Chapter Nine Maren
Maren Brooks had always believed romance required three things.
Bad timing.
Worse judgment.
And at least one person pretending they were above it.
Which was why Griffin Hayes staring at her like the words romantic emergency carry had just threatened national security felt, unfortunately, like a promising start.
“No,” Griffin said.
Tyler nodded as if taking minutes. “Initial response: negative.”
“Final response: negative.”
“Growth delayed but not denied.”
Maren looked from Tyler to Griffin to the phone in Tyler’s hand, where the public suggestion blinked up at her like a dare wearing sunscreen.
Emergency carry drill, but make it romantic.
The comment had already gained hundreds of likes.
Of course it had.
The internet was a raccoon with Wi-Fi. It saw something shiny and immediately reached into danger.
“This was not my idea,” Maren said.
Griffin’s gaze cut to hers. “You opened suggestions.”
“For a controlled engagement prompt.”
“Emergency carry drill, but make it romantic does not sound controlled.”
“It has punctuation.”
“That is not structure.”
Tyler lifted his phone. “To be fair, the people are not asking for actual romance. Just romance-adjacent safety education.”
Cooper appeared beside him with a paper cup of lemonade. “I object to every word after people.”
Beckett arrived two seconds later, carrying a towel over one shoulder like he had been summoned by emotional lighting. “I object to the lack of vision. This is cinema.”
“No,” Griffin said.
Beckett looked wounded. “You do not even know my blocking.”
“I heard enough at cinema.”
Maren pressed her lips together because laughing would not help.
Probably.
The Lake Briar morning had shifted again.
Part One of Bad Idea Makeover Day had done exactly what Maren hoped it would do.
It had taken Griffin’s invisible work and made it visible.
It had turned rope checks, water stations, life jacket straps, and sand divots into fast, funny, weirdly compelling content.
People had loved it.
More importantly, Griffin had started to.
Not loudly. Not obviously. But she had seen it in the way his shoulders loosened when the little boy spotted the empty cups. In the way he explained things without sounding annoyed. In the way he looked at her camera less like it was a threat and more like it might actually understand him.
That had been the point.
The good stuff.
The phrase still sat in Maren’s chest like a secret she had accidentally said out loud.
Now the internet wanted him to carry her.
Romantically.
For safety.
Naturally.
Maren cleared her throat. “We can adjust the prompt.”
“Yes,” Griffin said.
“Maybe make it funny instead of romantic.”
“Yes.”
“Like a dramatic rescue from mild inconvenience.”
His eyes narrowed. “Define mild inconvenience.”
“Tyler.”
“Approved.”
“Hey,” Tyler said.
“You are a severe inconvenience,” Cooper said.
Tyler brightened. “Thank you.”
Beckett shook his head. “No. The people voted for romantic emergency carry. You cannot betray the narrative.”
“There is no narrative,” Griffin said.
Maren should have ignored the quick flicker in his eyes.
She did not.
Because Griffin said things like there is no narrative with the exact amount of force a person used when the narrative was already inside the house.
“Technically,” she said, “there is a narrative.”
His head turned slowly toward her.
She lifted both hands. “Professionally speaking.”
“Professionally.”
“Yes.”
“You are using that word dangerously.”
“I use all words dangerously. It is part of my charm.”
His gaze held hers. “I know.”
Oh.
Well.
That was unnecessary.
Tyler made a faint choking sound.
Maren looked away first because her cheeks had betrayed her and she needed witnesses to stop existing.
No such luck.
They were surrounded by hockey players, lake guests, staff members, a few alumni who had wandered over during the safety segment, and at least six teenagers who were filming like documentary journalists at a national scandal.
The old rental dock stretched behind them, bright under the morning sun. The lake glittered like it had no respect for boundaries. The snack shack window was open, pouring out the smell of fries, sunscreen, and Ava’s authority. The Challenge Weekend banners snapped along the rope line.
Everything looked perfect.
Which meant something would probably go wrong.
Maren forced herself back into content mode. “Okay. Here is what we are not doing. We are not making a serious emergency skill look like a joke.”
Griffin’s expression shifted.
Approval.
Tiny, but there.
Maren pretended not to notice how much she wanted it.
“We are also not turning me into a swooning prop.”
His approval deepened.
That one she liked even more.
“And,” she continued, “we are not letting Beckett direct anything involving the phrase emotional collapse.”
Beckett lowered his hand. “I had notes.”
“No.”
He sighed. “Art dies by committee.”
“Art survives because Denise has insurance,” Cooper said.
Maren pointed at Cooper. “Exactly.”
Griffin looked at her for a long second, and the intensity in his eyes did that thing again. Like she had surprised him. Like she had become, against his better judgment, someone he trusted to understand the part of him everyone else teased.
It made her chest feel warm.
It made her want to run.
Instead, she opened her notes app.
“We make it educational,” she said. “Quick, useful, funny, but not stupid. Griffin demonstrates emergency carry safety with a teammate first.”
“Tyler,” Griffin said immediately.
Tyler lifted both hands. “I accept my role as body.”
“No,” Maren said. “Tyler will perform too much.”
“Correct,” Griffin said.
“Beckett will perform more.”
“Also correct.”
“Miles?”
Miles, who had been passing behind them with a granola bar, stopped. “Why do I feel endangered?”
“You are tall enough to be funny, but not chaotic enough to create a subplot,” Maren said.
Miles considered that. “That might be the nicest thing anyone has said about me.”
“Low bar,” Cooper said.
Miles nodded. “Still clearing it.”
Griffin looked at Maren. “Miles works.”
“Great. You demonstrate the actual carry with Miles. Then we do a fake version for the comments where I pretend to be injured by something ridiculous, like a tragic lack of lemonade.”
Ava leaned out of the snack shack window. “Leave lemonade out of this.”
Maren called back, “Respectfully, no.”
Ava pointed at her. “Careful.”
Griffin’s mouth twitched.
Maren caught it.
There.
That almost-smile was becoming addictive.
Terrible development.
She looked down at her phone to save herself. “The final clip is: Griffin teaches safe emergency carry basics, then refuses to romanticize injury, then still carries me three feet because the internet is emotionally unstable.”
“I do not remember approving the last part,” Griffin said.
“It is the compromise.”
“No.”
“You said yes to my plan.”
“I said yes to your point.”
“This is part of my point.”
“Your point involves me carrying you?”
She lifted her eyes to his.
Bad idea.
Immediate.
Because the moment she looked at him, the sentence changed shape. Not publicly. Not enough for anyone else to hear. But between them, the words became a thing with heat in it.
Me carrying you.
Maren’s pulse kicked.
Griffin’s gaze dropped for one fraction of a second to her mouth.
She saw it.
He knew she saw it.
Then his jaw tightened like he was personally offended by his own face.
Maren smiled because if she did not, she might do something reckless, like be honest.
“Only three feet,” she said.
His eyes came back to hers. “That is not the issue.”
“I know.”
She had not meant to say that.
The air snapped tight.
Tyler whispered, “I am scared to breathe.”
“Then don’t,” Cooper said.
“Rude but fair.”
Maren stepped back and turned toward the gathered crowd because audience management was easier than whatever Griffin’s eyes were doing.
“Okay, everyone,” she called. “We are adapting the public suggestion into an educational safety challenge.”
A teenager near the rope line yelled, “Boo, we wanted romance!”
Griffin looked relieved.
Maren smiled sweetly. “You will take structured emotional tension and be grateful.”
The teenager blinked.
Beckett clutched his heart. “She understands the craft.”
The crowd laughed.
Good.
Back on track.
Probably.
Maren lifted her phone and began filming. “Bad Idea Makeover Day, Part Two. The public requested an emergency carry drill, but make it romantic. Griffin Hayes has requested that everyone remember injuries are not a dating strategy.”
She swung the camera toward Griffin.
He looked into the lens.
“Correct,” he said.
Maren panned to Tyler.
Tyler gave two thumbs up. “But can mild inconvenience be a dating strategy?”
Griffin said, “No.”
Maren said, “Historically, yes.”
Griffin looked at her.
She smiled at the camera. “And that is why we have supervision.”
They set up near the sand lane by the dock, where the ground was flat and the camera angle could catch the lake in the background.
Denise appeared for exactly thirty seconds, approved the location, checked that no one was using unstable props, and disappeared again after telling Tyler he could not be the victim because he would “overcommit and frighten children.”
Tyler accepted this as praise.
Miles volunteered with the enthusiasm of a man who did not yet understand content had consequences.
Griffin explained the actual skill first.
Maren filmed him from the side as he demonstrated stance, balance, and why the person being carried needed to communicate pain and not pretend they were fine.
At that, his eyes flicked briefly toward her.
Maren pretended not to notice.
She noticed.
The camera noticed too.
His voice was steady, practical, clear. He did not make it dramatic. He did not make it about himself. He showed Miles how to shift weight without hurting his back, how to support someone’s shoulder, how to avoid yanking an injured person upright if there might be a spine or head issue.
People quieted as he talked.
Not bored.
Listening.
Maren’s chest filled with fierce satisfaction.
See?