“You’ve been at this since five-thirty.” I grab her jacket off the chair. “We’re leaving.”
“I have seventeen emails to answer, a vendor meeting in an hour, and the caterer still hasn’t confirmed?—”
“And you’re about to break.” I keep my voice low enough that the chaos won’t hear. “I can see it, sweetheart. You’re running on fumes and spite.”
Her shoulders sag. Just for a second. Then she reaches for her laptop. “I’m fine. I just need to?—”
I catch her wrist. Gentle. “This wedding is supposed to be ours. Not another crisis you white-knuckle through alone.”
That lands. I see it in the way her breath catches.
“Two hours. I’ll have you back before your vendor meeting.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Miss Maggie catches my eye as we head for the door. She’s already got her phone out, and I know the vendor meeting will be mysteriously rescheduled.
“Don’t hurry back,” she calls after us with enough knowing in her voice to make Delaney’s cheeks flush.
Copper Lake sits thirty minutes north, tucked into a valley where it’s fed by snowmelt and hidden by a switchback trail that doesn’t show up on any map. The water runs clear as glass over copper-colored stones, surrounded by pines and silence so deep you can hear your own heartbeat.
I park in the clearing where I’ve parked a hundred times before. There’s a blanket in the truck bed that Miss Maggie pressed into my hands with a knowing look. A cooler with sandwiches. A thermos of coffee.
Delaney climbs out and takes it in. The lake. The mountains. The stillness.
“Daniel.” Her voice drops to a hush. “This is beautiful.”
“My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid, before everything got complicated. She said it was the only place she could hear herself think.”
She turns toward me, putting pieces together.
“This is your place. Your real place.”
“It was.” I take her hand. “Now I want it to be ours.”
The water is cold enough to make her shriek.
“You could have warned me!”
“Where’s the fun in that?” I’m already waist-deep. “It’s snowmelt. Builds character.”
“It’s hypothermia.” But she’s still coming, teeth chattering. “If I get pneumonia, I’m putting it in my vows.”
She makes it to waist-deep and stops, shivering in a way that does interesting things to the wet fabric clinging to her curves.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you're calculating how fast you can get me out of this swimsuit that appeared so conveniently.”
“I’m not calculating. I already know how fast.” I move closer. “I’m calculating how long I can make myself wait.”
Her breath catches. Then she splashes me.
The water hits my chest like ice, and I let out a sound that is absolutely not a yelp.
