Chapter 7
Piper
Ice fishing, I discover, is less "peaceful meditation with nature" and more "sitting on a frozen lake in minus fifteen while questioning every life choice that led me here."
At least the purple parka Ryder recommended is doing its job. Minus forty rating suddenly doesn't seem like overkill when you're planted on a bucket atop frozen water.
"You're doing great!" Patrice calls from her spot twenty feet away, where she's bundled in what appears to be an entire REI catalog. Even out here on a frozen lake, she somehow makes new motherhood look effortless. "Most newbies give up after ten minutes."
"I've been here eight minutes," I mutter, adjusting my position on the overturned bucket that's apparently considered seating. "Don't get your hopes up."
Tessa laughs from her spot between us, dark hair escaping from under her beanie as she checks her line. "The key is lowering your expectations. We're not actually here to catch fish."
"We're not?"
"God, no." Patrice waves a mittened hand dismissively.
"We're here because it's Sunday, the men are watching game tape at the rink, and Dotty suggested we 'take you ice fishing' which is small-town code for 'let's gossip somewhere our husbands can't hear us.
Brooklyn and Grayson are both with Joanne for the afternoon. " Patrice adjusts her mittens.
"She moved up from Florida after Grayson was born and now she's basically running a one-woman daycare. My mother lives for it," Tessa says. "Two grandbabies to spoil — one biological, one honorary. She keeps saying Ashwood Falls is the best decision she ever made."
I peer down the hole I drilled—well, that Tessa drilled while I held the auger awkwardly and tried not to look useless. Dark water ripples below, and I'm suddenly very aware that I'm sitting on top of a frozen lake. "Is this safe?"
"The ice is two feet thick," Tessa assures me. "You're more likely to die of boredom than drowning."
"Comforting."
"So." Patrice leans forward with the gleam of someone settling in for quality intel. "Want to tell us why you've been rage-posting aesthetic photos of snow for two days straight?"
I stare down at my fishing hole with sudden intense focus. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sweetie." Tessa's expression is pure sisterly concern mixed with amusement. "You posted seventeen photos of trees yesterday. Just trees. With captions like 'finding peace in solitude' and 'nature never disappoints unlike SOME PEOPLE.'"
"The trees were very photogenic."
"The last one was just a blurry branch," Patrice points out. "With the caption 'still has more depth than certain hockey players.'"
My face heats despite the cold. "Okay, so maybe I'm working through some things."
"Does it have anything to do with Ryder Lockwood and his spectacularly terrible fake dating pitch?" Tessa asks, because apparently everyone in this town knows everything before it even happens.
"How did you—"
"Gage told me. Who heard it from Chief Walsh. Who was literally standing there when it happened." She adjusts her line, casual as anything. "Also, you're not subtle. You practically sprinted out of Northbound with that purple parka."
"Which looks amazing on you, by the way," Patrice adds. "Very 'I don't need a man, I have functional outerwear.'"
I groan, flopping back against my bucket with less grace than intended.
"He tried to turn whatever's happening between us into a business arrangement.
Like I'm some kind of marketing opportunity.
Do you know how many people have treated me like that?
Like I'm just a follower count and engagement rates? "
"That sucks," Tessa says simply. "Ryder's usually smarter than that."
"His agent put the idea in his head," I admit, pulling my knees up. "He texted me after. Said he pitched it wrong, but like... the fact that he pitched it at all? That he thought of me that way?"
Patrice and Tessa exchange one of those looks that only married people understand.
"Can I tell you something?" Patrice shifts her bucket closer.
"When I first met Trace, I was convinced he was just helping me because he felt obligated.
Like, 'oh great, the pregnant lady needs rescuing, better be noble about it.
' Took me way too long to realize he was actually falling for me, and I was too busy protecting myself to notice. "
"I'm not protecting myself—"
"You posted seventeen tree photos in one day," Tessa interrupts gently. "That's either protecting yourself or a cry for help. Maybe both."
"I just don't want to be someone's strategy," I say quietly. "I want to be someone's choice."
"Then tell him that." Patrice's line jerks, but she ignores it. "Not through passive-aggressive captions about branches. Actually tell him."
"He said he needs four games to focus. I'm trying to respect that."
"Respecting boundaries is great," Tessa agrees. "Posting cryptic content about trees is just confusing."
My phone buzzes. A text from Jax with a photo attached.
Jax: Your boyfriend is back. Thought you should know.
The photo shows Morris standing in my driveway, his massive head tilted as he inspects my rental car's remaining mirror with what can only be described as predatory interest.
"Oh, come on!" I'm on my feet before I remember I'm on ice, nearly toppling before Patrice grabs my jacket.
"What's wrong?"
"Morris is back. And he's eyeing my last mirror like it's an all-you-can-eat buffet." I'm already gathering my stuff—the bucket, the auger I definitely can't carry alone, my dignity. "I have to go. The rental company already sent me two strongly worded emails about the first mirror."
"I'll drive you back," Tessa says, already packing up her gear. "We rode together anyway."
"You sure?"
"Please. This gives me an excuse to leave before I actually have to catch something and figure out what to do with it."
By the time Tessa drops me off at the cabin, Morris has graduated from lurking to actively investigating.
I wave goodbye to her as she pulls away—she kept my ice fishing gear in her trunk to return later—and turn to face my nemesis with nothing but a broom I grabbed from the porch.
He's standing in my driveway, and I'm wielding said broom like a sword while reconsidering my definition of "handling things. "
"We've been through this," I tell him, making what I hope are assertive sweeping motions. "This is MY car. Those are MY mirrors. You have an entire forest full of things to eat."
Morris regards me with the expression of someone deeply unimpressed by my boundary-setting techniques.
"I'm serious, Morris the Menace. Back up. Shoo. Go find some nice bark to munch on."
He takes a step closer.
"Don't you dare—"
"Need help?"
I spin around so fast I nearly brain myself with the broom. Ryder's standing at the property line, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, expression carefully neutral except for the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that might be amusement.
"I've got it under control," I say, turning back to Morris who's now casually licking my side mirror. "See? Totally managed."
"Mm-hmm." Ryder doesn't move closer. "That's why you're threatening a moose with cleaning supplies."
"It's called assertive negotiation."
"It's called a good way to get trampled."
Morris chooses that moment to start nibbling the mirror's edge, and I make a sound that's half growl, half whine. "That's it. This is war."
I toss the broom aside and scoop up a handful of snow, pack it into a ball, and throw it at Morris.
It sails wide by at least three feet. Athletics is not my thing, apparently.
Morris doesn't even blink.
"Okay, new plan." I make another snowball, this one slightly more aerodynamic. "I'm going to annoy him into leaving."
"By pelting him with snow?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
"Yeah. Wait until he gets bored and leaves on his own. Which is what he'll do."
"That's not what you did last time." I throw another snowball. This one actually hits Morris's flank. He turns his massive head to look at me with such profound disappointment I almost apologize to him.
Then he snorts, turns, and ambles toward the woods with the dignity of someone who's made his point.
"Ha! See?" I pump my fist in victory. "Assertive negotiation wins again."
"You got lucky," Ryder says, but he's smiling now. An actual smile that does dangerous things to my resolve to stay mad at him.
"I prefer to think of it as strategic wildlife management." I dust snow off my mittens. "Thanks for the backup. Even though I didn't need it."
"Obviously." He's still standing at the property line like there's an invisible fence. "Listen, about the other day—"
"You said four games." I keep my voice light, casual. "I'm giving you four games. Focus on hockey. Prove you're NHL material. I'll be here taking aesthetically pleasing photos of trees."
His eyebrow lifts. "Trees?"
"They're very photogenic. And they don't pitch mutually beneficial arrangements."
"Piper—"
A snowball hits him square in the chest.
I don't know who's more surprised—me for throwing it, or him for getting hit. My hand is still in throwing position, my mouth hanging open in shock at my own audacity.
"Did you just—" he starts.
"That was an accident."
"You looked me in the eye while throwing it."
"Muscle memory?" I'm already backing up because his expression has shifted to something playful and dangerous. "From the Morris negotiation. My arm was still in snowball mode."
He bends down, scoops up snow, and starts packing.
"Ryder. Don't you dare. You're supposed to be focusing on hockey—"
The snowball hits my shoulder with perfect accuracy.
"Oh, it's ON." I'm already making ammunition, days of pent-up frustration finding a perfect outlet. "You do realize I have rage to work through, right? Days of it."
"Bring it." He's grinning now, actually grinning, and it transforms his whole face into something younger and lighter.