Chapter One #2
A bright red rescue buoy sat at the edge of the dock, and I noticed a "LIFEGUARD" emblem on the waistband of his board shorts.
His gaze swept over the swimming area with practiced vigilance even as he bantered with friends in the water.
This wasn't just recreation—he was working, responsible for the safety of everyone enjoying the lake.
I hadn't planned to stare. Ogling half-dressed strangers wasn't exactly my style. But there was something magnetic about his movements—like watching a big cat stretch—that hooked my attention longer than I'd intended.
He turned, still mid-laugh, and caught me watching.
Rather than pretending sudden interest in the horizon (the coward's way out), I tilted my chin up slightly and met his gaze with the same unflinching directness I'd perfected for shareholder meetings.
His smile shifted, deepening at one corner, and impossibly blue eyes crinkled at their edges.
The light stubble framing his jaw caught the sunlight as he gave me a slight nod before returning to his conversation.
His smile held none of the practiced polish I'd grown used to in Chicago's glass towers—no strategic warmth designed to disarm, no choreographed charm.
Just unfiltered enjoyment of a perfect summer day.
It sparked an uncomfortable recognition: his self-assurance mirrored that of men who'd never had to prove their right to exist in every room they entered.
Yet unlike them, I couldn't simply categorize and dismiss him with a mental eye-roll.
I turned away, annoyed with my own reaction. I hadn't come to Montana to analyze the authenticity of a stranger's smile, no matter how annoyingly attractive he might be.
The click of a camera shutter broke my reverie.
"Oh, that's perfect!"
I turned to find a young woman with an asymmetrical, purple-highlighted bob crouching nearby, her bulky camera aimed directly at where the lifeguard and I had just shared that brief glance.
She wore frayed denim cutoffs and a faded lilac tank top with "Got Secrets?
" printed across the front. An overstuffed tote bag rested in the sand beside her, emblazoned with a distinctive logo—a pair of hot pink lips with a finger pressed against them in a "shh" gesture, the words "Wintervale Whispers" curling around them in looping script.
Multicolored pens stuck out from every pocket, and what looked like three different phone chargers dangled from the side loops.
"Excuse me?" I said, my voice sharp with surprise.
She lowered her camera, her expression bright with enthusiasm. "Sorry! I'm Zoe Blake from Wintervale Whispers—I'm doing a photo series on summer at the lake." She thrust out her hand. "You're not from around here, are you? I know pretty much everyone in town."
"Did you just take my picture?" I asked, ignoring her outstretched hand.
"Well, yes," she admitted, turning her camera so I could see the display. "But it's a great shot—you and Wade together! The lighting is perfect with the sunset."
The photo showed me in profile, looking toward the dock where the lifeguard—Wade, apparently—was smiling in my direction. The angle and timing made it appear as though we were sharing some meaningful exchange rather than the brief, impersonal acknowledgment it had actually been.
"Delete that immediately," I said, my voice dropping into the tone I reserved for difficult opposing counsel. "I didn't give you permission to photograph me."
"But it's for the Whispers!" she protested. "Our readers love—"
"The what?"
"Wintervale Whispers. The local blog." She reached into her tote and pulled out a business card with a logo matching the one on her bag. "I cover all the local happenings. And summer at the lake is our most popular feature."
"I don't care if it's the New York Times," I said firmly. "Delete the photo."
She sighed dramatically but made a show of pressing buttons on her camera. "Fine, fine. Gone." She tucked the camera into her bag, then pulled out a small notebook. "So, are you visiting or staying in town? We don't get many new faces around here."
"That's not really—"
"Where are you staying? The Evergreen Inn is the best place—Rory Lancaster runs it. Totally renovated the place. Used to be this creepy old mansion." She scribbled something in her notebook. "I didn't catch your name?"
"I didn't offer it," I replied coolly. "And I'd appreciate privacy during my stay."
Instead of being deterred, she grinned. "A woman of mystery! Even better. Chicago, right? I can always tell by the accent."
I blinked, thrown off by her accurate guess. "I don't have an accent."
"Everyone has an accent," she laughed. "Yours says big city, East Coast influence but Midwestern roots. Corporate world, definitely. Law or finance, I'm betting." She glanced at my watch and raised an eyebrow. "Nice Cartier. Lawyer?"
For a brief, unsettling moment, I wondered if she'd somehow researched me before this "chance" encounter. But her expression held genuine curiosity, and I suspected she was simply nosy.
"Look," I said, "I'm not interested in being featured in your blog. I'm here for quiet and privacy."
"Of course, I totally respect that," she said, though her eager expression suggested otherwise.
"But if you change your mind, here's my card.
And just so you know—" she nodded toward the dock where the lifeguard was now pulling a t-shirt over his head, "—Wade Foster is single.
And he doesn't usually smile at strangers like that. "
"I'm not—" I started, but she was already moving away, camera raised toward Wade.
I heard the distinctive click of the shutter as she captured him, now fully turning his attention her way with an expression of familiar resignation. Clearly, he was used to her antics.
This was exactly what I didn't need—attention, questions, my name in any kind of publication, even a small-town blog. I'd come to Wintervale precisely because it was nowhere, because no one would know me or care about the professional scandal I was fleeing.
"Calculated distance," I reminded myself as I followed the path back to the inn. "A well-timed vacation. Not running away."
But as I climbed the steps to the wraparound porch, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd made a mistake coming here. Small towns meant small-town curiosity. And small-town curiosity was the last thing I needed while trying to rebuild my reputation.
I twisted Grandmother's ring, watching the sapphire catch the last golden rays of sunlight.
For fourteen days, I needed to keep my head down and my focus on survival.
Instead, I'd been in town less than three hours and already caught the attention of a gossip blogger and exchanged loaded glances with a lifeguard who looked like he'd stepped out of a swimwear ad.
So much for strategic retreat.
Back in my room, I tossed open the windows, letting in the pine-scented evening air. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow, I'd remember who I was: Lark Hayes, senior associate, merger specialist, future partner. Not some tourist caught staring at the local eye candy.
No matter how piercing his blue eyes were.