Chapter Ten

Piper

Sunlight streams in through the window highlighting all the little dust flecks suspended in the air. It takes me a moment to get my bearings and remember where I am and how I got there. I'm not used to waking up somewhere that isn't my own bed. It must still be very early, judging by the small amount of light, and I stretch, rolling onto my side.

The second thing I see is a man lying next to me. I blink, startled, before realizing it's Tate. I don't remember how I got into bed last night, and panicked, I check beneath the blanket, relieved to see that I'm still wearing all of my clothes. I have fuzzy recollections of falling asleep on the sofa. Tate must've moved me into bed so I didn't end up cramped and sore. Looking at his face, I reflect on the fact that I've never seen him totally still before. He's always moving, talking, or writing. Seeing him relaxed and actually resting is such a drastic change. He looks so peaceful here, his features made so much more handsome when they aren't contorted in thought. I reach out, gently brushing a loose thread from the pillowcase out of his beard. His skin is warm and soft, and he stirs ever so slightly before digging his head deeper into the pillow.

The magic of sleep wears off of me, and I realize what I'm doing, self-consciously drawing my hand back. I need to get up. I need to take a shower. I need to stop acting like any of this is normal or okay. Besides, the second that Tate wakes up, I'm not going to have any time to myself. He's going to want to immediately get to work. That's just how he is. When an idea comes to him, he's like a dog with a new toy. He just has to turn it over and over in his head until it's worn out, or he is.

I'm less than five minutes into my showering, lathering my shampoo with my eyes screwed shut when I hear a voice. I can't make out what he's saying over the water, but the fact that he's trying to talk to me at all when we just went through this last night is making me see red.

"I'm in the shower!" I call out. I would've thought that the sound of the water would be clarification enough, but Tate is incapable of taking a hint. While I'm rinsing my hair clean and getting ready to condition, I hear the sound of the bathroom door opening.

"I know," Tate responds casually, shutting the door behind him. "And I needed to talk to you. That's why I'm in here."

"I'm naked!" I blurt, covering myself with my hands and backing into the corner of the shower. He isn't looking, exactly, keeping his eyes somewhere around the sink instead. But this is too much.

"You saw me naked." He leans in toward the mirror, examining his teeth before picking up his toothbrush and rinsing it under the tap. It takes everything in me not to scream.

"You didn't care that I saw you. I, however, care that you're seeing me." I can't believe that he needs this spelled out for him. At first, I hadn't believed it when I found out he'd never had a serious girlfriend. Now, I can say that it shows. "Boundaries. Remember? The shower is not your private elevator."

I pause, waiting to see if he leaves the bathroom of his own accord. Tate instead starts to apply toothpaste to his brush.

"Wait for me in the bedroom, and I'm not kidding!" I bark, taking some solace in the way that he jumps, his toothbrush clattering to the counter before he hightails it back out of the bathroom, grumbling under his breath the whole way.

Taking the few minutes that I have left to myself, I finish up my shower, toweling my hair and applying some serum to try and tame the fly-aways I get from the humidity this time of year. I slap some make-up on in an attempt to look alive and alert, and compose myself before leaving the bathroom. Holding my head up high, I emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and moisturizer, ready to have a serious discussion about our boundaries in such a small space.

Instead, Tate ambushes me with his laptop, cornering me onto the sofa to show me the work he has completed so far.

"Beta testing. Here. In Sunset Lake. Yes?" He fires the words off a mile a minute, staring at me with a childlike excitement. There isn't quite enough connective tissue between them, and I struggle to grasp at what he's trying to communicate to me.

I tug at my glasses. "I don't follow."

"I want to do a trial run of the new dating program while we're here. Kill a few birds with one stone." This is classic Tate behavior. Once he has an idea, he has to test it out. The man has zero impulse control. "We have the perfect, self-contained guinea pig population of all my friends and family, in a picturesque setting with all kinds of low stakes activities. They play cornhole here, for Pete's sake."

I'm not entirely sure what cornhole is, but I can see his point. And I know from experience that there isn't going to be any talking him out of this. Balanced next to him on the arm of the sofa is the remainder of last night's chocolates. He's never been one for a balanced breakfast. Popping a candy into his mouth, he rolls it around on his tongue in thought.

"Could you do chocolate making as the first activity?" he asks, wiping a loose smear of truffle from his lip with the back of his hand. "Some people think chocolate is an aphrodisiac, and people love activities where they get to bring home a souvenir."

"As long as you get me an industrial kitchen." I find myself very quickly warming to the idea. It would be nice to do something other than be an assistant for the day. "It's too hard to do in a residential one with a bunch of people."

"Your wish is my command. I bet the VFW would let us do it there. We can't use the resort's since we have so many guests that need to be fed multiple times a day."

The idea of Tate stepping foot in somewhere like a VFW hall is immediately comical to me, but it's likely the best choice that we have. "That works. And we should do something super casual, too. Three group dates, right?"

"Yes," Tate nods, pulling up a spreadsheet full of potential activities and scheduling ideas.

"So… a barbecue?" I offer, reaching over Tate and taking one of the truffles for myself, my stomach rumbling in neglect.

"With cornhole. We want people to actually show up and interact."

Again with this cornhole thing.

"Good. Then chocolate making. What's last?"

"Escalating romance…" Tate trails off, humming to himself in thought and tapping against his thigh with his pen. "Guess that means the Couples Cruise. We're going to charge people for all of these things. And… make back some of the money on my pontoon yacht. How was I not even consulted on this frivolity?"

I can feel him starting to slip into another party barge fugue-state, his brow furrowing and the look on his face darkening. That boat is going to haunt his nightmares like his own personal white whale. I've never seen a man harbor so much resentment for a single watercraft.

"Let it go," I plead, considering putting a hard ban on all party barge or pontoon yacht discussion until the next time we need to go on said watercraft. I shift in my seat and immediately displace a notebook, which bumps into a sheet of papers, sending them cascading onto the ground. "Also, if we're going to be at this for a while, we should work in the lodge. Get out for a bit. We can spread out."

"We're looking at one laptop and a notebook," he counters, pointing at each object. "How much space do we need?"

Standing from the sofa, I make my way to my suitcase, rummaging through for my favorite sweater and slipping it over my shoulders. I'm not giving him the opportunity to be a hermit the entire day. "And I need coffee. You said Fallon makes the best."

"But if we go there, Ledger is going to ask me to work. And my overbearing brother's idea of work does not align with mine."

At least I've gotten him to admit the real issue out loud.

"I guess that's a risk we have to take." Standing by the door, I make a show of tapping my toes against the hardwood floor. "Let's go, boss."

Tate sighs, accepting defeat. "One minute. I'm sending an email to the lawyer that manages the shell company."

"Oh, hell. You made a punch list already?" Of course. We haven't even been here that long, and he's already making demands. "You couldn't wait until we made it home."

"It's just a little one," he offers, raising his hands.

"You're the worst at keeping a secret." He's really cutting things close here. There's no way a list as specific as the one that Tate's drawn up could be written by someone who hasn't seen the property in person. Meaning, the buyer or an agent of theirs must be here. His family may not have his financials, but they aren't dumb. "If they don't figure this out…"

He grunts. "They won't. Lawyers are notoriously slow."

I won't argue the point with him, but I can't shake the feeling that he's playing with fire. I decide to wait outside of the cabin, unable to watch him dawdle with the email any longer. After what feels like a minor eternity, he emerges from inside and we make our way together to the main lodge. It's early enough in the day to not be terribly crowded. All of the early morning people have already had their breakfasts and coffees before heading out to the lake, while the late risers haven't shuffled out of bed yet. I circle the massive stone fireplace, admiring its construction while seeking out two very comfortable chairs for us to work in. It is at this moment that Tate's worst nightmare is realized. He is spotted by his brother, Ledger, and corralled over toward the front desk. I settle on two seats close enough to hear everything that's going on, without being too noticeable of an eavesdropper. I never get to hear what normal, non-billionaire Tate sounds like, and I'm not missing the opportunity today.

"So, Tate," Ledger starts, before there's a rustling noise from the large metal cage behind the desk. A blur of white feathers bangs around the bars, before settling on a post and making a noise that can only be described as a squawk, before a series of whistles and clicks.

"Tate! Tate!" the bird caws, bobbing its head up and down. "Tate brought a slampiece! Tate brought a slampiece!"

Tate turns to stare at Ledger, who turns a spectacular shade of red, before rummaging through the front desk for a bag of treats to try and shut the bird up. I have to bite at a hangnail on my thumb to stop myself from howling with laughter in my seat.

Despite eating a nut or two from Ledger's hand, Captain Obvious is undeterred. "Tate's a horndog, horndog, horndog. Squawk! Squawk! Bet he's gonna rub one out later! Rub-a-dub-dub!"

Amid the chaos of the chatty bird, a perturbed guest, a woman in her late fifties with a perfectly coiffed bob and designer sunglasses perched atop her head, storms up to the front desk. She clutches a monogrammed handbag close to her side and looks every bit the part of someone who will soon be demanding to speak to the manager.

"Excuse me, young man!" she addresses Ledger, her voice dripping with indignation. "Is this the kind of language we allow our... pets to use around here? I didn't bring my grandchildren to this resort for them to be exposed to such filth! Now, I'm going to have to explain that obnoxious creature!"

Ledger, still red-faced and fumbling with the bird treats, tries to placate her. "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am. Captain Obvious has a... colorful vocabulary. We're working on it, I assure you. But he was my dad's pet, and he's part of the history of the resort. We've tried to rehome him, but the guests get upset…"

The woman huffs, not satisfied. "Colorful? More like inappropriate! What kind of establishment are you running here? My Harold would have never tolerated such—"

Before she can continue, Captain Obvious chimes in again, its voice rising over the murmur of the lodge. "Harold! Horny Harold, Horny Harold—" In a split second, the bird snaps his beak closed. Then he regards the woman with a cock of his plumed head. "Harold died because Crabby Patty killed him. Crabby Patty! Squawk! Crabby, crabby, crabby!"

The woman's face turns a shade that competes with Ledger's. "That's enough!" She snaps her purse shut with a click. "I expect better from Go Jump In The Lake Resort. I shall be writing a very strongly worded review! Negative stars!"

Ledger, desperate, offers a weak smile. "Perhaps we can offer you a complimentary breakfast for your trouble? Our pancakes are less... talkative."

The woman sniffs, seemingly considering the offer, then marches off with a dismissive wave of her hand, muttering about ‘decency' and ‘proper training.' Ledger shoots a helpless look toward Tate, who is doing his best not to laugh, watching the scene unfold from a distance. As the woman retreats, the bird, perhaps sensing victory, lets out a triumphant "Harold! Not horny anymore! Crabby, crabby, crabby!" followed by an amused series of clicks and whistles.

"Who taught him to say that?" Tate asks, arms folded across his chest.

"No one. I don't know. I'll find out, and I'll fire them," Ledger sputters out, running a hand through his hair. "That's beside the point. You're here. You need to work. You said you would work."

"I don't have a schedule," Tate replies weakly.

"So, pick a shift. Any shift. I'll give you one of mine. Please. I could use a break." He picks up a travel mug of coffee from the desk, clutching it like it's the answer to all of his prayers. Then he glances around and lowers his voice to a whisper. "Just like that damn bird, I'm about to lose my shit."

"You should get a hobby. Less time to ride my ass," Tate teases. To his credit, he's already starting to look through the scheduling binder that Ledger has set on the desk. He may be a weasel, but he's not a total letdown.

"I don't have time for a hobby," Ledger huffs, taking long sips of his coffee. "I barely get to fish anymore."

Before Tate can argue the point, a rugged figure strides through the lobby. Hank, in his late fifties, is a portrait of weathered resilience with a thick silver beard and a mop of unruly salt-and-pepper hair. His paint-stained coveralls, faded from years of use, hang loosely around his solid frame as he hauls a well-worn ladder past the desk. Just like Captain Obvious, he's a fixture around the resort. He and Tate's dad went to high school together.

Ledger stares in confusion, tilting his head like a dog. "Hank, what are you doing?"

"Punch list," the man responds, turning to face him. The ladder swings behind him, almost knocking into a woman walking through the lobby. She jumps out of the way just in time, narrowly avoiding her entire breakfast plate getting dumped on her chest. Hank seems oblivious to the incident. "Big one."

"I didn't give you a list." Ledger swirls his coffee in his mug thoughtfully.

"The fancy Minneapolis lawyer did." Turning again, Hank's ladder misses a large potted plant at the side of the front desk by a hair. Ledger stiffens, motioning for Hank to set the ladder down.

Ledger's brow pinches. "How would the lawyer get a punch list?"

I can feel the nervous energy radiating off of Tate from all the way over here. He keeps getting quieter and quieter, and he looks as if he might try and climb into the bird cage to hide any moment now.

"I have my suspicions," Hank mutters, leaning in close to Ledger over the desk. Tate holds his breath, and so do I. Hank looks around over his shoulder at the lobby, and then continues, satisfied that no one else is paying attention to him. "I think we have a secret shopper. Like at McDonald's."

Ledger nods in complete agreement. "I'm sure. Dammit. I need to handle this."

"Take your time," Tate adds, visibly deflating as the stress leaves his body. He's dodged the bullet for now, but it's only a matter of time before Ledger and Fallon start to put two and two together. Leaving Ledger to deal with the punch list from hell, Tate comes to join me in the lobby. He has barely made contact with the seat before Fallon appears in the corner of my vision, holding two cups of coffee. She passes one to me, and Tate holds out an expectant hand for the second one.

Instead, she brings it to her lips and pointedly takes a sip, making full eye contact with her brother. I think I'm going to like her.

"No, really, I'm happy to go get my own coffee, Fallon. Really." He stands up almost as quickly as he sat down, trudging off to go find coffee of his own. I'm not sure what year it was the last time Tate had to make his own coffee, and I have to hide a smile. Fallon watches until he's out of earshot, turning to me and lowering her voice so only I can hear.

"Your kiss last night? Gah, so awkward." Fallon's words slice through the air, and I see the flicker of embarrassment flash across her face as she rushes to clarify. "Kind of like me and Leo. Because me and Leo aren't really dating. We've been friends since grade school. Kissing him is like kissing a dead fish."

I sift through my memories, trying to pin down the details of her and Leo's interaction on the boat. My own distraction at the time blurs the edges of those moments, but their camaraderie seemed laced with genuine affection, despite her comparison. "Really? Seemed pretty legit to me. Are you sure there's nothing romantic between you two?"

Fallon's gaze drifts over the laptops and notebooks strewn across the small table in front of us. She sighs, a note of longing in her breath. "Nope. Nada. Zilch. But the two of you working together on Tate's project? It's dreamy."

A pang of guilt twitches in my chest. The truth of my paid role here would shatter her idealized view. Dodging the heart of the matter, I respond, "It's just because we've been working together a long time."

As Tate approaches, his clumsy handling of a brimming coffee cup catches our attention. He's a careful dance of stops and starts, sipping from the rim to prevent a spill, before offering me a thumbs up. I mirror his gesture, the action hollow given the web of pretense we're weaving.

Fallon looks on, practically glowing with approval. "It's how you two look at each other. I'm a believer now," she grins. "Team Piper!"

The words hit differently this time. The warmth of acceptance from Tate's sister intertwines with a biting cold of deceit. I'd feel bad about making his sister fall for a lie, if I wasn't starting to believe it myself. The romance, the partnership—it's not real, but every smile, every shared glance with Tate plants a dangerous seed of wishful thinking. Team Piper, indeed. But at what cost? As the threads of our fabricated tale twist tighter, I find myself wondering just how deep I'm in, tangled between duty and a burgeoning, forbidden hope.