"How did you?—"
"Gage told me. Who heard it from Chief Walsh. Who was literally standing there when it happened." She adjusts her line, casual as anything. "Also, you're not subtle. You practically sprinted out of Northbound with that purple parka."
"Which looks amazing on you, by the way," Patrice adds. "Very 'I don't need a man, I have functional outerwear.'"
I groan, flopping back against my bucket with less grace than intended. "He tried to turn whatever's happening between us into a business arrangement. Like I'm some kind of marketing opportunity. Do you know how many people have treated me like that? Like I'm just a follower count and engagement rates?"
"That sucks," Tessa says simply. "Ryder's usually smarter than that."
"His agent put the idea in his head," I admit, pulling my knees up. "He texted me after. Said he pitched it wrong, but like... the fact that he pitched it at all? That he thought of me that way?"
Patrice and Tessa exchange one of those looks that only married people understand.
"Can I tell you something?" Patrice shifts her bucket closer. "When I first met Trace, I was convinced he was just helping me because he felt obligated. Like, 'oh great, the pregnant lady needs rescuing, better be noble about it.' Took me way too long to realize he was actually falling for me, and I was too busy protecting myself to notice."
"I'm not protecting myself?—"
"You posted seventeen tree photos in one day," Tessa interrupts gently. "That's either protecting yourself or a cry for help. Maybe both."
"I just don't want to be someone's strategy," I say quietly. "I want to be someone's choice."
"Then tell him that." Patrice's line jerks, but she ignores it. "Not through passive-aggressive captions about branches. Actually tell him."
"He said he needs four games to focus. I'm trying to respect that."
"Respecting boundaries is great," Tessa agrees. "Posting cryptic content about trees is just confusing."
My phone buzzes. A text from Jax with a photo attached.
Jax: Your boyfriend is back. Thought you should know.
The photo shows Morris standing in my driveway, his massive head tilted as he inspects my rental car's remaining mirror with what can only be described as predatory interest.
"Oh, come on!" I'm on my feet before I remember I'm on ice, nearly toppling before Patrice grabs my jacket.
"What's wrong?"
"Morris is back. And he's eyeing my last mirror like it's an all-you-can-eat buffet." I'm already gathering my stuff—the bucket, the auger I definitely can't carry alone, my dignity. "I have to go. The rental company already sent me two strongly worded emails about the first mirror."
"I'll drive you back," Tessa says, already packing up her gear. "We rode together anyway."
"You sure?"
"Please. This gives me an excuse to leave before I actually have to catch something and figure out what to do with it."
By the time Tessa drops me off at the cabin, Morris has graduated from lurking to actively investigating. I wave goodbyeto her as she pulls away—she kept my ice fishing gear in her trunk to return later—and turn to face my nemesis with nothing but a broom I grabbed from the porch. He's standing in my driveway, and I'm wielding said broom like a sword while reconsidering my definition of "handling things."
"We've been through this," I tell him, making what I hope are assertive sweeping motions. "This is MY car. Those are MY mirrors. You have an entire forest full of things to eat."
Morris regards me with the expression of someone deeply unimpressed by my boundary-setting techniques.
"I'm serious, Morris the Menace. Back up. Shoo. Go find some nice bark to munch on."
He takes a step closer.
"Don't you dare?—"
"Need help?"
