A strong man can handle a strong woman. A weak man will tell everyone that she has an attitude, is a troublemaker or a spoiled princess, and is downright bad news, just waiting for the opportunity to bring a man to his knees. Chelsea Friessen had grown up with the first type, and she’d dated the second.

But then, her father had ruined her by setting the bar for men ridiculously high, which was why she was in her current predicament. Where was she? At Whitefish Lake, half an hour from home, perched at the edge of a dock, her feet dangling in the glacial lake water, still cold even in August, wearing a bikini that had her looking especially hot. She held a journal and pen and was scribbling down reminders that she wasn’t an epic failure, all the while doing her best to ignore Boone Hudson—blond, tall, totally fucking ripped, and the source of all her misery.

She should have known. What good could ever come of dating someone named Boone? He spent more time in front of a mirror than a woman ever could.

“You can’t sit there all day, you know,” said Paige Jenkins-Morris, Chelsea’s best friend since middle school, whose mother had insisted on the importance of a hyphenated last name. Paige was roughly a size twelve, stuffed in a yellow and pink bikini, and she didn’t give a crap how she looked to anyone. Her jet-black hair was tied into a stubby ponytail, and she was wearing thick sunglasses and had, until seconds ago, appeared to be sleeping.

Paige lifted her head and pulled down the shades, her dark eyes packing a punch as she stared at Chelsea with a gaze that told her to stop giving a fuck what everyone thought. “And while you’re at it, put down that journal and pen. You look ridiculous. You’re supposed to be sunning yourself and having fun, remember? Grab that other air mattress and get on down here instead of sitting up there, burying your head in that journal, writing God knows what, and ruining my day off.”