“Yep, that’s me. Now for the fun part of the evening. Ever been to Lake Wedowee?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, hold on tight. I’ll have us there before you know it.”

“I believe you, Rick. Don’t you ever get a ticket? Cops can get speeding tickets, right?”

He laughed and floored the accelerator. “No, I don’t, and yes, they can.” I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was skydiving, bungee jumping or on Six Flags’ fastest roller coaster. Those were less nerve-wracking than his driving.

Rick steered into the marina’s gravel parking lot carefully—mustn’t get dust on the BMW—and parked far from the array of pickup trucks and boat trailers. He opened my door and asked, “You have your extra clothes?”

“Yes, but why do I . . .?”

“Just bring them. Trust me.” He extended his hand and pulled me out, dragging my purse and shopping bag along. “You do trust me, don’t you?” He leaned over and kissed my forehead, then tilted my face up to his. The late-day sun glowed around his head like a halo. I resisted the urge to tell him.

We walked hand in hand to a dock with several boats tied up. Rick waved his hand at a sleek, bronze-y metallic speedboat with ‘Catch Me, Copper’ emblazoned in white on its stern.

“Seriously?”

“Well, it’s copper colored, and I drive it fast, and I am...”

“A cop. I get it, Rick O’Shea. Nice boat.”

He helped me clamber aboard. “You’re probably going to get a bit wet. I’ll store your extra clothes under here.” He shoved my bag and purse under the dashboard and cranked up what sounded like a jet engine. “Hold on,” he said.

Like I hadn’t figured that part out. Rick untied the ropes and threw them on the dock. We exited the marina slowly, so I stopped white-knuckling the seat. That was a mistake. My head was snapped back as soon as he hit open water, and I found myself laughing and screaming ‘faster!’ as the boat shot across the lake. I didn’t even mind the spray ruining my carefully arranged hair. This was pure joy.

We arrived at a dock in front of an a-frame house on stilts, surrounded by pine forest. A huge black Labrador Retriever sat wagging its tail on the dock. Rick threw the bow rope to the dog, obviously trained to assist with boat parking.

“Hey, Darby,” he yelled. “Thanks.” The dog pulled mightily on the rope, digging in her paws and backing up until we were in position. She sat and thumped her tail on the dock, looking like she was grinning in triumph with the rope between her teeth.

“Is that your dog?” I asked.