by Leigh Duncan
Whatever had upset her this time, only a fool could miss how passionately she felt about it. And he was no fool—not that she’d give him a chance to prove it.
“You make a habit of showing up where you don’t belong. First where my son and I were fishing. Now here. What are you doing behind my counter?”
“There’s no no-trespassing sign.” He pointed to the bare wall above his head.
Her frown deepened. “There isn’t?”
She swept past, stabbing one finger at a miniscule brass plate screwed into a cedar shingle.
“Huh,” he grunted. He’d been so entranced by the workmanship, he hadn’t considered the rod might be off-limits. He tried to scrutinize the inscription, but Jess brushed past him, leaving the scent of sunshine mixed with citrus in her wake. His head filling with another breath of her, he bent down to read, Sweet Baby Blue by T. Cofer.
Maybe Jess wasn’t her first name. The odds were against him, but he still had to ask, “You made this?”
“Built,” she corrected. She whipped a soft cloth from her back pocket and ran it down the navy-blue spine. “Fly fishermen build rods. And no,” she said, her voice thinning, “my husband built this one.” Her eyes riveted on the graphite, she buffed until every trace of fingerprints disappeared and made him wait while she settled the rod onto its holder. Her back was still turned to him, and he strained to hear as she murmured, “On The Fly was Tom’s pride and joy. He loved nothing more than spending time with his customers. It was their idea to hang Blue in the showroom.”
Her statement rankled him in ways he didn’t want to consider. He might not be ready for a wife and family, but once he was, they’d take top billing. He stopped short of saying as much. Jess might not be the right woman for him, but disparaging her late husband wouldn’t convince the guide to give him lessons. To do that, he needed to find her good side—if she had one—and get on it.
He choked down his pride and summoned a disarming grin.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot. Any chance for a do-over?”
He could see Jess fight it, but he suspected a softer side lay beneath all her bluster, and when one corner of her mouth quirked into a half smile, it convinced him he was right.
“Okay then,” she said. “Rewind, and take two.”
He spun away, careful this time to keep his hands at his sides until he heard Jess say, “I was told you wanted to see me, Dan?”
“Hamilton,” he finished. Giving his best British spy impersonation, he rotated smoothly. “Dan Hamilton.”
The cool look he had intended to send her way faltered when a pair of full lips curved sweetly into a smile that kicked his heart rate up a notch. He nudged his focus up along with it, drinking in his first good look at a face he’d only seen when she was peeved with him. A face that should never hide behind floppy hats and sunglasses, he decided when eyes the color of a moonless night took his own captive. He met her stare until her thick lashes dropped down to dust the tops of her cheeks. Though the blink provided an opportunity to look elsewhere, he refused to wander far from smooth, sun-drenched cheeks and shoulder-length hair.
And what he saw, he liked.
She extended her hand. “Dr. Hamilton, right? It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. She paused a half beat before adding, “Again.”
He took her smaller hand in his, surprised at first by the strength of her grip, a feeling that quickly turned to amazement when warmth pulsed from her fingertips straight up his arm and into his chest.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” he said, meaning every word far more than the platitude implied.
But she must not have felt what he did, because she gave a very businesslike nod to Baby Blue—now safely ensconced in its rack—and asked, “Pretty, isn’t it?”
He relinquished his hold on her fingers. “A beauty,” he agreed. It took more effort than he thought it should to make sure they were on the same topic.
“Perfectly balanced,” she added.
She pointed toward the plaque, and another breath of spicy citrus filled the air between them.
“It’s one of Tom’s best. We opened On The Fly right after college. Our plan was for him to run the store and build custom rods for select clients.”
He noted the wistful quality of her voice and saw the fine tremble that ran along her clenched jaw.
“And your role?” he asked.
“I would take them fishing, of course,” she answered. “I studied marine life in college so it seemed like the perfect fit. Plus, I loved being out on the water instead of cooped up inside all day, while Tom lived for the next sale. But things didn’t work out the way we planned, and he died.” Her eyes overly bright, she finished with a sigh.
“That had to be tough,” he offered. “How long’s it been?”
“Five years.” She shrugged. “After Adam was born, I took over the shop until he started kindergarten. Now that he’s in school, I’m rebuilding my client list.” She stopped herself, the way his patients sometimes did when they realized they were telling him more than they’d intended. “So, what brings you here on a rainy Wednesday afternoon?”
“Nothing nefarious,” he deadpanned. The thought of spending two minutes without arguing with the beautiful guide held a certain appeal. He checked his watch. One down. One more, and maybe they’d have a chance.
He tugged his PDA from its holster and scrolled to a list he was certain she would appreciate. Since appearance was important to his new business partners, he’d chosen the best money could buy, right down to the custom-built rod he planned to order for himself. He watched Jess’s face, anticipating her approval.
Jess quashed his pride with a challenging look. “Get this off the Internet, did ya?”
“What makes you think that?” he blustered. A second look at her unimpressed expression told him he’d be better off to ’fess up and admit that, in the days since the poker party, he’d scoured the web and every fly fishing book he could lay his hands on.
Jess’s skepticism showed in the slight narrowing of her eyes. “Half this stuff is only good in the rocky creeks of North Carolina or Tennessee. The other half is just plain wrong. You don’t know much about fishing around here, do you?”
“Nope,” he admitted. There was no sense lying about it. If he convinced her to help him, she’d discover his total lack of experience anyway. He summoned up his best smile. “I was actually hoping you would teach me.” Thousands of people went fishing every day. He was certain he could master the sport in a few short lessons.
“Yeah. No,” she said, managing to raise and smash his hopes in the same breath. “There are a few things we’d need to clear up before I’d take you on as a client.”
“Such as?”
“There’s the little matter of our meeting the other day.”
“Yes, about that…” He took his time. One minute and thirty seconds had passed. What he had to say about his business at Phelps Cove wouldn’t get them past the two-minute mark.
Before he answered, Jess’s glance drifted past a display of fly-tying materials to a customer who had edged close enough to listen in on their conversation. “I think we’d better take this out of earshot,” she stage-whispered. “Let’s go to my office.”
When Jess headed toward the back of the store without so much as a glance in his direction, Dan shook his head in near disbelief at the guide’s prickly nature. At the hospital, staff jumped to carry out his orders. In his office, everyone from the nurses to the janitor respected his wishes and his space. Bantering with the slim blonde offered a rare challenge, one he enjoyed almost more than he was willing to admit, but staying on her good side wouldn’t be easy. Especially, if she refused to budge on the issue of Phelps Cove.
Not that he had any doubt he could change her mind.
Once she learned how he intended to use his profits from The Aegean, a single mom like Jess was bound to give her support. He followed her swaying hips into an office where fishing vests in plastic
bags spilled from boxes piled on the lone guest chair. While Jess brushed aside papers and ledgers so she could perch on one corner of an old oak desk, he gave up on the idea of clearing his own place to sit. He was eager to put the land business behind them so they could move on to more pressing matters—schedules and prices for her guide service.
“If you’re a doctor like Sam says you are, what were you doing on the Phelps property this weekend?” she asked.
He was on the verge of explaining when his gaze stalled on a large poster that seemed out of place in the sea of fishing paraphernalia. Against a forest background, a black bear rose on its hind legs, one paw beckoning.
Only You Can Protect Our Environment, the caption said. Join POE Today. Save the World for Tomorrow.
Hundreds of photos peppered the walls. Some were so old they’d faded, their edges curled. Boxes of supplies filled every nook, and paperwork spilled off every conceivable surface. From the look of things, the busy woman hadn’t cleared the office since her husband’s death. He told himself the poster on the wall was probably another leftover.
Nevertheless, he felt as if he was venturing onto treacherous ground when he asked, “Your husband was active in the environmental movement?”
Jess studied the shopping list on his PDA while she answered. “No, that baby’s all mine. Why?”
Dan took a quick step away from the bookcase. If Bryce or Jack so much as suspected him of involvement with the antidevelopment activists, they’d boot him out of The Aegean group before the next poker party.
He gave Jess a rueful glance. As much as he’d enjoy having the beautiful fly fisher for a teacher, her involvement with POE put her off-limits. It was time to cut his losses.
“My friends and I plan to develop the property. It’s perfect for what we have in mind.”
And here she’d thought the doctor might be a decent guy. Jess splayed her fingers over her clenched stomach and figured the odds of that weren’t good.
“That’s impossible,” she argued. She’d worked too hard for too long to let anyone turn the pristine wilderness into a glorified parking lot. “Phelps Cove will be a protected habitat before summer.”
“According to your sources.” Her would-be client added a dismissive shrug. “Mine tell me differently.”
“What sources?” She let her eyes narrow into a look that produced immediate results whenever she focused it on Adam. “I thought you were a doctor.”
“I am,” he nodded. “My specialty is thoracic surgery.”
One of those. Not only full of himself, but so rich he probably grew up thinking the U.S. Mint existed to put silver on his table. His profession put him in league with men like the ones Tom had taken fishing on the day he died.
She gave him a long, careful appraisal, noting the fair complexion of a man who spent most of his time indoors. She’d swallow a hand-tied minnow if he made a practice of tramping through the woods. His list was clearly meant to impress, but she’d steer him away from custom-mades with their higher price tags. Her actions might cost On The Fly a few bucks, or even send Dan to a competitor, but it’d be worth every penny if it made the dangerously handsome doctor walk out her door and never return.
“All right, Dr. Hamilton.” She rose from her desk with a determined professionalism. “Let’s see what we can do to get you set up for fly fishing. You have wading boots on your list and we have some nice ones on sa—”
“I saw what I wanted on the display by the door,” Dan interrupted.
“We have some nice ones on sale this week,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. The finely tooled leather boots were exactly what she did not want to sell him. “You need a pair made of durable rubber. No matter how you treat them, they’ll last a lifetime.”
Dan’s frown was enough to let her know she was on the right track.
“I did my research. I chose the best brands, the best styles,” he objected.
“And you did a great job,” she said with the tiniest dollop of sarcasm. “But the way we take care of our equipment is a huge part of the fly fishing culture. If I sell you something that won’t hold up under the heat, humidity and corrosive salt we have in Florida, it reflects badly on me. I can’t afford to have you walking around in broken-down boots and telling people you bought them at On The Fly.” She thrust her hands onto her hips. “Unless my reputation doesn’t matter to you?”
She could see she’d struck home by the way Dan’s eyes fell to his Sketchers. Tasting victory, she pushed harder. “How much fishing have you done?”
“None,” he answered. “I haven’t had the inclination until recently.” Arms crossed, he leaned one shoulder against the wall.
Though his gaze rose to meet hers, she had him on the defensive. With just one more shove, two at the most, he would walk away….
“Not even as a kid?” she challenged. “Every kid goes fishing.” It was as much a part of growing up as baseball, hot dogs and apple pie.
“Not me,” he answered without blinking. “None of my foster parents had money for stuff like that.”
His foster parents?
So much for her theory that a coddled and sheltered childhood had led Dan straight into one of the country’s most lucrative professions. She wanted to ask how he’d done it, how he’d managed, not only to survive, but to excel. But he had steered the conversation into waters that gave her the single-mom shivers, and her head filled with the sort of “What if?” questions that were hard to banish. It was time to quit giving the man a hard time and move on.
“Okay, you win,” she said as fast as she could get the words out of her mouth. “Let’s go get those boots.”
He scuffed a shoe against one of the floor planks.
“No, you’re right,” he said. “We’ll do it your way.”
On The Fly’s wealthy patrons did not compromise, especially once she’d given in to their demands. Dan Hamilton was full of surprises, and Jess locked her jaw so her mouth wouldn’t drop open. As eager as she was to rid the shop of his disturbing presence, she conceded that she might’ve been a little hasty in lumping her newest customer in with her most pretentious clientele. With the chip on her shoulder on a crash diet, they spent the next hour in a pleasant give-and-take, settling on rubber boots to protect his feet from stingrays and a broad-brimmed hat to keep the sun off his neck.
Their cease-fire ended at a rack of expensive rods.
“I can’t sell you those,” she said when he stopped to eye a rod that would pay Adam’s tuition in a fancy private school for a month.
“Look, Jess. I’ve taken most of your suggestions, but I want this.” Dan reached for an eight-weight done in forest green.
She studied his selection. Its perfect balance would make the graphite feel as light as a feather in his hand. It was exactly the right choice for trout fishing along the Indian River. At a shade under two grand, the rod was also too expensive for a beginner who would probably snap it in half on his first outing.
“That’s not the right one for you,” she insisted.
Intending to draw his hand away from the rack, she reached out. The instant her fingers touched his skin, her body responded, sending a bolt of heat up her arm. She yanked her hand back and sucked in a breath, struggling to find the rest of her argument.
“If it’s the money you’re worried about, don’t.” He flipped over a small white tag on the grip, barely glancing at the price. “It’s within my budget.”
Of course, it was. He was a surgeon, after all.
“Let me lend you a rod for now. Once you’ve mastered it, you can come back and spend a small fortune.”
“A practice rod?” Dan seemed to mull over the idea, his fingers trailing from his choice as he turned to face her. His voice dropped. “Does it come with lessons?”
Other men had given her that same look and she hadn’t even felt a spark, but Dan’s searching gaze seared her to the core. She couldn’t afford to get burned.
“Sorry. I’m a guide. I do
n’t teach.”
When his warm and inviting eyes grew frosty, Jess was surprised how much she hated seeing that spark ice over. She took a mental step back to evaluate.
Of course she was attracted to him—what girl in her right mind wouldn’t be? With looks like his, he could charm a fish out of the water without a rod or a reel. She took a speculative peek at his narrow hips and impossibly long legs. If Dan ever changed his stance on Phelps Cove, she might even reconsider Sam’s advice on dating.
So, how had he ended up on the wrong side of such an important issue?
As impossible as it seemed, the man said he’d never gone fishing. He’d never experienced the pleasures of being on the water. He’d never felt the thrill of setting a hook or making the perfect cast. Maybe all he needed was to see how much fun it could be and he’d change his mind about ruining the best fishing grounds in the area.
And who better to teach him than herself?
“I give an orientation for new fly fishers on the second Saturday of the month,” she suggested as casually as her racing heart would allow. “If you’re interested, you should come.”
The invitation brought the light back to Dan’s eyes. “Maybe,” he allowed, smiling. “Maybe I will.”
Jess made sure to keep her distance during the rest of his shopping foray, and soon she was ringing up his not-insignificant purchases, handing him a well-used rod, and guiding him to the door. She lingered at the glass, mesmerized by the view until Dan reached his car.
“He seems like a nice enough guy.”
“Sam!” The manager’s sudden presence at her elbow made her jump. “You startled me.” She aimed her chin toward the parking lot. “Yeah, he’s okay.”
“Did I hear right? He wanted to buy that Sage.” Sam hooked a thumb over one shoulder to the rack of expensive rods. “And you talked him out of it?”
Dan’s car pulled onto the main road.
“He’ll be back.” She turned away from the door and faced her manager. “For one thing, he signed up for the next orientation class.”
The way Sam’s sparse eyebrows rose, she could tell he found that hard to believe.
