Something twisted in my gut at the thought of her with other men. Which was ridiculous. I’d known her for all of four hours, and most of that time had been spent preventing her from committing accidental homicide with fishing equipment.
“Come here,” I said, positioning myself behind her again. “We’re going to try this differently.”
She stepped back against me, and I had to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. Even through my shirt and hers, I could feel the warmth of her body. Could smell whatever floral shampoo she used. She tilted her head slightly when she leaned back—like she knew she was pressing against me. Like she wanted to see what I’d do about it.
“Put your hands here,” I said, covering her hands with mine. My voice was strained, but I couldn’t help it. “Feel the weight of it.”
She leaned back slightly, and I caught a hint of something else under the floral scent. Something warm and uniquely her that made me want to bury my face in her neck and forget every though I’d had about keeping my damn distance and my hands to myself.
“Handle it like this?” she asked, adjusting her grip. I shifted behind her, hard and growing harder, my body straining against my zipper. She was talking about the rod in her hands—but mine was taking it personally. Then she looked up at me with a smile that was way too innocent to be accidental, and I reconsidered. Maybe she knew exactly what she was doing. Little menace.
“Yeah. Just like that.” I cleared my throat. “Now, smooth motion. Don’t jerk it.”
The double entendre hung in the air between us, and I felt her tense slightly. Then she laughed—really laughed—and the sound vibrated through her body into mine.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m apparently twelve years old when it comes to fishing innuendos.”
“It’s fine.” Though it wasn’t. Nothing about this was fine. I was supposed to be teaching her to fish, not thinking about all the other things I could teach her. All the ways I could make her laugh. All the sounds she might make if I—
“Nate?”
“What?”
“You’re gripping the rod pretty tight there.”
I looked down and realized my knuckles were white where I held the rod above her hands. I forced myself to relax, to step back slightly and give us both some breathing room.
“Try it on your own now,” I said.
She cast. The line went forward this time, landing in the water with a decent splash about twenty feet out. Not perfect, but not a complete disaster either.
“Better,” I admitted.
“Really?” Her face lit up like I’d just told her she’d won the lottery. “I mean, I know it wasn’t great, but—”
“It was better,” I repeated. “Keep trying.”
We spent the next hour like that. Her casting, me trying to ignore the way she bit her lower lip when she concentrated. Her asking questions about the stream, the fish, the mountains, and me answering despite myself.
She told me about her kindergarten class—twenty-two five-year-olds who apparently thought she hung the moon. About how one kid had declared her the prettiest teacher in the whole world, and another had given her a drawing of what was either a horse or a very disturbed-looking dog.
“Teaching kindergarten must be exhausting,” I said, watching her pull in the line for another cast.
“Some days,” she admitted. “But they’re honest, you know? When a five-year-old likes you, they like you. When they don’t, they tell you your breath smells like cheese and suggest you try mouthwash.”
“Brutal.”
“Refreshing, actually.” She paused, glancing at me. “Adults are trickier. They lie more.”
Her smile faded slightly when she said it. I didn’t like the look in her eyes. It was too familiar. Too close to things I didn’t talk about either.
“People leave,” I said without meaning to.
Ellie’s casting motion stuttered. “What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Try again. You’re getting the hang of it.”
But she was looking at me now with those big, honest eyes, and I could practically see her brain working. See her filing away that little crack in my armor for later examination.
