Chapter Three #2
"I haven't," I said, keeping my voice neutral despite the flare of irritation. "But I suspect I know what it contains."
The mayor handed me his phone, open to a page with "Wintervale Whispers" emblazoned across the top in hot pink script.
Below the header was the photo I'd feared—me standing on the shore, looking toward the tanned, bare-chested lifeguard on the dock.
The angle and timing made it appear as though we were sharing a private moment rather than the brief, impersonal glance it had actually been.
The headline made my eyes widen: " Summer Romance Heats Up Wintervale: Local Hero and Chicago Attorney Share Smoldering Glances ."
"I don't know that gentleman personally," I said quickly, handing the phone back. "And I certainly didn't give permission for my photo to be taken. I apologize if this has caused any... awkwardness."
The mayor chuckled, waving off my concern. "Quite the opposite, my dear. This post has been the most viewed in Wintervale Whispers' history. People are clicking through to our Summer Splash Festival site in record numbers."
I blinked, caught off-guard by his enthusiasm. "I... don't understand."
"Tourism, Ms. Hayes." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Our little town depends on it, especially during the summer months. The festival is our biggest draw of the season, but attendance has declined in recent years. We need something fresh, something to generate buzz."
Understanding dawned slowly, incredulity rising with it. "You can't possibly be suggesting..."
"A harmless little charade," he confirmed, smiling broadly.
"Just through the festival. You and Wade Foster, Wintervale's most eligible bachelor, enjoying our town's attractions together.
Nothing inappropriate—attending the artisan market, perhaps paddling in the sunset boat parade, appearing at the brewery tasting.
The kind of activities that generate charming photos and bring visitors to our businesses. "
I stared at him, momentarily speechless. Of all the scenarios I'd imagined for my time in Montana, becoming part of a manufactured romance to boost local tourism hadn't even made the list.
"This is absurd," I finally managed. "I'm here for peace and quiet, not to become the subject of town gossip."
"Free tickets to all events," he countered smoothly. "And Wade is one of our finest residents. High school shop teacher during the school year, lifeguard and swim instructor in the summer. He's quite popular with everyone in town."
Despite myself, I was curious. "And he's agreed to this ridiculous scheme?"
"In principle, yes," the mayor replied. "He's willing, provided you are."
High school shop teacher. I couldn't help but be impressed by anyone who willingly spent their days surrounded by hormonal teenagers wielding power tools.
I remembered my own high school years—the defiance, the emotional volatility, the absolute certainty that I knew everything.
Based on the feedback I'd received from junior associates at the firm, not much had changed in my temperament since then.
It took a special kind of patience to guide young people through those turbulent years.
I turned to look out at the garden, buying time to think. My instinct was to refuse outright. The last thing I needed was more public attention, even in a town as small as Wintervale.
And yet... there was something oddly appealing about the mayor's proposal. A distraction from my real problems. A narrative I could control, unlike the one unfolding at my firm.
The potential benefits crystallized in my mind like a well-structured legal argument.
If images of me enjoying a summer fling circulated back to Chicago, it would undermine any impression that I was hiding away in shame.
It might even give me leverage—I wasn't huddled in a corner licking my wounds; I was confidently living my life.
The contrast between Andrew's accusations and photos of me looking carefree might raise doubts about his version of events.
People rarely associate guilt with happiness.
"I'd need to speak with Mr. Foster directly before agreeing to anything," I said finally.
The mayor's face brightened. "Of course! In fact, he asked me to pass along his contact information to you." He handed me a business card with a phone number scrawled on the back. "Wade said you're welcome to text him anytime to discuss the arrangement."
I accepted the card, noting the neat, precise handwriting. "I'll think about it."
"That's all I ask," Mayor Snowcroft said, rising to his feet.
"Though I do need your answer as soon as possible.
The festival begins next week, and we'll want to coordinate your appearances.
" He straightened his lapels. "Tourism revenue from the festival funds nearly forty percent of our town's annual budget.
These past few years..." He sighed. "Well, let's just say we could use a boost."
After he departed, I remained on the porch, turning the card over in my fingers.
The rational part of my brain insisted this was a terrible idea—more complications when I should be focusing on clearing my name.
But another part, one I rarely indulged, whispered that perhaps this strange opportunity was exactly what I needed.
I pulled out my phone and typed a brief message to the number on the card:
This is Lark Hayes. Mayor Snowcroft spoke with me about his... unusual proposal. Perhaps we should discuss this in person? I'm free tomorrow morning.
The response came faster than I expected:
Mistletoe & Mochas, 9am? It's the café on Main Street with the green awning. -Wade
I replied with a simple confirmation, then set my phone aside. Curiosity got the better of me, and I pulled up the Wintervale Whispers blog post again, studying the photo more carefully.
Wade was undeniably attractive—tall and athletic with sun-bleached hair and impossibly blue eyes.
The camera had captured him mid-laugh, his expression open and genuine.
We did look good together in the photo, I had to admit.
There was something in the way our gazes met across the distance that made it seem like we were already in mid-conversation.
A connection I couldn't quite define but couldn't deny either.
No wonder Zoe had jumped to conclusions.
"This is insane," I muttered to myself, closing the browser.
Yet I couldn't deny the flutter of interest I felt at the prospect of tomorrow's meeting. It had been a long time since I'd had anything resembling a date, even a fake one arranged by a small-town mayor for publicity purposes.
I made a promise to myself then and there.
I wouldn't fall for the handsome lifeguard, regardless of his lake-blue eyes or the way his smile had momentarily short-circuited my thoughts.
I couldn't afford any real entanglements, not with my career hanging by a thread and my future so uncertain.
This would be a business arrangement, nothing more—beneficial to whatever his reasons were and to my need for a distraction from the Andrew Cavendish situation.
And yet, as I watched the sun begin its descent behind the mountains, painting the garden in amber and gold, I found my thoughts drifting back to the photo.
To blue eyes and an easy smile. To the possibility of stepping outside my world, even if only for pretend.
What would I discover about this stranger whose life was so vastly different from my own?
And what had compelled him to agree to this charade?
Tomorrow at Mistletoe & Mochas, I would establish clear boundaries. No real dates. No actual romance. Just a mutually beneficial arrangement.
I only hoped those boundaries would hold when faced with the real man, rather than just his photograph.