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Fixing a fence. Delivering groceries. Checking on an elderly neighbor. Coaching kids.

Small things. Quiet things. Things nobody would know about unless the people he'd helped mentioned them.

And every single time someone thanked him, he deflected. Made a joke. Acted like it was nothing.

But it wasn't nothing. Not to those people. And increasingly, not to me.

I'd thought Damon Lockhart was a charming, irresponsible playboy who floated through life without taking anything seriously. I was starting to realize how wrong I'd been. Behind the easy smile and ridiculous confidence was a man with a heart the size of the Grand Canyon.

He was thoughtful. Empathetic. Emotionally intelligent. And selfless in a way I'd rarely encountered. He didn't advertise his good deeds. He didn't need credit. He just showed up. For everyone.

I wondered how much of his carefree heartbreaker persona was real. And how much was armor. Because I knew a thing or two about hiding behind a carefully constructed image.

By late afternoon, we'd completed nearly every challenge.

We'd performed a painfully off-key duet in the gazebo, slow-danced without music in the park, posed with a heart-shaped padlock, and borrowed a hideous blue scarf from a woman who insisted it was vintage.

At the waterfront, Damon held me from behind while I stretched my arms out for our Titanic photo. We found a boat named Wet Dream. I refused to comment. He laughed for a solid minute.

On the beach, he slipped a tiny shell onto my finger and officiated our thirty-second wedding ceremony.

“Do you, Mikayla, promise to tolerate my devastating good looks and superior sense of humor?”

“I'll try.”

“Good enough.”

He kissed my knuckles. My stomach flipped. For our “engagement announcement” photo, we posed beneath the setting sun.

Damon suggested the caption: She stole my heart. I'm pressing charges.

I hated how much I loved it.

We completed the honeymoon-disaster photo using a broken beach umbrella, performed the Dirty Dancing lift on the sand, and convinced a stranger to guess our meet-cute charades.

By the time we finished, my cheeks hurt from laughing. I'd lost track of how many photos we'd taken. How many times Damon had touched my hand. How many times I'd caught myself looking at him when he wasn't looking at me.

We'd just finished our final challenge when I clapped my hands.

“Okay! Let's head to the pier.” Julissa and Rob were waiting for everyone.

Damon didn't move.

I looked at him. “What?”

“We're not done.”

I blinked. “Yes we are.”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “We've only done nineteen.”

I stared. How in God's name had he kept track?

“We've done most of them,” I said breezily. “And I'm sure someone else has already won.”

His eyes twinkled. “We can't give up on the one-yard line.”

“It's a scavenger hunt, not the Super Bowl.”