I rushed forward to help, because that seemed like the decent thing to do when you’d just harpooned a stranger. But rushing through knee-deep water on slippery river rocks was apparently not my forte. I slipped and went down in a spectacular splash that would’ve won awards for most graceless water entry.
Cold river water surged around me, soaking me from chest to toe as I flopped like a stunned trout. The shock of it knocked the breath from my lungs.
The man didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk. Just stood there like being assaulted by idiots was part of his morning routine.
He reached up and removed the hook and I couldn’t help but notice… well, everything about him. But especially the way he moved with the easy confidence of someone who actually belonged out here.
I felt like a fish out of water. No pun needed. It was just accurate.
After he removed the hook, he moved into the water. It seemed to curl around his legs like it was happy to see him. He offered me one calloused hand, and I took it, letting him haul me to my feet as if I weighed nothing. Which was a bold-faced lie because I was definitely in mythick thighs save livesera and had been stress eating pizza for the better part of six months.
“You okay?” he asked gruffly.
“Define okay.”
His eyes did a quick sweep down my body, and I followed his gaze. My soaked white knit top had gone completely see-through, clinging to my very pink sports bra and, well, everything else that made me female. I might as well have been standing there in cellophane.
“Fuck,” he muttered, making me blush. He peeled off his t-shirt without another word and handed it to me. I about swallowed my tongue. With all that tanned skin and sleek muscles on full display I became wet for an entirely different reason than my unexpected dip in the river. I stood there like an idiot holding his shirt to my chest.
Our eyes met and locked.
“I, uh.” What exactly was I supposed to be doing?
A slight breeze rolled across the river and goosebumps rose on my arms. Right. Change my wet shirt.
He didn’t say a word, just turned around and crossed his arms across that magnificent chest like it was no big deal that a woman—a stranger—was stripping behind him.
I quickly took off my shirt and hesitated over my bra. It was soaking wet too. Clingy. Cold. I took it off, wrung it out the best I could and put it back on. I yanked his t-shirt over my head. It smelled wonderful and it made my brain go a little fuzzy.
Any other woman would’ve been using this moment to their advantage—flirting, smiling, maybe inviting him to turn around early. But me? I just stood there like a half-drowned squirrel, wondering what the hell I was doing.
I tried to wrangle my inner Bold Ellie to the surface. The one who’d booked this trip with a specific purpose. The one who wanted to feel something more than safe.
But she wasn’t ready yet. I gave a deep sigh, wondering if she ever would be.
This was not the sexy wilderness moment I’d imagined. No sultry glances. No smolder. Just wet socks, clingy fabric, and the overwhelming urge to ask him if he liked girls who tripped over rocks and trauma-babbled.
“Thanks. Um. I didn’t bring a towel. Or dignity, apparently.” I straightened the hem over my thighs. “Okay, all done.”
He turned around slowly and I tried very hard not to stare at his chest and failed immediately. “You’re bleeding,” I blurted, pointing at his shoulder where a thin line of red was slowly making its way down his nipple.
He shrugged like getting stabbed with lures by incompetent tourists was just another fun day at the office. “Just a scratch.”
“I hooked you like a trout. It’s not a scratch—it’s a stabbing. I stabbed you.” I gestured helplessly. “Should I call 911? Is that even a thing here? Do you have mountain EMTs on ATVs?”
“It’s a barbless hook,” he said, completely unfazed. “You’d need skills to actually injure someone.”
Wow. Okay. Rude, but fair.
I crossed my arms, feeling ridiculous and shivery and more than a little mortified. Water was still dripping from my hair,and I was pretty sure I looked like a drowned rat. A horrible thought occurred to me. “Are you with the guide service?”
He gave me a long, deadpan look that somehow managed to convey both resignation and mild amusement. “Yep.”
“Of course you are,” I whispered.
He exhaled hard through his nose. “I’m Nate. Nate Colson. And, since you’ve already tried to kill me, we might as well get started.”
“Started?”
