Hooked on Love (Cotton Creek Romance)

by Jennie Marts

  “Open it,” he sputtered, gesturing to her body. “To cover yourself.”

  “I’m not opening an umbrella inside. It’s bad luck.” She tossed it to the floor.

  He couldn’t believe it. The woman who just had a snake fall in her pants was now worried about her luck.

  Madge grabbed a raincoat from a nearby rack and passed it to the woman, who offered her a grateful glance then covered herself with the jacket. “There was a snake. It came out of those boxes in the ceiling and fell on me. It hit my chest then fell down inside my pants.”

  The clerk gazed skeptically at the snake that Sully still held between his fingers. “That little thing’s what’s causing all this fuss?”

  He shrugged. “I can imagine it would be a bit more upsetting if it were trapped inside your pants.”

  “Hmph.” Madge seemed unimpressed.

  “I’ll just put him outside.” He headed to the front of the store and opened the door, then dropped the snake into one of the large flower pots on the sidewalk.

  Pausing to take a breath of air, he debated if he should even go back in the store.

  The door opened behind him, and he turned to see Madge holding a bag out to him.

  “Here’s your batteries. I found a pack of D-cells and added in the package of lightbulbs you’d set on the counter,” she said, saving him from his own indecision. “I just charged them to your account.”

  “Thanks.” He grabbed the bag, thankful he wouldn’t have to go back in and face that woman again. Just thinking about the sight of her in lacy underwear made his palms sweat and his beard itch. “I’ll leave you to it, then, to handle…you know.”

  Madge grimaced. “She’ll be fine. She’s getting dressed, and I told her I’d give her a discount due to the whole snake falling on her incident.” She shook her head. “These people from the city. I told her next time she didn’t need to take her clothes off to try on a pair of fishing waders.”

  …

  Two hours later, Avery pulled up in front of Reed’s Run, the fly-fishing shop of the man who was going to teach her how to fish and hopefully help her with her article.

  The shop was only a few minutes’ drive out of town, but she felt like she’d driven into the mountains to get here, the sides of the rock cliffs rising up next to her and the tall pine trees on either side of the road.

  Climbing out of her car, she studied the shop. It looked like a small log cabin set against the backdrop of a forest of evergreens. It was neat, with a couple of steps leading up to a wide front porch and a doormat that claimed Anglers Welcome.

  She stepped inside and marveled at the array of stock. One full wall was covered with small colorful packets of what she could only assume were the flies, or whatever it was you used to catch the fish, and the other wall was lined with fishing rods. In the middle of the store were display racks with more fishing supplies than she even knew existed.

  The store seemed to be empty. Rows of T-shirts with funny fishing sayings lined the wall above the vacant sales counter. She grinned at the one that read: “Even Jesus had a fish story.”

  She tended to trust her gut on a lot of things, and as much as she’d wanted to hate it, she had to admit she kind of liked the store. It had a good vibe to it—from the soft bluegrass music that played through the overhead to the folksy log cabin décor. It even smelled nice, like a mixture of cedar and pine.

  What did she expect, for it to smell like a fish market? Maybe this story wouldn’t be so bad. The owner might not be a smelly old guy. He could be a kindly, elderly gentleman, a little like Andy Griffith—one who would offer her a bottle of pop and tell her funny fishing tales about the one that got away.

  She heard a door slam in the back, and a gorgeous golden retriever padded out of the back room and sniffed her hand.

  “Are you in charge of this place?” she asked the dog as she ruffled her neck.

  “Yeah, she acts like it most of the time. Can I help you with something?” A man had appeared in the doorway, his face covered by the stack of boxes he held in his hands. All she could see around the boxes was a scruffy head of dark hair and a set of muscled arms.

  “I’m looking for the owner.”

  He set the boxes onto the counter, fumbling with the stack, and the top box tumbled off the counter. He grabbed for it, missed, then lifted his head, and the color drained from his face. “You. What are you doing here?”

  Oh great. And here she’d thought her day couldn’t get any worse.

  “You’re the guy from the general store. The one who helped me get the snake out of my pants.”

  His cheeks went pink and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed.

  “I guess I should say thanks.” She tried a smile even though she was mortified. But seeing how embarrassed he was made it a little easier on her pride.

  “No thanks necessary.” His voice was deep and had a tone of gruffness to it. Definitely gave off an I-just-want-to-be-left-alone kind of broody vibe. “So what are you doing here? Do you have a spider in your hair?”

  She dropped her purse and grabbed her head, panic filling her. “There’s a spider in my hair? Where? Get it!”

  He held up his hands. “No, there’s not. I was just kidding. I’m sorry. I was trying to make a joke like with the snake…” His words trailed off.

  “Well, it wasn’t a very good one.” She smoothed her hair, her annoyance only tempered by the fact that the man’s face seemed to get even redder with obvious embarrassment. “I’d recommend you keep your day job, because you’re not so great with jokes.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve been told.” A brief look of sadness crossed his face, and she wondered if she’d struck a nerve. “So, why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for the owner, Sullivan Reed.”

  His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What do you want with him?”

  Geez. What was up with this guy? It wasn’t such an odd question to ask for the owner of a business. She could just be a salesperson or someone wanting to hang a sign in the window.

  What made him so wary of her? Because she looked like a tourist, like she obviously wasn’t from around here? Was the FBI after the guy or something? Maybe he was in the Witness Protection Program. Or maybe this bearded guy had murdered Sullivan Reed and taken over his business, then stuffed his body in a freezer in the back of the shop.

  Her reporter’s brain tended to imagine the worst in every scenario.

  She took a few steps closer to the counter, craning her neck to see into the back room, hoping the old guy would suddenly appear. “Maybe I want to purchase one of these guided fly-fishing trips.”

  He chuckled, the sound a deep, rumbling laugh, and his face changed. The tight set of his eyebrows loosened and his eyes brightened.

  A tiny spark of attraction lit in her belly. He was actually a pretty good-looking guy, if you liked that sort of rugged-outdoorsy-flannel type. He was tall, and his dark hair was a little too long. But his beard was trimmed, he had nice brown eyes, and his arms and chest were broad and muscled—kind of like a sexy lumberjack.

  Yeah, he was definitely cute—for a murderer.

  “You? Want to book a guided trip?”

  Okay, maybe he wasn’t so cute when he was laughing at her. “Maybe. Why not? I could be a fisherman—woman—fisherwoman—type person.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Remember, I’m the guy who pulled you out of a set of waders. And most people put waders on over their clothes, not just their underwear.” His cheeks went pink again when he said the word “underwear.”

  “So I’ve been told,” she grumbled, rolling her eyes. “I know you don’t wear them like that. I was just trying on clothes, and I grabbed them. I was trying to be efficient with my time, and I’ve got a lot on my mind. Like finding the owner of this fishing shop. So, are you going to tell me where he is or not?”

  “Are you gonna tell me what you really want with him?”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes again. “Look,
I’m not here to hurt the old guy. I’m here to meet him. I’m a reporter with The Wild Outdoors magazine. I’m doing a story on spending a week in the wild, and he’s supposed to teach me how to fish and do wild kinds of things, I guess.”

  The guy’s face went another shade of red. Maybe she hadn’t phrased things in the best way.

  His cheeks puffed out with a huff. “What? You can’t be the reporter. I thought they said they were sending a man. A guy named Oliver.”

  “That’s me. Well—I’m not a man. Obviously. But I am Oliver.” She held out her hand. “Avery Oliver. And you are?”

  He looked at her as if still trying to comprehend who she was, then let out a sigh and shook her hand. “Sullivan Reed.”

  His skin was warm and he had a firm grip. A tiny ripple of electricity darted down her back at his touch, distracting her from what he’d just said. “Wait? What? You’re Mr. Reed?”

  “Yep. But you can call me Sully.”

  Sully? His name certainly fit his sullen personality. But he was Sullivan Reed? She tried to wrap her mind around this new information and dismiss the idea that the real Sullivan Reed was not a geriatric Popsicle corpse stuffed in the back freezer. “But I thought you would be older, like…”

  “Andy Griffith?”

  She shrugged, the corner of her lip tugging up in a grin. “Yeah, I guess. I had it in my mind that you would be a wise, elderly gentleman who wore a funny hat covered with fishing flies, played checkers, and dispensed fatherly advice.”

  He chuckled again. “I had it in my mind that you would be the same thing. I guess we were both wrong. Although I do have a hat with flies stuck all over it, but I’m not really wise, and I don’t have good advice to dispense—fatherly or otherwise.”

  She held up her hand, pretending to write a note. “Should I use that in the article?”

  His lighthearted expression fell. “I’d rather you didn’t. In fact, I’d rather you not mention me at all.”

  “What? Why not? Most people are thrilled to be mentioned in a magazine. Usually they’re falling all over themselves to impress me. Or at least offering me something to drink.”

  “I’m not most people,” he mumbled, and moved from behind the counter to the small cooler of soda and bottled water. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “Sure. Water would be nice.”

  He had to step over the dog sitting next to the counter, her tongue hanging out as she watched their exchange with interest. His hand trailed down to absently scratch her head as he passed.

  Hmm. He’s not as gruff as he acts.

  “Nice dog,” she said, taking the bottle of water he offered her. He’d unscrewed the cap, and she took a long swig, the cool water feeling good on her dry throat. Why was it so dry here? She’d been here less than a day and her skin already felt like all the moisture had been sucked out of it.

  His face brightened again at the mention of his dog, and he looked down at it with an open expression of adoration. “Yeah, she’s the best. This is Sadie.”

  “Hi, Sadie.” She knelt down to rub the dog’s neck. “Aren’t you a pretty girl? What a good dog.”

  “Yeah, she’s currently the only female in my life that will put up with me.” His cheeks went pink again. “I don’t know why I just said that.”

  She liked to see him blush; it was cute—especially for such a gruff-looking guy. It was fun to see the edges of his cheeks turn pink above his beard, and she wanted to tease another blush out of him. She tilted her head, not quite batting her eyelashes, but close. “So, then there’s no Mrs. Reed.”

  Instead of a blush, his expression darkened, and his eyebrows tightened with the set of his lips. “No. Not anymore.”

  Hmm. Avery’s curious-reporter nose smelled a story there. But this guy seemed to need a little more smoothing of his edges before she attempted to coax any of the good stuff out of him.

  “So, let’s forget about the article for now, and why don’t you just tell me a little about fly-fishing? I want to know everything.”

  His eyes brightened with the subject change and the obvious relief of not having to talk about his ex. Yeah, there was definitely a story there. “How long do you have?”

  “I’m in town for the next week and a half.”

  “Well, you can’t learn everything in a week, even with the extra half. I’ve been doing this for years, and the river still teaches me new stuff every time I’m on it. And they’re always coming out with new equipment and gear.”

  “Okay. So give me the basics.” She pointed to a sign by the counter. “It says here that you offer Fly-Fishing 101 classes. How about I take one of those?”

  “I’d already scheduled some time to teach you the basics and take you down to the river tomorrow morning. When you were supposed to be here.”

  “Sorry, they had a better flight today, and I didn’t want to be late tomorrow. I pride myself on being punctual.”

  “That’s a switch,” he muttered.

  “We can keep our appointment in the morning. For nine, right? Here at the store?”

  “Yeah, that’d be good.” He checked his watch, and she had the distinct feeling she was being dismissed.

  The front door opened, and a blond-haired guy walked in and waved at Sully. “Hey, boss.”

  Sully gestured to her. “This is Avery Oliver, the reporter that I’m teaching how to fish for that magazine article.”

  The guy had knelt down to pet Sadie but then stood and outstretched his hand, a confused look on his face. “Hi, I’m Matt.”

  He was a cute guy, tall and lanky, probably in his mid to late twenties, with a light scruff of beard on his chin. He wore sneakers, baggy shorts, and a T-shirt that had a picture of a fishing fly on the front and read: “The way to a man’s heart is through his fly.” She assumed he got it from this shop.

  “Matt works here. He covers for me when I’m not around,” Sully explained.

  The man crossed behind the counter, leaned toward Sully, and said in a less than subtle whisper, “I thought you said the reporter was going to be an old guy.”

  “Yeah, my mistake. We’ve already been over that,” he mumbled.

  Matt gave him a knowing look, obviously noticing the blush in his cheeks, and a grin crossed his face as he looked from her to Sully. “Well, I can tell ya, this is a great shop. We stay busy, and we don’t even advertise. We mainly get our business from word of mouth, and everybody knows that Sully here is the master when it comes to fly-fishing. He’s a great teacher.”

  She liked this guy. Liked his open, smiling face. Liked the way he stood up for his boss, trying to put him and the shop in a good light, which was more than Sully had done for himself.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’m coming back in the morning to take his Fly-Fishing 101 class, and he said he’s going to take me out on the river tomorrow.” She tried to sound more excited about this than she was. She had no idea what “out on the river” entailed, and she couldn’t care less if she never learned to fly fish—the whole thing sounded messy and complicated to her.

  But she’d committed to doing the article, and she needed to do a good job on it if she was ever going to get out of the magazine. So she’d dive in and give it her best shot. “Should I bring anything?” she asked.

  “I’ve never seen Sully turn down a chocolate chip cookie,” Matt offered, his grin wide as he was obviously enjoying ribbing his boss.

  “No, I’ve got everything,” Sully said. “Just wear comfortable clothes. Do you have any sneakers?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m not totally unprepared. I always throw some tennis shoes in my bag, just in case I can sneak in some gym time.”

  “Well, tomorrow you’re going to be in nature’s gym, so be prepared to do some walking. Our classes are Wade and Walk, and we usually make it down to the river by early afternoon. Did you get the waders?”

  “The ones with the snake in them? Hell, no.”

  “Snake? What snake?” Matt asked.

&
nbsp; “Never mind.” A tiny smirk lifted the corner of Sully’s lip. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got some here you can use, and they’re certified snake-free.”

  “Now you tell me,” she murmured.

  “You should bring some sunscreen,” Matt added helpfully. “The Colorado sun is brutal, especially in the mountains. It’s easy to get sunburned.”

  “We’ll just start with the basics in the morning, like the equipment and how to read the water,” Sully continued. “And we’ll practice some different kinds of casting—open cast, ten and two, roll cast, probably a little chuck and duck.”

  Matt grinned. “So you should bring a helmet for that.”

  Chocolate chip cookies, comfortable clothes, tennis shoes, sunscreen, helmet. Check. Wait, helmet? Was he kidding?

  Sully gave him a look. “Ignore him.”

  Ignore which part? The helmet or the sunscreen? Should she be taking notes?

  “I thought this was fly-fishing for beginners,” she said.

  “It is,” Sully said. “It sounds more complicated than it is. Just show up. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  She nodded. “Okay. I’ll see you at nine then.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Somehow she didn’t think he really meant that.

  …

  Sully, Matt, and Sadie watched Avery walk out of the shop.

  She waved a hand, calling, “Nice to meet you, Matt,” before the door closed behind her.

  Sully leaned on the counter and let out a heavy sigh.

  “Wow,” Matt said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Now I know why you were nervous about the reporter.”

  “I wasn’t nervous, exactly. I just didn’t know what to expect. I’d only met the editor of her magazine once when I did a guided trip for him. I didn’t know what to think when he called me up and asked if he could send a reporter out to learn how to fish. I didn’t trust the guy’s motives.” He had a hard time trusting anyone these days. Ever since the person he’d trusted the most betrayed him and walked out the door. His ex-wife had screwed up his heart, his bank account, and his ability to simply believe in people.

  “I figured I’d try to clean up the shop a little, just in case it was some kind of trick. But I was hoping they’d just send out some old guy, and I could take him fishing for a day or two, shoot the breeze, show him a good time on the river, and be done with it.”