be on a date.
This wasn’t a date, not technically. That wouldn’t happen until Greg took her to dinner tonight. She was the new asset manager of the bank, and she’d recently overseen a major transaction for him. For better or worse, Greg now owned the Inn at Willow Lake. He had paid cash for the place and Brooke had expedited the transaction so it took place in a matter of days. His ex, Sophie, would probably be the first to tell him he was crazy, which was why he hadn’t told her yet. The place had been vacated and was now closed for renovations. He’d dived in headfirst, hiring a contractor and spending his own days—and nights—hard at work on the place. The idea was to reopen as quickly as possible. Greg and his kids, Max and Daisy, had already moved to the premises and now lived in the owner’s residence at the edge of the property. The boxy Victorian house was a far cry from their first home, a luxury high-rise in Manhattan, but the three of them were adjusting well enough, all things considered.
He dug in his paddle and, at the front of the boat, Max did the same. Working as a team, they paddled in tandem and soon had the canoe gliding through the clear water. For a few blessed seconds, Greg felt connected to his son, the two of them engaged in a rare moment of cooperation. They used to live their lives according to the same rhythm, but since the divorce, they’d been out of sync.
“Holy crap, Dad,” said Max, pointing at the people in the kayak. “I think that guy’s in trouble. We should go check it out.”
“No, they’re just horsing around,” Greg said. Seconds later, the woman went overboard. A fount of water exploded around the kayak. The woman in the water was trying to hold the kayak upright while the guy flailed and shouted.
The kayak bobbed, then toppled sideways in a roll. The guy in the helmet yelled a word Greg liked to pretend Max didn’t know, then crashed into the water.
“Oh, my lord,” Brooke said, “I think that’s Shane Gilmore.”
The bank president. And, as Greg and Max paddled closer, he realized that the woman in the water was Nina Romano. Damn. What were the chances?
The dude in the crash helmet seemed to be shoving at Nina with a paddle. Maybe he knew something Greg didn’t about her.
“You guys need some help?” Greg shouted, bringing the canoe alongside the kayak. Stupid question. He extended his oar toward Nina.
She ignored it and said, “Help me hold this upright. He’s panicking.”
Great, thought Greg, his skin shrinking as he thought about the water temperature. “Hang on,” he said, then sucked in a big breath of air and dove into the lake. He emerged a few feet from the rolling kayak.
“The kayak’s taking on water,” Nina shouted. “He’s stuck and he won’t stay still.”
“Get him the hell out, then,” Greg said, going numb from the shock of the cold water.
“His spray skirt is caught on something,” she yelled.
The guy was flailing and coughing. “Can’t … swim.” His face was white, his lips a chilly blue. The crash helmet was knocked askew. His hands were locked like vise grips in the cross straps of the kayak.
“You don’t need to swim,” Greg said. “We’re going to get you to that dock over there, okay? But you have to sit still.” In his mind, he added, you pussy. A grown man who couldn’t swim, even with a flotation vest. What was up with that?
They made it to the dock quickly because it was so damn cold that Greg kicked at high speed. The dock, projecting from the grounds of the Inn at Willow Lake, had definitely seen better days. Some of the planks were warped and the nails rusted, and a fine film of algae covered the piers. A rickety ladder was attached to the side.
Shane clung to it, shivering, while Nina hoisted herself out of the water and bent over the hull of the kayak. “Hold still,” she said. “Let me figure out what you’re caught on. I think this cord—”
“Screw the cord.” With safety assured, anger took over. Shane clawed a pocket knife from his pants.
“Hey, don’t—”
Ignoring her, he sawed through the carrying cord of Nina’s kayak and clambered out onto the dock. “Thanks, Nina,” he said. “It’s been … real.”
“I’m sorry,” she said faintly. “I had no idea you didn’t know how to swim. You should have said something before we launched.”
“Nobody can swim hanging upside down underwater.”
“I know. I said I was sorry …” Nina gazed up at Greg, her eyes watering and her chin trembling. Poor thing, Greg thought. He was confused by a sudden urge to pull her into a soothing hug. He wanted to tell her the guy was being a jerk, not worth crying over. Then, seeing a tremor in her throat, he realized she wasn’t fighting tears, but holding in laughter. In the spray skirt and crash helmet, Gilmore looked like a grotesque, angry ballerina.
Don’t make eye contact, Greg cautioned himself. Too late. He and Nina looked straight at each other and immediately lost it. Between guffaws, Greg saw the bank president’s color turn a furious red.
“Happy you’re so amused,” Shane said.
Greg struggled for control. “Hey, it’s just relief, buddy,” he said. “We’re glad you’re okay.”
Nina giggled helplessly while still shivering with cold.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Gilmore muttered.
Brooke and Max arrived in the canoe. She clambered out and ran to Shane, clucking over him like a mother hen.
“You’re freezing,” she said.
“So am I,” said Greg, but she almost stepped on him as she rushed toward Shane.
Greg eyed Nina, who was hugging herself, teeth chattering. She was a small, intense-looking woman. He found her oddly attractive—oddly, because he wasn’t usually drawn to her type. Yet there was something about Nina. He’d always been intrigued by her. And now he had big news to share with her. He’d pictured a different sort of meeting about the inn, though.
“Is he the first to wear a crash helmet on a date with you or have there been others?” Greg asked.
“Very funny. And clearly, it doesn’t help.”
“Listen, I’m parked at the inn,” Brooke said to Shane. “If you want, I can give you a lift to your car.”
Shane’s lips had turned from blue to indigo. “That’d be good.”
Brooke said her goodbyes to Greg and Max. Then she turned to Nina, offering the dazzling smile that had inspired Greg to ask her out in the first place. “I’m Brooke Harlow.”
“The bank’s new asset manager,” Nina said, her eyes narrowing. “And you’ve parked your car at the inn.”
“Sure. I drove myself over.”
“Shane was just telling me about you.” Somehow, despite being soaked to the skin, Nina managed to summon a kind of icy dignity. “Nina Romano.”
“Oh,
