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It was Damon.

He filled the door frame, his damp hair curling from ocean mist, his T-shirt stretched taut across his muscular chest. He looked me up and down, taking in the disaster scene: the puddles, the sodden towels, the robe-less damsel in a towel that barely made it to mid-thigh.

For a split second, I saw concern on his face, but it was quickly replaced with that infuriating smirk.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, crossing my arms and clutching the towel tighter around myself. I could feel the steam radiating from my skin and, mortifyingly, probably from my face too.

“I heard the call over the radio for cabin four,” he replied, already sidestepping me and striding into the pandemonium. He lowered his voice as he continued, “I realize technically this doesn’t fall under the section four, sleeping arrangements, because it’s not technically a fire, medical emergency, imminent danger, but I figured it would cause suspicion if my girlfriend’s cabin was flooding and I didn’t show up.”

I stared in shock, mainly because he’d seemed to have memorized the agreement I thought he’d barely glanced at, to the point he could reference the sections. I wasn’t sure if he’d studied it for loopholes or if he was actually taking this seriously.

Without saying another word, he opened the closet and produced a fluffy white terrycloth robe with the Lockhart Ranch logo stitched across the chest. He tossed it to me, a gentle underhand, like he knew any sudden movements might tip me over the edge. “Might want to put that on before the cavalry arrives.”

“Cavalry?” I questioned.

He didn’t respond, he was already in the bathroom.

I wrapped myself in all the dignity terrycloth could muster, slipped my arms into the sleeves and tightened the belt around my waist before shuffling over to the bed and perching on the very edge. I pulled my knees up and tried to gather my thoughts, but the steady bellow of Wes’s grunting and the chorus of pipes shrieking in protest made it impossible to concentrate.

From the bathroom, I heard a heavy clank, followed by a hiss and a colorful expletive. “Nothin’s ever easy in these old cabins,” Wes muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Damon barked a laugh and offered some sort of sports metaphor I didn’t quite catch. I stayed out of the way as the two of them talked the way men talk when they’re faced with an objectively ridiculous task: with bravado, and just enough competence to make it seem like everything was under control.

In the brief lull, I found my phone on the nightstand and saw my mom had called, but I didn’t call her back. That was a conversation I’d have in private. She was flying in the next day, and I was sure she’d have plenty to say about my new boyfriend. She had plenty to say about every area of my life.

As I sat on the bed, growing more and more anxious about having to keep up a lie in front of my mom, I peered over at the bathroom door and watched as Wes—now a little damp himself, but still weirdly stoic—started taking apart the showerhead with the confidence of a man who’d never lost an argument to a plumbing fixture. Damon handed him tools, made jokes, and occasionally shot me sly, reassuring glances—like we were both in on some cosmic prank.

I thought about escaping, but that would mean traversing the river currently forming just outside the bathroom. Instead, I sat there, immobilized by a combination of embarrassment and grudging admiration for the way Damon seemed to make even this literal disaster feel almost fun.

I’d barely had time to process the totality of my humiliation, or the way the terrycloth robe clung to my damp skin, before the next disaster struck, this time, in the form of a coordinated family invasion. The door flung open, and I was staring at a conga line of concerned relatives and the resort’s owner, who also happened to be my fake boyfriend’s mom, each one more horrified than the last.

First through the breach was Auntie Bev, wielding a monogrammed cosmetic bag like a weapon and radiating the righteous fury of every woman who’d ever lost a security deposit to water damage. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she cried, skidding to a halt as her stylish kitten heels hit the bathroom runoff.

“What did you do, flood the Nile?” Behind her, cousin Scarlett, who was nineteen and genetically incapable of not recording drama for posterity, lifted her phone and started streaming the disaster directly to the family group chat.

Trailing them was Selma Lockhart herself, in a silk scarf and the kind of vintage kaftan that suggested she’d ransacked Elizabeth Taylor’s closet. She surveyed the carnage with the practiced eye of someone who’d seen every possible iteration of “disaster guest” in her decades of hospitality.

The whole room vibrated with the collision of their voices.

“Are you okay, mija?” Selma asked sympathetically. “Did you slip?”

“You look like a drowned cat, but in a cute way,” Auntie Bev declared.

“This is going on TikTok Gold.” Scarlett beamed.

“That’s enough, Scarlett,” Auntie Bev chastised.

They all spoke over and around me, and it didn’t escape my notice that not a single one waited for my answers.

“I’m fine, really.” I tried to assert control. “I was in the shower, and it just… happened?” I explained as Wes and Damon reappeared, both dripping wet but looking oddly triumphant.

Wes held up a length of pipe like a severed limb, grinned, and said, “Got your culprit right here. You had a pressure buildup. Simple fix, but you’ll want to let it air out for a bit.” He looked pointedly at the water pooling under the bed, which was now threatening to saturate the contents of my suitcase. “You’ll need to move rooms for tonight, at least,” he added, toweling off his hands on his shop rag.

I glanced at Selma, who already had her phone out, tapping away on it. “I’m so sorry, mija, but we’re overbooked with the wedding. Not a spare bed anywhere, but you are more than welcome to come stay in the main house.”

Auntie Bev swooped in. “You can stay with me,” she declared, “I’ve got a king sized bed, a bottle of merlot, and we can catch up on real television, not just the streaming stuff.” Her eyes lit up, like she was genuinely excited to have a sleepover.

Scarlett chimed in, “Or, if you want space, I’ll give you my room. I can crash with Mom. I don’t need personal space.” Her eyes twinkled in a way that made it clear she was already plotting the next round of social media posts, likely with a hashtag involving #FamilyFlood and possibly #DrownedCEO.