Chapter 10 Amanda

Chapter 10

Amanda

Me and my big mouth.

I have a hot date tonight.

Now the whole town is wondering what we’re up to. Which means we have to get caught on a hot date. Which means I have to figure out the best hot date to have with a fiancé that they all believe I’ve mostly dated long distance.

So that they can all see that this is real and we’re choosing each other over our families.

And once again, Dane comes to the rescue and answers the question for me.

Beach picnics are hot in this weather.

And romantic. And semiprivate, but also public enough that someone will see us.

“Do you think it’ll actually work?” I whisper to Dane while we set out toward the beach behind the cabin. Chili ambles along slowly behind us, lured by the promise of food. He had a good day with his aunt Lorelei.

Or so we assume. Lorelei reported he snoozed in front of a fan all day.

“Making people think this is real, or tricking our families into getting along?” Dane asks.

“Yes.”

“If anyone can pull off a miracle, it’s you.”

I peer up at him.

He’s in board shorts and a plain white T-shirt, carrying a box of candles that we found in storage and canvas grocery bags filled with our impromptu feast. I’m in a two-piece swimsuit made of boy shorts and a crop top tank, carrying beach towels and a beach blanket.

I’m half convinced I’m going to drop my new engagement ring on the shoreline before tonight’s over.

“You realize I’m the same person who randomly decided today to tell people we met while a dog was humping your leg?” I say to him.

He smiles. “That’s the part that makes miracles fun.”

My heart flutters.

It’s not supposed to do that, but it does. “Did you ask your family about the letter?”

“Not directly. I asked my dad if he knew how many generations of Silvers were haunting him to make him want to keep disliking your family, but he didn’t think it was a serious question. You?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think Grandma was ready to hear it. She’s pretty mad. There was a lot of muttering about fruitcake-house-building shitheads and some even if you say the vows, it won’t last going on too. Sorry.”

“They’ll come around,” he says.

“Will they?”

“It’s barely been a full day. Let’s see how it looks this weekend.”

If he has faith, then I will too. “I hoped it would be magic. Super simple. That they’d look at us and believe we were happy and decide to just do the right thing.”

He squeezes my arm briefly. “We still would’ve had to keep it up for a few days so they wouldn’t get suspicious that we’re playing them.”

“I know. You’re right. But that sounds more fun than stressing that we’re committed to this through the weekend without any clue if it’ll work.”

“I’m having fun with you anyway.”

I glance up at him, but he’s moving on toward shore.

Leaving me with something to contemplate.

Why can’t this be fun? I want to stay friends. I like him. We’re in this together. And it’s not like we’re scheming for bad reasons. We’re not trying to steal inheritances or sabotage anyone’s business. We’re doing this to make things better.

So again, why can’t this be fun?

We get our picnic set up on the beach, complete with the candles around the picnic blanket. Close enough for ambience, not close enough to catch the blanket on fire.

Been there, done that.

And when I tell Dane the story, he laughs until he nearly snorts chickpea salad out his nose.

He pays me back by telling me about a time in college that he almost got arrested for public indecency, which is so not what I ever would’ve expected of Lorelei’s straitlaced older brother.

And yes, he times the best parts just right so I come close to snorting fried chicken out my nose.

Payback.

It’s hilarious.

We get halfway through his emailed list of things we should know about each other before I get a tingling between my shoulder blades. “Someone’s watching us,” I whisper as I lean in, smiling at him, and peck his cheek.

“Nice job letting us know, Chili,” he says.

The dog grunts in his sleep, and I crack up.

The sun is dipping low, but not so low that what I propose next is a bad idea. “We should go for a canoe ride.”

Dane sweeps a glance around the lake.

My family’s cabin isn’t the only one on the lake, but there are only a handful of other homes out here. A half dozen or so.

Most are owned by locals who live here year-round, but there are one or two that are vacation rental homes.

You can generally tell who’s home by the Christmas lights sparkling on the houses when the sun goes down. And there’s zero doubt that the locals would be spying and taking pictures and sharing them all around town tonight, so that tingling between my shoulder blades that says that someone is spying is pretty much expected.

“This one your canoe?” Dane asks, pointing to an upside-down canoe halfway between my uncle’s cabin and the neighbor’s house.

“I think so.”

He eyes me.

I grin.

“Exactly how sure are you?”

“This much?” I hold my hands about a foot apart.

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being most sure, how sure are you?”

“Six . . . and three-quarters?”

I love how easily he smiles. Back in high school, I thought he was on the uptight side. But he seems mildly amused by nearly everything now.

Except our family’s feud.

I wonder if the feud is the entire reason he seemed uptight in high school.

And how much of a shame would that be?

“Six and three-quarters,” he repeats, shaking his head with his smile growing. “Good enough. Chili, want to go for a canoe ride?”

The dog doesn’t answer. Dane still rises and dusts his hands on his board shorts, then heads over to the canoe while I gather up most of what’s left of our feast.

Dessert is going with us out onto the water.

He brought me fruitcake.

After consulting with Lorelei in a completely not-suspicious way—I hope—I grabbed two oatmeal cranberry cookies from Reindeer Bakes for him.

And also talked to Pia about the wedding cake.

That wasn’t awkward at all ...

Chili volunteers to guard the fruitcake and cookies for me while I run back up to the cabin to put the leftover food away and toss the trash.

Okay, the dog doesn’t really volunteer.

He’s sleeping on a beach towel. Quite soundly, in fact.

Pretty sure he won’t eat dessert.

While I’m at the cabin, I run out to the mailbox.

Just in case.

But it’s empty. No junk mail. No catalogs or bills.

No letters.

Dane’s right. If we want to know where it came from, we need to ask questions. We can’t just sit here and wait for more to magically show up.

So I need to get up the courage to ask my mom and grandma tomorrow what they know about how the feud started. No matter what they might tell me.

I dash back to the shore as he’s turning the canoe over, and holy hell .

Dane’s lean, but he’s solid. His back muscles flex. His biceps flex. His thighs are tight as he squats, and I suddenly need seventy-six more drinks.

I see fit guys around the city all the time. This isn’t something new.

But Dane’s so kind.

He’s funny.

He’s thoughtful.

He’s quick on his feet.

And when you put the whole package together, you get a guy who’ll likely make a very lucky woman very happy one day.

I’m trying to be happy for her—provided she deserves him, which she better, whoever she is—but my dinner is suddenly sitting sideways in my belly and my ring finger feels like the rock on it is dragging it down to the bottom of the lake while I’m still on the shore.

“How old is this thing?” Dane asks me as he pulls it toward the water.

“At least a few years, I think.” Has it always been here? I can’t remember. I didn’t pay attention the last few times I was here.

“Have you ever seen anyone use it?”

I shake my head.

He grins again. “Guess we’ll find out if she floats.”

“Are there paddle thingies?”

“Oars? Yeah.”

He kicks off his shoes as he gets the canoe into the water, wading out as he guides it deeper, rocking it a little side to side.

I place my shoes near Dane’s and head out with the small bag of dessert.

“Hold on.” He waves me back. “Testing it for leaks. Can’t have you sinking in the middle of the lake.”

“I can swim.”

“Chili can’t.”

I crack up. “Yes, he can.”

“Not twice in one day.”

Chili lifts his head enough to grunt in Dane’s direction.

“Is he picking on you, you poor thing?” I say while I rub the pup’s head.

He blows out a long-suffering breath and puts his head on my foot.

And once again, I’m cracking up.

While on a beach picnic with my pretend fiancé and his dog, getting ready for a dessert canoe ride at sunset.

It’s a role that hasn’t been in my dreams for a long time, but it’s a role that’s giving me the squishy-glowy kind of warmth in my chest.

Which is not real .

But what can be real?

Being a good friend to Dane.

He’s a good guy. He deserves to be treated well.

And some of that means having fun with him.

“I think she’s good,” he calls. “You ready for your sunset dessert cruise?”

Aw, we’re even on the same wavelength with what to call the canoe ride. “Absolutely. Chili? You coming?”

The dog sighs, then lumbers to his feet like he’s put out, but he knows we need supervision.

This dog.

He’s the best.

Almost as much as his owner.