Chapter Nine

Tate

My head swims with ideas until it feels like my brain is buzzing around in my skull. I struggled to get them down on paper fast enough, feeling like my hands just couldn't write anywhere near the same speed as my thoughts. I could get maybe halfway there, but my writing would be barely legible, although Piper seems to be able to read it regardless of how quickly and haphazardly it flows onto the page. As I splash my face with cold water, making sure to give my under-eye area a brisk rub to wake up the skin, I consider learning to write in shorthand. Piper could pick it up fast enough. She's always been a quick learner. It could be fun, too, like we have a secret code between ourselves.

I take a last look in the mirror, feeling freshly invigorated by the shower and my brainstorming session, before slipping a robe on over my sweatpants. I'm not sure what Piper was freaking out about earlier when I was in the shower, but she seemed uncomfortable about my nudity, and recalling what she said about people being like horses and needing to feel comfortable, I think I should be careful to be pretty well covered from now on. Certain that I don't have any extra skin showing that doesn't need to be, I poke my head out of the bathroom.

"I know it's our first night, but I'm pulling an all-nighter," I call out to her, spritzing myself with a little extra deodorant.

"I saw this coming," Piper responds nonchalantly. I had expected her to already be tucked into bed, but it sounds like she's in the kitchenette instead. At least I won't be keeping her awake.

I towel my hair off one extra time before stepping out into the rest of the cabin. "The Rocketbook?"

"Dead giveaway. Luckily, I prepared for this eventuality."

I sniff the air and am hit by a wall of chocolate aroma. The entire cabin smells like a Parisian chocolatier. My mouth waters instinctively, and I recall the way her suitcase seemed extra heavy when I helped load it into the car.

"You brought stuff? You're making me chocolates."

"It's part of your process," she shrugs, rolling balls of truffle filling through melted chocolate with all the precision of an explosives expert. "You work on programming. I work on truffle making."

I stroll over to the counter where she's set-up a makeshift workstation, and drag my finger in the chocolate smeared on the inside rim of the bowl, licking it off of my fingertip and fighting the urge to make an undignified noise at how good it is. "This is why we work."

"Do we work?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at the finger I just clumsily poked into her bowl of artistry. "Jury's still out. I think it's because I'm more like a slave instead of an assistant."

My gaze finds hers. "But you call me out when needed."

She sighs. "Not nearly enough."

Giving my hand a quick rinse in the sink, I wipe it off with a nearby hand towel and return to the sofa, taking my laptop and phone out so I can scan in the work I got down in the shower.

"We do work. You know we do. Even when you're self-righteous and I'm bossy and annoying." As I get everything set up the way I like it, I think about why her chocolates are so good. She spent a semester of her undergraduate program studying abroad in Paris, and in her spare time, studied with a chocolatier and learned to make real gourmet chocolates. When I was searching for a personal assistant, I had a stack of resumes several inches thick. It was the one thing on hers that truly stuck out. Out of all the candidates, she was the only one who could provide me with artisanal chocolates. It was such a passion of hers at the time, and now I only ever hear about it on the occasional all-nighter or rainy Sunday. I look up at her from over my laptop, watching how peaceful she looks as she arranges the truffles on a baking sheet to chill them. "Hey, weren't you going to open a chocolate shop?"

She shrugs, setting a timer on her phone. "I thought about it."

"What happened with that?" It would be so easy for her to start a business of her own. I have all the connections she could ever need to get a workspace or a storefront. I'd do it for her in a heartbeat. All she would have to do is ask.

"Turns out keeping you happy is a full-time job," she states. There isn't any sadness to what she says, nor is there any humor. It's just empty. I don't get the sense that she blames me for the direction her life has taken, but I can't help but feel partially responsible. I don't know how to take it, or how to respond, so I just nod and return to my work.

As I watch her move around the tiny kitchenette, a tightness forms in my chest, an uncomfortable twist of guilt and something else—something tender. It's a startling realization, the depth of sacrifice Piper makes daily, often without complaint. Her dreams, her ambitions, put on hold, maybe even forgotten, just to manage my chaotic world. This isn't just dedication; it's a quiet form of devotion, and I find myself wondering, not for the first time, what I have done to deserve it. The thought that perhaps I've been taking more than I've given gnaws at me, and suddenly, the distance between what I feel and what I've acknowledged seems insurmountably wide.

I contemplate how I might bridge that gap.

There has to be way to set Piper free to pursue her dreams without losing her completely.

Then, my stomach grumbles. "Think you can make those dark chocolate ones that I love?"

She huffs out a small laugh, a warm smile crossing her lips. "I'm already on it."

We sit in a comfortable silence, Piper scrolling while I type out spreadsheet after spreadsheet, until the alarm on her phone starts to beep. She sets about plating the truffles, humming quietly to herself as she arranges them on one of the paper plates left in the cabinets. I notice from the way she keeps shifting her weight from one foot to the other that her knees must be sore from sitting cross-legged on the bed, so I offer to switch with her, letting her have the sofa while I take the bed.

She's thankful for the offer, but it's the least I can do when confronted with truffles of this quality, freshly made just for me. Popping one into my mouth, I feel like I should buy her a new car. They're just that good.

After Piper uses the bathroom to take out her contacts and get ready for bed, she gathers her reading material. Settling onto the couch with a blanket, I'm pleased to see that she really did bring her book with her, and that she feels okay taking the time to read it. While I do need her here with me, I don't want her to feel obligated to me every waking hour of her life. She's my assistant, not my mother or my slave. And I need to be cognizant of the fact that she doesn't have space of her own to retreat to if she feels she needs it.

I lose myself in the work on the new matching concept, not noticing the passage of time. It's almost midnight when my phone pings with a Google alert attached to my name. My mouth goes dry, immediately assuming it's about Wired the article, and that someone found out who I am and is currently broadcasting my identity across the internet for everyone to see. I'm relieved to find that it's nothing of the sort, and is just some local gossip rag called Sunset Fake.

My relief disappears when I start to read the linked blog post. It's all about my return to the resort, with a mystery girlfriend in tow, and how awkward our kiss was on the party barge. My initial thought is that it must be nice living in a town where the news is this slow, that some kid coming home to work at his parents' resort and not being a very good kisser is worth a thousand words and a blurry cell phone picture.

With my narrowed gaze scanning the words, I almost wish I could toss my phone into the lake before Piper sees this:

Sunset Fake: Tate Story's Rocky Return to Romance at Go Jump!

Sunset Lake was abuzz this weekend, not with the usual chirp of summer cicadas, but with the electrifying whispers of Tate Story's homecoming. Yes, our very own Story boy, known for his quiet demeanor and long absences, has graced our charming resort once again. But hold onto your hats, folks, because he didn't come back alone!

Tate, the elusive former local who's been off the radar pursuing big-city dreams, was spotted with a mystery woman by his side, igniting rumors faster than wildfire through the dry Sunset Lake woods. Who is she? Where did she come from? And most importantly, what is she doing with one of Sunset Lake's most intriguing bachelors? These are the questions on everyone's lips, made all the juicier by their clumsily executed public display of affection on the famed party barge last night.

Eyewitnesses (who prefer to remain anonymous for fear of never being invited to another of Go Jump's amazing lakeside gatherings) report that the kiss seemed as stiff as the breeze off the lake. "It was all lips and no love," one partygoer commented, sipping a cocktail with a raised eyebrow. Another onlooker noted, "If kissing were a sport, Tate would surely be benched."

But it's not just the kiss that has tongues wagging. Speculation is rife about Tate's intentions. Is this an attempt to stir up a little excitement for the resort, or is there something more tender brewing beneath that reserved exterior?

In a town that thrives on community and closeness, Tate's reclusive nature has always been the subject of much gossip. Now, with his return—and the addition of a romantic interest—the speculation has reached a fever pitch. The big question remains: Is this mystery woman here to stay, or is this just another of Tate's whims?

Stay tuned to Sunset Fake, where we peel back the layers of this intriguing love affair faster than you can say ‘check-in'! Remember, you heard it here first—the good, the bad, and the awkwardly unromantic! Seriously, Tate, raise your game!

"What is it?" Piper peers at me from over her book, her brows knit in concern. Before I point out how ridiculous it is that Sunset Lake, a town of around 20,000 citizens, even has a dedicated gossip blog, I remember the hurt in her eyes on the boat, and how much I don't ever want to see her look like that again.

"It's nothing," I grumble, setting my phone down next to me on the bed. "Some local blog wrote up a whole post about me coming back to Sunset Lake. Imagine not knowing my net worth and still thinking I'm interesting enough to talk about."

"I'm sure that blog post will age well once you're on the cover of Time," she mutters with a yawn, returning her attention to her reading. She only starts to yawn in front of me when she's absolutely exhausted. Piper hasn't had a moment of real rest since I barged into her apartment this morning with coffee, and it's starting to show. Her eyes keep drooping every few pages, and her head is starting to nod. Eventually, the book winds up flat on her chest, and her glasses slip to the end of her nose as she passes out entirely.

Watching her fall asleep has left me feeling just as tired, and I decide that it's time to salvage what few hours of sleep that I can. I clean up my work as quietly as possible, tiptoeing around as I brush my teeth so as not to wake her. The sofa isn't very large, and the way she has her neck resting on the arm looks like it's going to murder her muscles. I tap her on the hand, gently whispering her name, but she's out cold. With no other real options, I slip my hands underneath her and scoop her up against me, lifting her toward the bed.

She's so light in my arms that I resolve to start feeding her donuts the second she wakes up in the morning. Her breathing changes slightly once I get her into the air, and I freeze, worried that she'll wake up and this will all look very weird. Then, she sighs, nuzzling her body into mine, and my heart melts. I could stand here with her in my arms all night, but that feels like a serious ethical breach of our professional boundaries, and I snap out of it, softly rolling her onto the bed. She flings an arm over her pillow, curling into a ball on her side, and I pull the blankets up over her before climbing into bed next to her.

It's not like this is real, right? Nothing's going to happen between us in that way. Nothing has changed just because we're here at the resort and we're in on a ruse together. Saying things doesn't make them true. All that stuff she's been telling me—in the car on the way down here, on the party barge, in this very cabin—are made up. And the things I did, like let my sister think she's my girlfriend, and dream about taking her in my arms and making her mine, and kissing her underneath that damn wagon bridge…. That's been all for show.

She doesn't know how I really feel about her. How what's fake could become real in the blink of an eye. And I can't ever tell her. If I did, things could go sideways and I'll lose the part of her I do possess, no matter how small. It would ruin everything.

The first moment I had thoughts about Piper that strayed toward reckless I decided it couldn't be any other way.

There's only one problem. My body. It tightens and aches and reaches toward hers. That's the part I can't stop thinking about no matter how many times I tell myself we can't go there.

Each heartbeat feels like a traitor, throbbing with a silent confession I dare not speak.

"Night," she mumbles into the pillow, still less-than-conscious.

"Goodnight," I whisper back before turning off the light.

Then unable to help myself, I press a soft kiss to her forehead.