CHAPTER ONE
Ellie
I was standing waist-deep in a river, holding a fly rod I had no business owning, and praying to the ghost of my grandfather not to let me die
I squinted at the clear Montana water like it was going to whisper instructions. It didn’t. The ripples just sparkled back at me, calm and indifferent, mocking my complete lack of outdoor skills.
This trip wasn’t just about trout. I had thirty days until my birthday and two very specific goals.
Number one, catch a fish in honor of my grandfather.
Number two, punch my V-card.
That second one? Yeah, it was a long shot. But after two bottles of wine and one very blunt best friend, I’d made a promise—and booked this trip. Possibly not my finest decision, but the wine said otherwise at the time.
There was a checklist, too. He had to look like he could chop wood, brood properly, and—most importantly—know what to do with his hands.
So yeah. That was the plan for my summer vacation.
Catch a fish. Kiss a mountain man. Lose the V-card. Don’t cry about it.
“This is fine,” I muttered, adjusting my grip on the rod. My shoes were already soaked through, but it was a warm day so I didn’t mind. I knew I probably should have invested in better—waterproof—clothing, but the trip had already turned into a beautiful, budget-busting disaster.
With the fishing lessons, I knew I’d be eating bologna sandwiches in my room for the entire week. But I was here to do something for myself. Cast my line out into the big world, so to speak.
Take a chance, sweetheart.I could hear the echo of my grandfather’s voice and shivered.
“I am,” I whispered back. “Even if the water is freezing and I’ll probably end up as fish food.”
I hadn’t meant to be out here alone, but I’d gotten excited. The guide was late—probably chopping firewood or off wrestling a bear or doing whatever mountain men did at the crack of dawn. Still, I’d imagined someone rugged and hot, with a flannel shirt—despite the summer temperatures—rolled to the elbows and a broody stare that saidI’ve got emotional damage and six-pack abs.I mean, a girl could dream.
Restless and unable to get my vacation started, I’d eaten breakfast and thought,how hard could it be to cast?I’d watched YouTube videos last night so I wouldn’t be a complete dunce. Plus, I was always the one who had to untangled the Christmas lights without crying every year. Same energy, right?
Wrong. So very, very wrong.
I flicked the rod just like the video said. Graceful. Controlled. Like a dancer with a really long, flexible partner.
And promptly snagged something solid. Something behind me, not in front of me.
Something that groaned.
“Son of a—!”
My heart leapt into my throat, did a little panic dance, then settled. The rod jerked. The line pulled taut. I turned around to see a really hot guy walking toward me looking like a pissed-off god of the wilderness.
He was huge. Not just tall, but broad-shouldered, thick-armed huge. His t-shirt clung to muscles I had only seen on Instagram. A baseball cap pulled low over a face that was currently scowling at me. His hands looked like they could snap a fishing rod in half—or hold a woman up against a wall without even breaking a sweat.
Not that I was thinking about that. Obviously.
Oh. And one of my neon-pink beginner flies was stuck in his chest. Right in the muscle. “Oh my God, oh my God, I hooked a person—”
“You’ve got a hell of a cast, sweetheart.” The sarcasm was thick enough to spread on toast.
The rod jerked in my hands. I saw him wince and immediately dropped it. “I didn’t mean to, uh—I was just practicing my cast. I didn’t know anyone was back there.”
“Most people look behind them first,” he said dryly. “But points for accuracy even if I wasn’t what you meant to catch.”
Don’t be so sure about that.The thought whispered through my mind before I could stop it.
