“Rule number one, huh?”
“Well, technically rule number one is don’t let anyone see you cry over romantic comedies, but the dead relative thing is definitely in the top five.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “Ready to try again?”
“Ready to not stab anyone today.” I took the rod he offered me, noting how our fingers brushed in the exchange. Little fireworks shot straight up my arm. Apparently, sexual tension was waterproof. “That’s my only goal. Set the bar low, exceed expectations.”
This time, I didn’t immediately tangle the line or trip over my own feet. Progress. We spent the first hour working on my casting form, and I had to admit, having Nate’s hands guiding mine was becoming my favorite part of fishing. He stood behind me, his chest warm against my back, his voice low and patient in my ear.
“Better,” he said as my line landed in something approaching the right direction. “You’re getting the feel for it.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re stubborn enough to figure it out eventually.”
I twisted around to look at him. “Was that almost a compliment? Should I start a tally?”
“Don’t let it go to your head, city girl.”
Too late. My inner city girl was already cartwheeling.
But he was definitely almost smiling now, and something warm uncurled in my chest. This version of Nate—the one who teased instead of glowered—was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with fishing and everything to do with the way my pulse kicked up whenever he was close.
“Okay,” he said, stepping back. “Let’s see you try reading the water.”
“Reading the water?”
“Looking for signs of where fish might be hiding.” He pointed to a spot where the current created a small eddy behind a boulder. “See how the water moves differently there? That’s where a trout would sit and wait for food to come to them.”
I squinted at the water, trying to see what he saw. “It just looks like... water to me.”
“It takes practice. Try casting toward that spot.”
I took a breath, focused on everything he’d taught me, and cast. The line arced out in a decent approximation of what it was supposed to do, the fly landing with a soft plop near the boulder.
And then something hit it.
Hard.
“Oh my God!” I shrieked as the rod bent nearly in half. “There’s something on there! There’s actually something on there!”
The line started peeling off the reel with a high-pitched whine, and I had absolutely no idea what to do. Panic set in immediately.
“Nate! Help! It’s going to break the rod! Or escape! Or drag me into the river!”
He was behind me in an instant, his arms coming around mine, his hands covering mine on the rod and slowly stopping the reel from spinning. “Easy,” he said, his voice calm and steady in my ear. “You’ve got this. Just let him run for a second.”
“Let him run? But he’s getting away!”
“He’ll tire himself out. Feel that?” His hands guided mine, teaching me to feel the fish’s movements through the line. “He’s fighting, but he’s not going anywhere.”
I could feel it—the pull and surge of something alive on the other end of the line. It was terrifying and exhilarating and completely unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
“Now bring him in,” Nate said. “Slow and steady.”
I was supposed to be concentrating on the fish, but my attention veered off the moment at hand every time he moved or spoke or breathed.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep the pressure on. Don’t let him slack.”
