not a baker, right? ”

“Oh, come on,” she says, lightly smacking my arm with the back of her hand, “do you really think Bart can bake?”

“Probably not,” I say. “But what about Abby?”

She pauses. “Okay, so you probably don’t want to know that Abby is a part-time baker on the weekends.”

I stare at her. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “It’s definitely an advantage for them.”

“Well, let’s come up with a plan,” I say, pulling out my phone to look up recipes as I sit next to her on the bed. A crash course in baking can’t be that hard, right? I glance over at Lauren. “And what, exactly, are we making?”

“That’s the catch. Granny and Aunt Karen give us random ingredients, and we have to create a dessert on the spot.”

“Without a recipe?”

Lauren nods.

“Does it have to be edible too?” I ask.

She laughs. “Yes, Tate. Everyone gets a taste, and we all vote on the winner. We have two hours to prepare it.”

My finger swipes through dessert recipes on my phone, but they all look way too complex to memorize, especially since I don’t know the ingredients we’ll have to work with.

“Lauren,” I say, my confidence fading, “I think we should skip this competition and try to win the others. We don’t have time to prepare for this.”

She smirks and hops off the bed, grabbing my arm. “Come on, Tate. You’re not intimidated by anything. And baking is just chemistry, right?”

There’s something about the way she looks at me—like she completely believes I can do this—that makes me want to try, just to see her happy.

“I have faith in you,” she says. “You rescued me from a charley horse earlier.”

“You know, a charley horse has absolutely nothing in common with the gluten structure of cake,” I point out .

“I know. But you’re so good at everything. You always have a plan, even when I don’t.”

I finally let her pull me to standing before I step closer, just a fraction. “Oh? And what, exactly, makes you so sure I have a plan now?”

She opens her mouth, but then she blinks—like she just realized how close we are. “I don’t,” she murmurs. “But I know you. You never do anything without thinking it through first.”

“Do you think we can actually avoid total humiliation in the process?” I ask, smirking.

“I don’t know,” she says. “But I think we can have fun.” She takes my hand, fingers sliding between mine with surprising naturalness. “As my boyfriend, of course.”

I don’t pull away. I don’t even flinch. We walk out of the room, her hand in mine, and I wonder how much of this is still pretend—and how much I’m going to regret finding out.