As he approached my breath caught in my throat. It wasn’t Mr. Hawthorne. It was way worse. Ten million times worse.

  “I think it’s a mechanic,” Tess whispered.

  It definitely was a mechanic. He was wearing the green mechanic shirt from the Lake Casper Marina and had a huge grin on his face.

  Tess whispered, even though there was no way he could’ve heard us over the engine noise. “Isn’t that your little townie?”

  I didn’t have to read the name embroidered on his uniform to know that the man rescuing us was none other than Dylan Moss. The man whose baby I was hiding beneath my silk dress.

  Two

  Dylan

  The wake behind Mr. Hawthorne’s boat was small and flat as I pushed the throttle down. I loved how the guttural growl of the engine and the wind whipping in my ears made me forget, temporarily, that I was working. The only reminder was the sweat on my back underneath the heavy-duty mechanic’s shirt. I’d rolled up the sleeves as far as I could and put my Otters’ hat on backward to stop my hair from whipping me in the face as I made sure the modifications to the boat’s engine were working properly.

  A recognizable silhouette on the horizon caught my attention. Calliope, one of the most iconic Lake Casper boats was unmoving in the middle of Anchor Bay, a big and uninhabited section of the lake. I squinted my eyes behind my sunglasses and tried to see if the driver was visible. Seeing Calliope in the wild, and not in a boat show was a rare treat. The Yates had a fleet of boats and from what I’d heard Calliope sat protected in their massive boathouse for most of the summer.

  Wishing that I had a pair of binoculars in the boat, I altered course, steering into Anchor Bay and slowing as I approached. A striped blanket was draped over the windshield and there was no sign of life in the boat. It bobbed and rocked as I neared and a pretty girl that looked familiar emerged from underneath the blanket. She flailed her arms in the universal “we need help!” wave and I gave her a nod, wondering where I had seen her before.

  I pulled up alongside Calliope and tossed a couple of bumpers over the side to protect both crafts. As I tossed a buoyant line to the girl, a second appeared. One that I certainly knew. One that I had seen naked on more than one occasion.

  I took a deep breath. It was too late to turn back, so I put on a huge fake smile and pretended that I was happy to see the snobby woman who had ghosted me in the spring.

  “You ladies need a hand?”

  I caught Bronwyn’s eyes taking in my backward hat and mechanic’s uniform. She knew what I did for a living, but it was the first time she’d ever seen me in my natural habitat. My natural, greasy, blue-collar habitat. I took the hat off and pretended to bow to the two of them like a butler might in an old-timey movie. I made sure to put the hat on, brim forward, when I put it over my flat wind-whipped mop that hadn’t been cut all summer.

  “The boat won’t go.” The friend, whose name I couldn’t recall, but remembered meeting at Valerock after a few too many pilsner’s years ago said.

  I tried not to laugh and pressed my lips together at the all too familiar, very undiagnostic description of the issue. Bronwyn’s eyes met mine, the blue of her eyes was the same color as the lake behind her, and equally as cold, snuffing out the laugh. She crossed her arms and her red dress whipped in the wind around her - she looked both gorgeous and terrifying at the same time. “Smoke came out of the engine and then it stopped.” Her voice was cold, definitely not the same husky voice who had whispered for me to fuck her harder the last time I’d seen her.

  I shivered even though the breeze swirling around us was over eighty degrees. “How long ago?” It was time to get down to business. There were clearly not going to be any pleasantries.

  The women exchanged a glance and the one I didn’t know shrugged.

  “About an hour or so.”

  I tugged on the line that had landed on the passenger seat of the Calliope. “Can one of you hold onto the end of the rope?”

  Bronwyn nodded and I could feel the tension in the line as she grasped it with both hands. This connection was the only one we’d had in months and I’m not the gushy romantic type at all. Hell, Bronwyn and I had only been friends with benefits, but feeling her on the other end of the rope, felt good. I blinked hard behind my sunglasses and wondered what the hell was happening to me. She’d had her fun and obviously, it was over. I wondered if I would’ve gotten tired of showing up every time she texted, like a lovesick puppy dog. Fuck that, I wasn’t a lovesick puppy dog. It was what it was, and I was a horn dog, getting what I wanted. Not the other way around.

  “Got it?” I asked.

  Bronwyn nodded and I gently pulled the rope, inching the boats closer together. “That’s good,” I instructed as the bumpers did their job. I held onto the side of Calliope. “Permission to come aboard?”

  A smile appeared on Bronwyn’s face, and her eyes lit up, if for only a brief second.

  But her friend rolled her eyes. “Can you just get in here and fix it.” She fanned her pink chest, and I was secretly glad that the snobby bitch was going to have a gnarly sunburn. I spent most of my days working in the back of the marina and didn’t have to deal with the wealthy boat owners, and moments like this made me very glad that was the case.

  “Let me help you.” Bronwyn accompanied me to the rear of the boat and to my surprise grabbed one side of the engine compartment with her perfectly manicured nails. Together we opened it and instantly I was overwhelmed with the smell of burnt oil. I leaned into the cavernous engine hold and inspected a few of the hoses and wires. I pulled the rag out of my back pocket and checked the oil level - it was just as I thought. I wiped my hands as clean as I could with the rag. “I’m going to have to tow you to the marina.” Bronwyn nodded and buckled the clasp on the compartment.

  “Tess,” Bronwyn shouted.

  Tess. Her name had been on the tip of my tongue. It was so close to my sister’s name, Jess, I wouldn’t forget it now. She was sitting with the blanket wrapped over her shoulders. The Hawthorne’s boat was drifting down the bay behind her.

  “What?” she looked up from examining her nails.

  Bronwyn pointed to the boat. “You were supposed to hold on!”

  Tess craned her head and when she looked at us her eyes were wide, but I couldn’t tell if it was with embarrassment or fear.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I growled.

  “What?” Tess repeated. “No one told me to hold on.”

  I shook my head and tried not to swear ` and that small act took every ounce of self-restraint I had in my body. She was playing fully into the entitled rich girl stereotype.

  “Tess.” There was exasperation in Bronwyn’s voice. She shielded her eyes with her hand, and I thought that I saw a shimmer of a tear in the corner of her eye.

  I whispered “fuck” under my breath one more time and kicked off my steel-toed Blundstone's, unsnapped my mechanic’s shirt, and peeled off my sweaty white t-shirt before launching myself into Lake Casper. Years of winning the swimming regatta had paid off and my efficient front crawl had me at the helm of the boat in under a minute. I hoisted myself onto the boat, swearing as pools of water formed at my feet from my soaking wet jeans. The boss wasn’t going to be happy. I held my breath as I turned the key, exhaling with gratitude when she started with a roar. The last thing we needed was two broken-down boats in the center of the cell phone dead zone of Anchor Bay. The seat squelched as I sat on the expensive upholstery. I looked at the drifting boat with the two women and had to make a choice. Piss off my boss by ruining the seats of this boat or rescue the damsels in distress in my skivvies.

  “Fuck it.” That seemed to be my motto for the day.

  I stood and peeled the wet jeans off my body and squeezed out as much water as I could before putting the boat in gear to navigate to the broken-down boat. Even though it was hot, goosebumps spread down my arms as the wind started to blow. I looked behind me and saw dark clouds on the horizon. “Shit.”

  This underwear rescue had to happen. And fast.

  Three

  Bronwyn

  With the lines tied, Dylan towed Calliope south down the lake. The trip to the marina took twenty-five minutes but felt more like three days.

  “I think I can swim faster than this,” Tess whined as she twirled her hair.

  Dylan ignored Tess’s complaint. She had the striped blanket wrapped around her body. But unlike earlier when she was protecting herself from the sun, the weather had turned, and she was keeping herself warm. I glanced at the horizon and shivered, then focused my eyes on my grandparents’ pride and joy as she was towed along behind us. When we exited Anchor Bay and had cell reception, Dylan called the marina and barked orders for the staff to get ready for our arrival.

  “Can’t we go any faster?” Tess pouted.

  “Have you got somewhere to be?” The Dylan I thought I knew, the one that was always in a good mood was nowhere to be found. This version had been surly the entire ride.

  “Actually, I do.” Tess crossed her arm, hugging the blanket tighter around her body.

  A sudden change in the wind direction caused the skirt of my dress to billow up around me. Dylan turned in his seat, his eyes unfriendly. Like a bull. I wanted to explain why I hadn’t returned any of his calls, and why I hadn’t responded to his text messages, especially the super sweet ones. I tucked the skirt under my legs, both for warmth and to avoid flashing my La Perla underwear that was pinching into my waist. It was the first thing that had felt tight on my body as my stomach started to get a little less flat.

  My eyes met his and he saw me rubbing the goosebumps on my arms and nonchalantly nudged the throttle down. Calliope cut through the wake with ease, and he sped up a little more. I wondered if he was worried about getting caught in the storm because of us, or because of the boats.

  “Are you cold?” he shouted over the engine noise.

  I shook my head. “I’m fine,” but my lips quivered as I spoke.

  He narrowed his lips and hung his head as if he was frustrated with me. It had been a total lie, I wasn’t cold… I was freezing.

  “Here.” He unbuttoned his shirt and handed it to me.

  Tess raised her eyebrows as I slipped into the faded canvas shirt with the grease stains on the front, but I was so cold I would’ve put on a blanket from a dog kennel.

  Despite its appearance, the shirt didn’t stink. It was the opposite. I curled into a ball as I kept an eye on Calliope, tucking my knees under the fabric that smelled like Dylan’s shampoo, campfire smoke, and a little bit of oil. Exactly the way my pillows smelled after he left in the morning. I pretended like I was resting my eyes on my knees, only to tuck my face into the collar and inhale Dylan’s scent as deeply as I could. What is it about a scent that can transport you to another time and place? With my head tucked into Dylan’s shirt, I was transported to the last time I was in his arms, marveling as I dragged my fingertip along his sinewy forearm, toned from years of slapshot after slapshot. We had been comparing our embarrassing music tastes, the artists that we secretly adored but would never admit to loving. I could almost feel his chest under my cheek, laughing when I disclosed that I loved listening to early Justin Bieber. When he disclosed that he had a soft spot for Celine Dion I turned over, sure that I’d see that sly smirk on his face, the one he made when he was joking, but it wasn’t there. I’d crawled up his body. “Ooh, la, la, Dylan,” I whispered in my best French accent, honed from years of walking the runways of Paris.

  “Hellooooo, Celine,” he’d growled and tossed me onto my back.

  The static from the marina crew’s radio interrupted the scene playing in my mind.

  “Miss.” One of the teenaged boys held out his hand to help me from the boat. I untucked my knees from Dylan’s shirt, grateful for the warm hand pulling me to the dock. Another of the employees opened an umbrella just as the first drops fell heavily from the sky. “Come with me.” His voice cracked and his face flushed with embarrassment.

  “Thank you.” I hooked my hand above his elbow. He jumped at my touch and turned the same shade of red as my dress.

  He recovered and crooked his arm like a gentleman. “Right this way, Miss Yates.”

  It wasn’t until we reached the end of the dock that I realized my shoes and handbag were still tucked under Calliope’s bow. “My shoes.” I turned to see that there were at least ten employees of the marina working together to winch Calliope onto a trailer. I couldn’t help but laugh, my family’s boat was more of a celebrity than I was.

  My young gentleman made a call on his radio and as the voice on the other end confirmed that my Manolos would be delivered promptly. Tess was being escorted to the marina by another golf shirt-clad employee, but she’d been wise enough to grab her accessories when we’d abandoned ship. I had been too flustered by Dylan’s presence.

  “Eeeeee.” Tess squealed as the rain intensified, bouncing off the wooden dock as it turned into a downpour. The poor guy holding my umbrella was instantly soaked.

  “You can get underneath if you’d like.” I shifted to make room under the golf umbrella for him.

  He shook his head. “I’m fine. Your shoes should be here shortly.” Raindrops were dripping from his eyelashes.

  “Come on.” I winced as I took a step onto the sharp gravel.

  “Miss Yates,” he protested, but I had already stepped from the shelter of the umbrella, and he had to take two giant steps to catch up. The stones hurt my feet, but I wasn’t that much of a princess that I needed a young kid to stand in the pouring rain while I waited for my designer sandals, which likely would’ve been more dangerous, possibly entering ankle-breaking territory – on the gravel.

  With my dress gripped in my left hand, I focused on the ground as we made our way to the shelter of the marina. I didn’t hear the footsteps running towards us. I saw Dylan, his white T-shirt and jeans, soaking wet, with my strappy sandals looped over his thick fingers, my handbag across his chest.

  “Jesus, Sam. You’re letting her walk on this stuff?” His voice was low and angry.

  “She said—” Sam protested.

  Dylan thrust the shoes at the boy. “Here. Take her damn shoes.”

  Sam released my arm so he could grab the shoes and before I knew what had happened, Dylan Moss scooped me up in his arms, honeymoon style. I instinctively gripped onto his neck and curled tightly against him as he ran, no, sprinted, his boots crunching on the gravel beneath us while his breath rasped loudly, but efficiently by my ear.

  Nestling into his neck would’ve been easy. Inhaling the source of the smell from the collar of his shirt was within smelling distance. But I didn’t. Getting close to Dylan would be a colossal mistake, and now I had to think of someone besides myself. The last time we’d been together I’d teased him about his scraggly playoff beard, which I secretly liked. Today his sharp jawbone was clean-shaven and more chiseled than any of the models in my last runway show.

  When we reached the shelter of the marina, Dylan set me down and walked away without saying anything.

  Tess sidled up beside me. “That was kind of hot,” she whispered. “Are you sure you don’t want to ride that guy one more time?” I glanced around the room to see if anyone had heard and was mortified to see that Sam’s cheeks were so red now, they were almost purple.

  “Tess,” I hissed and elbowed her. She looked at Sam and shrugged.

  Sam handed me my shoes. “Miss…” his voice croaked.

  “Thank you, Sam.” I automatically reached for my handbag to give him a tip, but it wasn’t there. I looked past the boats into the back office and could see the leather strap slung over Dylan’s broad back.

  Sam held up his hands. He knew I was searching for tip money. “Let me know if you need anything else,” he said, then walked away at a brisk pace.

  I’m pretty sure he would’ve put the shoes on my feet for me if I’d asked. I slipped the sandals on my feet and did up the tiny buckles, noticing that I had to move to the next bigger hole in the leather strap. Great, the first sign of this pregnancy was uncomfortable lace panties, the second, sore feet. I shook my head and stood. Now I towered over every man in the garage - except the one that was wearing my purse.

  “How are we going to get home?” Tess asked. “There’s no Uber here.”

  Tess was technically a year older than me and had attended college – so she should’ve been more worldly, but she seemed like a child at times. College was still on my to-do list – after my modeling career was over.

  “I’ll call someone.” I didn’t roll my eyes, even though I wanted to. My heels clicked on the concrete as I wove between the room full of boats, my eyes trained on Dylan’s back until something shiny caught my eye. Outside the door to the office where my purse snatcher was having what looked to be a very intense discussion, stood a wooden boat, but this one had a shape as I’d never seen before. Its gunwales arched up at the bow and the stern, it was unusual and didn’t fit in with the Lake Casper boat scene.

  I dragged my finger along the wood, sanded so smooth it felt silkier than my dress, which was actual silk. The cuff of Dylan’s shirt fell over my fingertips, startling me. I had forgotten was wearing it. Even though it was providing me with warmth, I pulled at it, hearing the satisfying pop of the snaps as I ripped it off and strode into the office. “Your shirt.” I held it out in front of me. I didn’t care that I was interrupting the conversation.

  Dylan and a man with a white mustache stared at me. Mr. White Mustache took off his hat and reached out his hand. “Miss Yates, a pleasure to meet you. I’m Floyd Winkman.”

  “Nice to meet you.” His hand looked permanently stained from oil but was surprisingly soft as I shook it. “I presume you’ve met Dylan Moss.” His caterpillar-like eyebrows raised as he looked between us.