Today, I was trying to teach this curvy stranger how not to impale herself or anyone who happened to get too close.
It was a battle I was pretty sure I was losing. Because despite her button nose and her can-do-attitude, she was terrible. Absolutely, spectacularly terrible.
She had the enthusiasm of a golden retriever and the grace of a drunken goose. Her line tangled with almost every cast. But she didn’t quit.
She planted her feet, adjusting her grip, and asked questions with that determined little furrow between her brows. No matter how many times the fly landed in a useless splash, she just muttered something under her breath and tried again. I respected the hell out of that.
And she listened. Really listened. When I showed her how to adjust her stance, or keep her wrist steady, she tried. Even asked questions about the river, the wildlife, the gear.
No one asked me questions anymore. Not unless it was about my leg. Or the scar.
But Ellie didn’t ask about either.
I pulled a spare t-shirt from my gear bag and put it on. I couldn’t exactly do this shirtless all day without looking like some kind of backwoods stripper. I caught her glancing over, and her eyes dropped straight to my chest before she snapped them away.
That look she gave me? Like I was a snack she wanted to unwrap slowly? Yeah, it did something to me I didn’t want to name. Hadn’t had the desire to name in a very long time.
Which was fair. I’d been stealing glances too.
The hem of my shirt hung past her hip, the neckline just loose enough to show a sliver of her pink sports bra underneath. It fucking matched the lure she’d hooked me with. I shouldn’t have noticed. But I did.
Every time she shifted or stretched, the fabric pulled across her chest, making it damn near impossible to concentrate on anything except the way her nipples pressed through the damp cotton.
I was starting to think she knew exactly what she was doing. And if she didn’t—God help me, that made it worse.
The cold water around my legs was the only thing keeping my body in check.
That and the very clear rule I had about clients. No flirting. No touching. No getting involved, even if the woman in question smelled like lilacs and vanilla and looked at me like I was something out of a wild frontier romance novel.
She’d booked me for the whole damn week—five more days of this sweet, smiling torture disguised as fly fishing. I took the guide job to keep my sanity, not lose it. It was supposed to be easy. Take some tourists fishing, nod politely while they fumbled through the motions, collect my check, and retreat to my cabin like the emotionally unavailable mountain man I was trying tobe. I didn’t plan on a stubborn city girl with zero fishing skills and a smile that made me forget why I liked being alone.
I damn sure wasn’t in the market for anything real.
Not after the last time.
My ex had left less than three months after the accident. Said she loved me, but the truth was she loved the version of me before. Before the scar. Before the limp. Before I stopped smiling and started locking everything behind walls no one could climb.
Trust wasn’t something I handed out anymore. I’d learned that lesson the hard way.
“Okay, let’s try something else. Remember what I told you about the ten-and-two position.”
She nodded earnestly, gripping the rod like it might escape. “Ten and two. Like a clock. Got it.” She smiled as she said it. All sweet and serious, like she wasn’t slowly driving me insane.
She hadn’t got it. Not even close.
Her cast went sideways, the line tangling in a low-hanging branch to our left. She stood there for a moment, staring at the mess she’d created, then looked back at me with a sheepish grin.
“That’s not where I was aiming.”
“No shit.” I waded over to untangle the line, trying not to think about how her laugh had hit me square in the chest. “You’re thinking too hard. Fishing isn’t about forcing it.”
“Everything in my life requires forcing it,” she said, following me through the water. “My coffee maker, my car, my dating life. Apparently, fishing is no different.”
I glanced at her. “Your dating life requires forcing?”
Pink crept up her neck. “Let’s just say I have a talent for picking men who need a lot of... encouragement.”
The way she said it—light, almost teasing—hit harder than it should’ve. Like she wanted me to ask what kind of encouragement. Like she knew exactly the kind I was thinking about.
