Chapter Five #2
For the next hour, Wade patiently demonstrated paddling techniques on dry land, explaining the mechanics of steering and stopping.
His teaching style was clear and encouraging, never condescending despite my novice status.
I found myself impressed by his natural ability to break down complex movements into manageable steps—a skill that likely served him well in both his roles as lifeguard and shop teacher.
When we finally moved to the water, the practical application proved more challenging than the theory. My first attempt to enter the kayak ended with an ungraceful wobble that nearly sent me toppling, saved only by Wade's steady hand at my elbow.
"Easy," he said, his voice close to my ear. "Sit first, then slide your legs in."
His proximity sent an unexpected warmth through me that had nothing to do with the summer heat. I nodded, unable to form words with his hand still at my elbow, his body near enough that I could detect the faint scent of pine and sunscreen.
Once on the water, my competitive nature kicked in.
I was determined to master this, to prove I wasn't just a city lawyer out of her element.
The first few strokes were awkward, my kayak zigzagging rather than moving forward in a straight line.
But with each correction from Wade, each adjustment to my technique, I improved.
"You're a quick study," he observed as we paddled side by side across the calm water. "Most people take days to get that rhythm."
"I've always been a fast learner," I replied, suppressing a surge of pride at his approval. "Though I doubt I'm regatta-ready just yet."
"We've got time," he said easily. "And the regatta's more about showmanship than speed anyway. Most participants decorate their kayaks—flowers, banners, that sort of thing."
I laughed, picturing myself in a flower-bedecked vessel. "So I need to worry about aesthetics, not just staying upright?"
"Exactly." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "Which reminds me..."
He paddled toward the shoreline where wildflowers grew in abundance, gesturing for me to follow. With expert precision, he maneuvered his kayak alongside the bank and began selecting various blooms—purple lupines, white daisies, yellow arnica.
"What are you doing?" I asked, attempting to mimic his positioning but ending up slightly askew.
"Gathering supplies," he replied, handing me a small bunch of flowers. "We’ll be able to use these for our decorating session."
There was something endearing about watching this tall, athletic man carefully selecting wildflowers, his expressions shifting as he deliberated between blooms like they were precious gems. It was a side of masculinity I rarely encountered in city boardrooms, where vulnerability was treated as weakness and sensitivity as a liability.
"Perfect," he declared finally, tucking the last stem into the mesh pocket of his life vest. "Now, let's see if you can make it back to our starting point without my help."
I accepted the challenge with a determined nod, focusing intently on the techniques he'd taught me.
My arms burned pleasantly with the effort, but I found a rhythm that propelled me forward with increasing confidence.
The sensation was liberating—the gentle glide of the kayak, the quiet splash of the paddle, the sun warm on my shoulders.
"Not bad at all," Wade called from behind me. "At this rate, we might actually stand a chance at the lake challenge."
I was about to reply when a familiar voice rang out from the shoreline.
"Not bad at all," Wade called from behind me. "At this rate, we might actually stand a chance at the lake challenge."
I was about to reply when a familiar voice rang out from the shoreline.
"Well, would you look at that," Wade said with a resigned smile, gesturing toward the shore with his paddle.
I followed his gaze to see Zoe Blake standing on the rocky beach, camera raised, her purple-streaked hair vivid against the landscape. How she'd found us at this secluded spot was beyond me, but her journalistic persistence was beginning to seem supernatural.
Wade maneuvered his kayak alongside mine. "I guess our private lesson just became a photo op," he said with a good-natured shrug. "Might as well make it worth her while."
To my surprise, I didn't feel the same irritation I'd experienced during our first encounter with Zoe. Perhaps I was getting used to Wintervale's constant surveillance, or maybe I was simply enjoying myself too much to care.
"You two are going to dominate the Splash Challenge!" Zoe called out, snapping photos in rapid succession. "My readers are placing bets on whether you'll take home the trophy!"
This was news to me. "People are betting on us?"
Wade carefully balanced himself, then reached across the small gap between our vessels. He tucked one of the daisies behind my ear, his fingers brushing my cheek. The gesture was clearly calculated for our audience, but the warmth in his eyes seemed genuine.
"For the cameras," he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
Our kayaks drifted close, bobbing gently against each other with the lake's subtle current. Despite our separate vessels, the moment felt surprisingly intimate.
"Like this?" I asked, selecting a purple lupine from my collection and stretching to place it behind his ear.
His surprised laugh was genuine and warm, the sound echoing across the water. The flower looked ridiculous against his tanned skin and masculine features, which somehow made it all the more charming.
"Absolute perfection," he declared, making no move to remove it.
"That's going on the banner for the festival website!" Zoe exclaimed, reviewing her shots with obvious delight. "Any hints about your kayak decorations for Saturday? The competition's getting fierce—Edna and Mayor Snowcroft are going with a cat-themed vessel that has to be seen to be believed."
We paddled to shore together, Wade helping me beach my kayak with considerably more grace than I'd managed to launch it.
"Our design is strictly confidential," Wade replied with mock seriousness. "Can't have our competitors stealing our creative vision."
Zoe winked conspiratorially. "My sources tell me you two were quite cozy at last night's cookout. The romantic lakeside stroll was a particularly nice touch."
I felt heat rising to my cheeks but managed to keep my expression neutral. "Just enjoying everything Wintervale has to offer," I replied smoothly, falling back on my courtroom composure.
"Any comment on the sudden surge in festival ticket sales since your relationship went public?" Zoe pressed, notepad now in hand. "The mayor's office reports a thirty percent increase."
"We're just happy to contribute to the town's success," Wade said, deftly deflecting. "Speaking of which, we should probably get back to practice if we want to make a decent showing on Saturday."
Zoe seemed to accept this dismissal with good grace.
"I'll let you get back to it. But expect to see yourselves front and center in tomorrow's update.
Wintervale's summer sweethearts take to the water!
" She sketched an imaginary headline in the air before collecting her camera bag and heading back toward the path.
As the sound of her car faded, I turned to Wade with raised eyebrows. "Summer sweethearts?"
He groaned, the tips of his ears reddening slightly. "Zoe's never met a nickname she didn't love. Last month, she was calling the mayor and Edna 'Wintervale's Silver Fox Lovebirds.'"
"At least 'sweethearts' is relatively tame," I laughed. "And apparently effective, if ticket sales are up thirty percent."
"The power of a good story," Wade agreed, his eyes lingering on the flower still tucked behind my ear. "People love to believe in summer romance."
Something in his tone made my pulse quicken, and I busied myself with collecting our paddles to hide my reaction. This was all for show—a mutually beneficial arrangement that would end in less than two weeks. I couldn't afford to forget that, no matter how natural it felt to play along.
"So," I said, changing the subject. "What's next on our fake-dating agenda?"
Wade checked his watch. "It's getting close to dinner time. The inn doesn't serve evening meals, right?"
I shook my head. "Rory mentioned a few restaurants in town, though."
"Or," he said, his tone casual but his eyes watchful, "you could come to my place. I make a decent pasta, and we could work on our kayak decorations for tomorrow."
The invitation hung between us, weighted with possibility.
The sensible answer was to decline—maintaining distance, keeping things professional.
But the memory of his fingers against my cheek as he tucked the flower behind my ear lingered, and suddenly professional distance seemed like the last thing I wanted.
"Dinner sounds nice," I heard myself say. "As long as I'm not imposing."
His smile was worth whatever boundary I'd just crossed. "Never. Let's get these kayaks unloaded at my place and then I'll show you where the magic happens."
"The magic of pasta-making?" I asked lightly.
"That too," he replied with a wink that sent a rush of heat spreading through me that had nothing to do with the sun.
***
Wade's home was exactly what I should have expected, yet it still managed to surprise me.
The modest craftsman-style house sat on a quiet, tree-lined street about ten minutes from the lake.
A wraparound porch featured a handcrafted swing and several potted plants that looked suspiciously well-tended for a bachelor's home.
Inside, the space was open and warm, with hardwood floors that gleamed in the early evening light.
But what caught my attention immediately were the custom-built furnishings throughout—a dining table of rich mahogany, bookshelves that curved perfectly into the wall's contours, a coffee table whose intricate inlay work looked like something from a high-end design magazine.