Chapter Seven Maren
Maren Brooks woke up to three hundred and twelve notifications, one text from Denise, two missed calls from Paige, and a comment that said Griffin Hayes looks like he apologizes to chairs after bumping into them and I am unfortunately in love.
She stared at the ceiling of her tiny upstairs rental room above the Briar Bean and considered several possible responses to being awake.
Option one: become the kind of woman who did not check her phone before coffee.
Unrealistic.
Option two: fake her own death until Monday.
Tempting, but the room had terrible cell service for staging a convincing tragedy.
Option three: get up, put on mascara, and make Griffin Hayes survive a full day of bad ideas without admitting that the phrase He said goodnight like he meant forever had replayed in her head at least six times before she fell asleep.
Annoying.
Mostly because it had been seven.
Maren rolled onto her side, grabbed her phone, and opened the official Lake Briar account.
Mistake.
The goodnight clip had passed twenty-eight thousand views overnight.
Twenty-eight thousand.
For a local summer challenge account that usually considered a sandwich board photo successful if three moms liked it and one person asked whether the snack shack had gluten-free buns.
The comments were a disaster.
A beautiful disaster.
a responsible man saying “goodnight, Maren” has changed my standards.
Someone check on her. That smile was a medical event.
He said joy gets supervision like he was volunteering as tribute.
Maren, blink twice if you need us to vote him into more emotional growth.
I have never cared about hockey boys at a lake before but now I have plans.
Maren pressed the phone to her forehead.
“Great,” she whispered to the ceiling. “Everyone has plans.”
The problem was not the numbers.
The numbers were excellent.
The problem was that the numbers had a heartbeat.
People were not just watching the weekend. They were watching her and Griffin. They were reading pauses and turning glances into theories. They were treating the almost-kiss photo and the goodnight clip like puzzle pieces to a story Maren had not agreed to tell.
Which was ridiculous, because she had agreed to tell it.
Professionally.
Strategically.
For engagement.
Not because Griffin had looked at her under string lights like he wanted to say something more dangerous than goodnight.
Not because he had noticed her hand shaking.
Not because he had called her work excellent like it was obvious.
Not because he had said, I know the person making it, and looked at her as if he meant every single word.
Maren sat up too fast.
Her hair fell into her face.
“No,” she told the room.
The room, which contained one narrow bed, a rack of dresses, three pairs of sandals, a laundry basket she was ignoring for emotional reasons, and a vintage desk covered in camera gear, offered no resistance.
Good.
At least furniture still respected boundaries.
Her phone buzzed again.
DENISE: I need today’s plan by 7:30. Also, if Griffin quits, I want enough warning to hide the paddleboards.
Maren checked the time.
6:42.
Fantastic.
She had forty-eight minutes to design an entire day that was funny, safe, high-performing, and bold enough to justify the hype. Forty-eight minutes to prove the Bad Idea Bet was not a fluke. Forty-eight minutes to make sure nobody, including Paige, could dismiss this as her flirting for attention.
She opened her notes app.
Title: BAD IDEA MAKEOVER DAY.
She stared at the blank page.
Her brain supplied: Make Griffin wear heart sunglasses.
No.
Too easy.
Make Griffin dance.
No.
Funny, but obvious. Also, the man looked like he would treat rhythm as a tactical threat.
Make Griffin do a lake thirst-trap video.
Absolutely not.
That was not bad idea content. That was Maren personally walking into traffic.
She needed something fresher.
Something that used Griffin’s actual personality, not a cheap costume version of it.
The whole point was not to make him ridiculous.
That would be easy and mean.
The point was to make him interesting.
No, that was not right.
He already was interesting.
The point was to make everyone else see it.
Maren froze with her thumbs over the screen.
“Oh, that is terrible,” she said.
Because that thought felt generous.
Too generous.
Toward Griffin Hayes.
She threw off the blanket, crossed to the little desk, and opened her laptop instead. If she was going to have emotionally inconvenient insights, she could at least build a schedule around them.
By 7:28, she had a plan.
By 7:29, she hated it.
By 7:30, she sent it to Denise anyway.
DENISE: This is good.
Maren stared.
Good.
That was all?
Three dots appeared.
DENISE: It is also dangerously cute. I assume that is intentional.
Maren smiled despite herself.
MAREN: Strategically cute.
DENISE: Add water breaks. Griffin will pretend not to need them.
MAREN: He probably has hydration scheduled emotionally.
DENISE: I am pretending not to enjoy that.
MAREN: Growth.
DENISE: Do not tell anyone.
Maren was still laughing when her phone buzzed with Paige’s name.
Her smile died.
She should ignore it.
She absolutely should ignore it.
She opened the text.
PAIGE: Mom is worried this Lake Briar thing is getting a little too public. Are you sure this is helping you professionally? I just don’t want people thinking you’re using some hockey guy for attention.
There it was.
Concern wearing perfume.
Maren stared at the words until they blurred.
The worst part was that Paige would swear she meant well. She probably did mean well, in the specific way some people meant well when they wanted you to become smaller in a direction that made them more comfortable.
Maren typed three different responses.
Thanks for your concern.
Too polite.
I know what I’m doing.
Too defensive.
Please stop mistaking your anxiety for wisdom.
Too true.
She deleted them all.
Then she put the phone facedown, walked to the mirror, and started getting ready.
If Paige wanted to be worried, fine.
Maren had a full day to run.
And a responsible man to ruin.
Professionally.
Mostly.
By 7:58, Maren reached Lake Briar with iced coffee in one hand, camera bag over one shoulder, and a yellow linen romper that made her look cheerful enough to hide crimes.
The lake was already awake.
Morning sunlight glittered across the water.
The dock planks were damp from overnight humidity.
Staff moved coolers near the snack shack.
A few families had claimed picnic tables early.
Ridgeview banners snapped gently in the breeze.
The giant Lake Briar Cup scoreboard had been updated overnight, though Team Vibes was still visible under a bad paint cover-up.
At the end of the old rental dock, Griffin Hayes stood alone.
Of course he was early.
Of course he looked unfairly good doing it.
He wore black athletic shorts, a white Ridgeview Hockey T-shirt, and damp hair like he had either showered recently or emerged from the lake as part of a myth Maren did not have the emotional bandwidth to examine. He held two coffees.
Two.
Maren slowed.
Suspicious.
He saw her and turned.
The morning did something rude with the light, catching the side of his face, the line of his shoulders, the slight tension around his mouth like he had been preparing for impact since dawn.
Maren lifted her chin. “If one of those is for me, I am worried you are trying to create goodwill before refusing everything.”
Griffin held out the iced coffee.
“Denise said you would be here before eating.”
Maren stared at it.
Then at him.
“She told you that?”
“She said, and I quote, ‘Maren runs on caffeine, spite, and pretending breakfast is optional.’”
“Betrayal.”
“She also said if you get cranky, it means you are hungry, not that your plan is failing.”
Maren narrowed her eyes. “Denise has shared too much.”
Griffin’s mouth almost moved.
Her heart did something stupid.
Again.
She took the coffee because refusing a perfectly good iced coffee would be petty and wasteful, and Maren was only one of those before eight a.m.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You are welcome.”
There was a beat.
Quiet.
Awkward.
Not bad awkward.
Worse.
Soft awkward.
The kind of awkward that arrived after a viral almost-kiss photo, a goodnight clip, and a man noticing things he had no business noticing.
Maren took a sip.
Hazelnut.
With oat milk.
Her favorite.
She lowered the cup slowly. “Denise told you my coffee order?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask?”
His eyes held hers.
“Yes.”
Oh.
Well.
That was unnecessary.
Very unnecessary.
Maren looked toward the lake. “You preparing to bribe me, Hayes?”
“No.”
“Because it is working.”
“I am preparing to survive.”
“Smart.”
“And to clarify terms.”
“There he is.” She pointed at him with the coffee. “I was worried kindness had replaced your entire personality.”
“Kindness is not a personality replacement.”
“Correct. It is a dangerous add-on.”
He glanced at the camera bag on her shoulder. “You have the plan?”
“I do.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“You are always concerned.”
“Should I be more concerned than usual?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
His eyes closed briefly.
Maren took another sip to hide her satisfaction.
Then her phone buzzed.
A notification from the Lake Briar account.
People were already commenting on the teaser Denise had posted at seven:
BAD IDEA MAKEOVER DAY STARTS AT 8.
Maren Brooks makes the plan.
Griffin Hayes says yes.
Godspeed, Hayes.
The top comment read:
If he brings her coffee I will not survive.
Maren blinked.
Slowly.
Then looked at the coffee in her hand.
Griffin followed her gaze. “What?”
She turned the phone toward him.
He read it.
His jaw tightened.
“You should not post this.”
“Oh, Hayes.”
“No.”
“It is too perfect.”
“No.”
“Accidental foreshadowing is a gift.”
“It is not accidental if you post it after the fact.”
“That is not how content works.”
“That sounds exactly like how content works.”
She lifted her phone and framed the coffee in her hand with Griffin in the background, slightly out of focus, looking handsome and deeply unwilling.
He stepped out of frame.
She laughed.
“Griffin.”
“No.”
“It is just coffee.”