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THIRTY

Tate

A big banner outside the lodge reads “Williamson Family Prom,” and from the way it sags in the middle, I can tell it’s been reused a few too many times. Gold balloons hang from the corners, with gold streamers swaying in the breeze.

Lauren didn’t give me a dress code, but I figured showing up in my usual T-shirt and jeans might get me disowned by her aunts, so I made a stop at home to grab a suit—the navy tailored one I wear to hockey galas when they want us to look like we belong on magazine covers instead of the ice rink.

By the time I arrive back at the lodge, music blares from the game room, and everyone is dressed like they’re a few decades too late for their high school prom .

Sequins and layers of tulle and satin from every era line the makeshift dance floor.

Aunt Karen’s Christmas lights blink to the beat of the music, while a disco ball—that I’m almost certain came from Bobby and Tammy’s attic circa 1978—spins lazily overhead, scattering silver confetti light across the room.

The whole scene looks like prom night collided with a small-town wedding reception.

My gaze circles the room before it lands on Lauren, and everything else blurs into the background.

She’s wearing a silver gown that catches the light with every subtle movement, hugging a body I’ve tried not to notice all week.

She must have hidden the dress at the lodge earlier.

There’s no way I would have missed seeing something this stunning in our tiny cabin.

For a guy who prides himself on a decent vocabulary, I’ve suddenly forgotten all my words.

I’ve seen her soaking wet after falling into a pond and half-asleep in pajamas that should be illegal. But this version of Lauren, with her hair falling in soft waves around bare shoulders, the silver fabric making her glow—this version of her destroys all my logic completely.

Hockey players are supposed to have good recovery time, but I might need a minute. Or ten. Because the woman who’s been sleeping a few feet away from me all week looks like she stepped out of a dream— mine.

Falling for Lauren might just be the most illogical thing I’ve ever done. And for a guy who questions everything, who needs facts and statistics to make decisions, I don’t even question this. Not for a second.

I’m just about to walk over, when Granny approaches me in a sparkling mother-of-the-bride gown. “Tate! I was wondering where you were.” She looks like the long-lost sister of The Golden Girls . “Poor Lauren. She’s just had the worst night. I’m so glad you came.”

“What happened?” I ask, my stomach knotting.

“Bart is monopolizing all her time since he and Abby broke up.”

“They broke up?”

She sighs. “He got into a fight with Abby during the volleyball game, and she ended things with him. I’m sure they’ll work things out, but ever since Lauren arrived, he’s been following her around.”

I look back at Lauren. Bart waylays her, leaning into her space like he has any right to be there. He’s standing way too close, flashing that stupid smirk.

Something hot and unfamiliar flames in my chest. This was supposed to be pretend, a favor between colleagues. But watching Bart lean in, his fingers brushing her arm, something stirs inside me that has nothing to do with our arrangement.

Usually when I get mad, I can reason with myself. That’s my reputation— Sheriff , the guy who thinks before he acts. But right now, logic has nothing to do with the urge to cross this room and put myself between them. For the first time in my life, I don’t want to think. I want to react .

I stride past Granny, my gaze laser targeted on the back of Bart’s head.

He has no right to her. Not after how he treated her. Not when I’ve spent every day this week cataloging her every nuance. Bart doesn’t know the first thing about the woman he let go.

He turns around, looks me over, then frowns. “Where have you been? Lauren’s been waiting.”

I ignore Bart and face Lauren. “I’m sorry I’m late. Mind if I steal you away for a dance?” I hold out my hand, hoping she takes it—that she isn’t too upset with me for leaving her alone with Bart.

Her face floods with relief. “Absolutely.” And then she reaches for me like she’s a drowning woman and I’m a life preserver.

I lead her to the dance floor, never letting go of her hand, wanting everyone to see this moment—how she rejected Bart and chose me.

Because this is the moment her family has been waiting for.

All week long they’ve been trying to figure out if she’s moved on.

And I’ve answered that question with one dance.

“I don’t know how to thank you for helping me,” Lauren says, tucking a curl over her ear. I can hardly breathe—she looks so stunning.

I slide my hands to her waist, feeling the silky fabric as she folds into my arms for a slow dance to Taylor Swift’s “You Are in Love.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” I say, drawing her closer and following her rhythm. “Being the one person you can count on—that’s not a favor, Lauren. It’s a privilege. ”

Her lips curve slightly.

“Honestly, seeing Bart corner you almost made me irrationally angry,” I admit.

“You…irrational?” she says, biting back a smile. “I’d like to see that.”

“Believe me, you don’t. Bart’s the one person who makes me forget my reason entirely.” I glance over at him and notice he’s still scowling at us. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can head back.”

“Actually?” She tilts her head, her hands tightening around my shoulders. “I don’t want to leave. And no one is more surprised by that than me. I normally hate prom night.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s always about the couples,” she says tiredly. “Even the year I came with Bart, I didn’t want to be here. Mom was too sick to dance, and I remember standing in the middle of this exact room, surrounded by noise and music and laughter, feeling like I’d never been more alone in my life.”

I know that feeling too well—standing in a room full of people and somehow being completely alone. The worst kind of loneliness isn’t being by yourself—it’s feeling invisible when you’re surrounded by others. I pull her a little closer, letting her know this isn’t the way tonight is going to end.

Our eyes meet, and suddenly everything around us fades—the music, the laughter, the entire room.

My heart pounds against my ribs as I hold her, all my careful calculations vanishing.

I’ve spent my life keeping my distance, checking my emotions, but with Lauren in my arms, I can’t remember why.

For a man who’s built his life on logic and facts, this feeling is terrifying.

I can’t predict it or rationalize it. I can only surrender to it.

As my fingers trace her curves, I wonder if she can feel my pulse racing, if she knows that in this moment, she’s dismantling every rational argument I’ve built against falling for her.

I want to tell her, but I also don’t know if she feels the same. Or if this is just part of the deal when I showed up as her “boyfriend. ”

The lights catch the golden-brown tints of her hair, making it shimmer under the disco ball. “You know, we could make sure Bart never bothers you again,” I say.

Lauren smirks. “Yeah, but burying his body without anyone noticing might be a problem.”

I laugh. “I’m talking about something that wouldn’t put us behind bars, Sunny. Something that sends the message that he should never touch you again. Because the only man who gets to touch you now…is me . Do I have your permission?”

She hesitates, studying me for a beat. “What kind of show are we putting on here?”

I dip my head until my mouth brushes her ear. “Let’s make them talk.” I skim my hand along her waist lightly. “I bet they’re wondering what I’m whispering in your ear right now, whether I’m telling you how extraordinary you look.”

She laughs a little. “I’m literally wearing a dress that could signal ships from the coastline, Sheriff.”

“And you’re still the most beautiful woman in the room,” I say.

She stares at me for a beat. “You’re just saying that.”

I shake my head. “Sunny, I never say something I don’t mean.”

Her smile widens before she tucks her head against my shoulder.

I rest my chin against her hair, breathing in the scent that’s become all too familiar this week.

I want her to feel safe, even though I know she’s perfectly capable of handling Bart herself.

And I wonder, if this was only pretend, would she let me hold her like this?

Would she smile at me like she did just now?

Because the way she fits against me, how she’s letting her guard down just enough to let me really see her—I’m starting to wonder what she’s doing to me.

I’m always the one who’s thinking things through, but for the first time, I don’t want to be logical.

I want to be reckless. I want to risk something without knowing the outcome .

That thought alone should trigger every self-preservation instinct I have.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about love, it’s that there are no guarantees it will last. After thirty years of marriage, my parents are separating, leaving me to question whether falling in love with someone is really worth it.

Why risk getting your heart broken if all you end up is alone?

I learned what heartbreak was like in college first—with Lydia, the English major who loved poetry and spontaneous road trips.

For three years, I thought we were building something real.

I’d helped her study for finals, held her hand through her father’s heart surgery, even planned our future down to which city offered the best teaching positions for her and minor league teams for me.