Jeremy holds my chair out for me, which earns him a smirk from the girl who told him his flannel had lumberjack dad energy. He navigates the chaos of a communal meal with slightly less of an anxiety stick up his ass than he had yesterday. We talk to the retired firefighter across from us about his son’s recovery. And when the man’s voice cracks mid-sentence, Jeremy nods and shares his own story about the terrifying weeks Sloane spent in the hospital last winter when her body reacted negatively to the treatment, nearly killing her.
“You get it,” the guy says with a nod. “You’re one of us, man.”
For the first time since I’ve met him, JeremyWinslow is rendered speechless. And my heart does that gooey melting thing all over again.
I concentrate on chewing my eggs into oblivion, relieved when Joel announces the start of the Olympiad, which is a generous label for a series of team competitions designed to be frivolous enough that nobody feels bad about losing. It’s also fortunate because, true to his prediction, Jeremy is catastrophically bad at everything.
The water balloon toss goes first. We all know how this works, right? Stand facing your partner, toss the balloon back and forth, and take a step back after each successful catch. We make it two rounds before Jeremy bobbles the balloon mid-toss. It explodes against my chest in a spray of water cold enough to make me gasp.
“I warned you.” He winces, then points at his own chest. “Science nerd, not a former D1 athlete.”
I glance down, then jab a finger in his direction. “You did that on purpose to make this a wet T-shirt contest.”
His gaze is suddenly laser-focused on the outline of my pink bra, clearly visible under my soaked shirt. “Avah, I’m so sor?—”
“I’m joking, Stanford.”
His ears go red, and the pediatric nurse two teams over covers her mouth to hide a laugh. But he also insists on giving me the denim button-down he’s wearing over his T-shirt. I have to tell you, getting beaned with a water balloon is a small price to pay for wrapping myself in the soft fabric that smells like Jeremy.
The bucket brigade, a relay where each team passes water from one bucket to another using only small plastic cups, is next. Jeremy’s hand-eye coordination seems to operate on a time delay, like that big brain of his is hoarding all the synapses. By the end, our bucket is barely a quarter full while the winning team’s is overflowing.
I can’t help noticing how little Jeremy cares. Jon would have gone tight-jawed, and at some point, he’d have made a comment about how I shouldn’t have fun at his expense. My happiness was only acceptable as a reflectionof his.
Jeremy walks toward me with water dripping from his elbows and a grin splitting his face. “You deserve a better partner. I’m a liability.”
“Agreed. But you’re easy on the eyes, so I’ll keep you.”
He lifts his face to the cloudless sky above us, and laughs like a man who, after thirty-six years of being too serious, is only now discovering that sometimes being ridiculous is a freedom in and of itself. I file the sound away in the growing collection of memories I’ll carry with me long after this arrangement expires.
We’re fifty yards into the boating race when Jeremy leans over the side to reach for the paddle he lost his grip on and capsizes the canoe, sending us both into water that’s snowmelt freezing. I come up sputtering to find him already surfacing with his hair plastered to his forehead and water streaming down his face, looking genuinely bewildered.
“I don’t think that was my fault.”
“Clearly, it was the Loch Ness Monster of the Rockies who overturned us.”
“Fucking Nessie,” he mutters with a boyish grin.
One of the volunteer safety crew paddles out to help us, and Jeremy squeezes my hand. We laugh so hard I inhale lake water and have to cough it back up, which makes us laugh harder. The other teams finish the race while we’re still being towed to shore.
Dead last.
As Jeremy wraps a towel around my shoulders, Joel announces the break for lunch. I’m wet and shivering and replaying the day’s catastrophes and fun in my head, when the realization arrives without warning.
I’m in love with Jeremy Winslow.
The grumpy, generous, socially hopeless billionaire who can’t toss a water balloon or steer a canoe but who lets me boss him around and honors every one of my boundaries without fail. And because of that, I’ve let down all of my defenses and invited him into my heart.
It’s madness, of course. It’s been less than six weeks since I left Jon, and my father is circling like a vulture in his attemptto use me as a pipeline to Jeremy’s money and the NorthStar families he wants to exploit. Once Jeremy secures his partnership with the Johnsons, I need to cut ties cleanly so my father can’t reach him. I know all of this. Hell, I’m a woman who always has an exit strategy.
My feelings have zero fucks to give about exit strategies. All that matters to my traitorous emotions is the joy I feel when I’m with him. Even when it’s tinged with the understanding that I’m eventually going to have to break my own heart to keep him safe.
But that’s a worry for future me. Today I’m going to let that joy fill every inch of the space I’ve been keeping empty out of fear. You can’t control when moments like this show up, but you can welcome them in as they arrive.
Jeremy and I change into dry clothes—after he insists on making me soaking wet in an entirely filthy way—then join the group for a taco bar and chocolate chip cookies that I have to admit aren’t half as good as mine. The final team competition: a couples obstacle course that winds through the grassy field behind the main lodge and into the tree line. The course is marked with orange flags and hand-painted signs that say things like YOU GOT THIS and YOU’RE ALREADY A WINNER—toxic positivity platitudes that should make me want to roll my eyes but cause my throat to tighten instead.
Jeremy stands beside me at the starting line, surveying the course with an adorkable combination of intensity and nervousness.
“Bold choice.” I nod at the blue T-shirt he’s wearing instead of his usual gray.
