by Jennie Marts
“You still planning to show her a good time down on the river?”
“What? No. Hell, no.”
Matt laughed and nudged him in the ribs. “You’re too easy. So, what are you going to do?”
“Hell if I know. I guess I’ll still take her fishing and hope that she finds it so dull and boring that she’ll call it good after one day and go back to wherever she came from.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t look like she’s the type to want to get her hands dirty.”
Sully thought about her well-manicured nails, her neatly pressed clothes, and her high heels. It would take about twenty minutes in his world to destroy all of those things.
If a little garter snake had upset her that much, she wouldn’t last long in the mud and the gook and the freezing water of the river. Not to mention if she actually caught a fish.
Chapter Three
The next morning, Sully got to the shop early and had all of the supplies set up for the usual class. Except this wasn’t the usual class. And today he had only one pupil.
He stood in the small grassy area behind the shop, the perfect space to practice casting. Against the backdrop of tall pine trees, with the mountains and the river running behind him, it was a great setting to start his classes. He could let his students get in some practice without the complications of the water before they hiked down to the river to try out their new skills.
He loved this place—loved it with his heart and soul. He’d grown up in Cotton Creek, was a third generation native.
His phone vibrated, and he groaned as he recognized the number. The caller was someone who did not love this place. And did not love him—not anymore. And he didn’t need this right now. “Hello,” he said, his tone even and flat. He’d pay for it later if he didn’t answer.
“Hello, Sullivan.”
The sound of his ex-wife’s voice grated on his nerves. An instant headache formed in the spot centered between his eyebrows. Which was easier to handle than the heartache she’d caused him in the past. “What do you want, Sheila?”
“Who says I want anything?” she whined, her standard tone of voice.
She always wanted something. “Look, I’m busy. I’ve got an important customer coming in.”
“Oh yeah, I heard all about your important customer—a fancy reporter from Chicago. I heard she’s been sashaying herself all over Cotton Creek.”
For someplace that she couldn’t wait to get out of, Sheila seemed to still have a handle on the small town’s gossip.
“Avery doesn’t strike me as much of a sashayer.”
“Avery? That’s her name? How pretentious.”
What’d you say, Kettle? I mean Black?
“What’s she want with a guy like you anyway?”
And there it was. The root of all of their problems.
After they were married, he’d brought Sheila back to his hometown, thinking they’d build the same simple kind of life his parents and his grandparents had. She’d thought living in a small mountain town in Colorado sounded wild and romantic. But after a few short years, she saw it as boring, dull, and too cold. Which was how she also came to see him.
The last months of their marriage, he’d escaped to the store as often as he could, spending long hours there and on the river, just to escape the constant nagging and the feeling that he somehow wasn’t enough—interesting enough, happy enough, rich enough.
“She doesn’t want anything with me,” he told her. “I’m just teaching her how to fish. It’s the guided trip and the shop she’s interested in.”
“The shop? Why would anyone care about that old place? That and that old cabin of yours are disgusting. I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on holding on to them. We should have sold them.”
Sold them so that she would have gotten more money out of him. The shop and the cabin were the only things he’d held on to after the divorce. And the only things he’d cared about keeping.
The store had originally been an old bait and tackle shop that his grandfather had run. She’d had no interest in spending time there or at the little fishing cabin in the woods his grandparents had left him, and she’d thought any money he put into either of them was a waste.
It wasn’t until after she’d left that he made the store into what he’d always wanted and began to really turn a profit. Which he downplayed and kept to himself if he ever had to talk to her.
If she knew that he or the shop had been doing well at all, she’d find a way to come after that, too.
He sighed. “What do you want, Sheila?” he repeated.
“I told you, I don’t want anything. I was just calling to see how you were doing.”
Right. He didn’t believe that. She always had a hidden agenda when she called.
“You haven’t even asked how I’m doing,” she continued. “Which, by the way, is not great at all. My car broke down, and the mechanic is gouging me with an insane amount to fix it. And I’m going on a new job interview this week—”
Wait for it. Almost there…
“—but I don’t have a thing to wear. Between that and the mechanic bill, I don’t even have enough money to pay my rent this month. So, I’m sitting here, broke, my credit cards are all maxed out, and then I hear you’ve got some big reporter coming to town to do a story on you, and I figured they must be paying something to do it.”
And there it was.
He already paid her alimony. But it was somehow never enough. Just like he hadn’t been.
“No one is paying me anything. The story isn’t even about me.”
“Well, then they’re taking advantage of you. That sounds just like you—letting people walk all over you and not asking for what’s coming to you.”
He wished, not for the first time, that she’d get what was coming to her.
And it wouldn’t be any more of his money. Not if he could help it anyway. Although he hadn’t been able to help it so far. She seemed to get more out of him every time she called.
“Listen, I’d like to help you, but I’m tapped out this month. The cabin needed a new hot water heater.” After they’d sold their house, he’d bought a small cabin on the river on the edge of town.
Between the classes, the guided tours he ran, and the sales in the shop, he made enough during the busy tourist season to hold him over during the slower sales months in the winter. He didn’t need much, enough to buy food and gas and keep the lights on. His life was simple, consisting of time spent with his nose in a good book or his feet in a cold river.
Sadie was all the company he needed. That’s how he liked it. That’s how he wanted to keep it. He just wanted this woman out of his life. For good.
“I’m sure you’ve got a little to spare. I only need a few hundred dollars.”
This time. And the next time. And the time after that. It was always just a few hundred dollars, but the request was always followed up with a threat of some kind. A threat to hurt his business or badmouth him to other people in town.
She was a wild card, a loose cannon, and he couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t do something to hurt or betray him. Again.
The sound of a car pulling up in front of the shop drew his attention. “I gotta go. I’m at work, and I have a customer.”
“Fine. But think about what I said. I’ll call you later.”
He hung up then pressed a hand to his forehead in an effort to still the throbbing in his temples. Why did he let her get to him?
Hearing a car door slam, he tried to shake it off—to forget about his ex and the way she made him feel like he was crap on a stick.
He needed to focus on the task at hand, on taking care of business, on teaching this reporter how to fish.
The reporter—Avery Oliver. His pulse suddenly quickened at the thought of seeing her again.
What the hell is that all about?
Hadn’t he already stuck her in the completely-out-of-his-league compartment? And he didn’t have the time or the inclination to get involved
with a high maintenance city girl who would be leaving in a week anyway.
So why couldn’t he get her out of his mind? And why had he lain awake last night, thinking about the way she laughed and the sight of her sprawled out on the floor of the general store in her underwear.
And why was his heart pounding so damn hard against his chest as he watched the side of the building, waiting for her to appear?
He’d left a sign on the front door directing any customers to come to the back of the shop to find him. Matt should be showing up any time now to run the store for the day.
Sadie lifted her head from where she lay in a spot in the shade, then got up and ran for the corner of the building to greet Avery.
Anticipation built in his chest, but he almost choked on his gum when he saw her round the corner. She was wearing snug black yoga pants, the neon pink sport T-shirt he saw in her pile of clothes the day before at the store, and expensive white running shoes.
But the part that had him choking back his laughter was the wide smile on her face and the bright blue bicycle helmet perched on her head.
She held out a plate covered in plastic wrap as she approached him. “I brought chocolate chip cookies. Homemade.”
“You made cookies,” he gasped, holding in his laughter as he was still not quite able to get over the helmet.
“Well, no. I didn’t say they were made at my home. But the cute little old lady at the bed and breakfast where I’m staying made some last night. And when I told her where I was headed, she insisted that I bring some along this morning, and to tell you hello.”
He took the plate from her, then snuck a cookie out from under the plastic wrap and shoved it in his mouth. The aroma of vanilla and chocolate chips warred with the flowery scent of her perfume and the smell of her shampoo, and he wished she weren’t standing so close.
“I do love Miss Abigail’s cooking,” he said around a mouthful of cookie.
“Oh my gosh, yes. That woman can cook. I’m gonna put on ten pounds while I’m here.”
Her comment prompted him to gaze down at her curvy figure, and he almost choked on the remaining cookie. Geez, he was going to need the Heimlich maneuver before long, with all the choking and gagging he was doing.
“Plus, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to butter up my teacher,” she continued. “Especially after the awkward way we first met yesterday. I’m hoping we can put that behind us and start over.”
Yeah, because it was so much less awkward that she was standing in front of him with a plate of cookies and a bicycle helmet bouncing forward on her head as she spoke. Although at least today she had her clothes on. He’d take the awkwardness of a bike helmet over a lacy bra and thong any day.
Geez, what was he thinking? He’d only been a bachelor again for a few years now. And the only action he’d seen lately was during the latest episode of Game of Thrones. What was wrong with him that he was grumbling about seeing a beautiful woman in her underwear?
She was staring at him expectantly, and he realized she was waiting for his response.
“Sure, yeah. We can start over. But can you please take that bike helmet off. Matt was just kidding about that.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she reached to unhook the clasp. “Shit. I was afraid of that. I couldn’t tell, so I thought I’d rather be safe than sorry. Was he kidding about all the other stuff to?”
“What other stuff?”
“The cookies, the sunscreen, and the bug spray?”
“No, you’ll need those. And the cookies are always appreciated.” He offered her a small smile. She was trying so hard, he felt like he had to cut her at least a little break. “Ready to get started?”
“Yeah. I’m excited.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Really?”
“Um, well, I’m trying to be excited. I’m actually a little nervous.”
“There’s nothin’ to be nervous about. I mean, yeah, there’s a lot to it, when you really get into it, but it’s not that hard to get started, and it’s also pretty relaxing. The best part is you get to spend a great day on the river, and the worst that will happen is you don’t catch a fish. And a bad day of fishing is still better than your best day of working.”
She laughed, and a funny tickle swirled in his gut.
He handed her a rod that he’d strung with heavy line and that he’d fashioned a yarn “fly” on the end of. “Here’s your rod. I’ll teach you the basics here, let you practice a little, then we’ll go down to the river and you can try your hand at some actual fishing.”
“Okay,” she said, taking the rod and brandishing it like a sword. “How do I stand? Should I hold it out like this or closer to me?”
“Just relax. We’re going to start by practicing casting. You know, that’s where you throw your line out on the water to catch the fish. Have you ever gone fishing before?”
“Just once, when I was a kid. My grandpa took me and my brother. But he hooked up the worms for us, and we just sat on the banks of the pond and waited for this little red bobber thingy to go under the water. I don’t remember catching anything other than a bunch of mosquito bites.”
“Well, with fly-fishing, you don’t do a lot of sitting around. It’s all active. You’re always moving and casting. And we don’t use any live bait. It’s all flies or little intricate hooks made to look like the bugs that fish eat. And we have dry flies that sit on top of the water, and then the ones that go under the water are called wet flies. Or nymphs. So, depending on which you’re using, you’re either dry fishing or nymph fishing.”
She blinked, then her lips curved into a naughty grin. “Why Sullivan Reed, are you telling me that you spend your days fishing for nymphs?”
Warmth crept up his neck. Geez, he didn’t think he’d ever blushed as often as he had in the last two days that he’d spent with this woman. And how could she make fishing sound so dirty? “Well, it’s not like that…” he croaked.
She laughed again. “I’m just teasing you. But I’m using that in the article somehow. That’s just too good.” She held the rod in front of her. “All right, carry on, you were talking about nymphs.” She broke into giggles again.
“Let’s just focus on casting.” He ignored her laughter and held his right hand out next to him. “Now imagine that you have a big clock next to you and think about where the ten and the two fall on the clock. You want to start short and easy, just get used to the motion of the rod in your hand.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him, her lips pressed together to keep from laughing.
He ignored her and went on with his instructions. “You want to slowly let the line out, then let it fall gently into the water and present the fly to the fish. That’s the way it’s supposed to work.”
“Supposed to? How does it usually work?”
“Well, for beginners, you usually spend the majority of your time untangling your line or hooking it in the bushes or trees behind you. And a lot of times, folks are used to casting harder so their line comes flying up behind them and the fly whacks them in the back of the head.” He nodded at the bicycle helmet sitting on the ground. “Hence the need for the helmet.”
She laughed, an airy light chuckle, and the sound of it tickled the base of his spine. He liked the way she laughed at herself. He’d only known her a day and a half, but he’d already seen her do several clumsy or awkward things, and she seemed to just take them all in stride and laugh them all off.
Sheila—or the She-Devil, as he liked to refer to her—had never been like that. She hated to feel like a fool, and if she made a mistake she got angry and found a way to blame her mistake on someone else, usually him.
“You ready to give it a go?” he asked, pushing his thoughts of the She-Devil out of his mind.
She nodded, squinting into the air next to her, as if picturing the imaginary clock. Fumbling with the line, she practiced for a good five minutes but still couldn’t seem to get the rhythm of it.
He watched as she tried again and a
gain, and admired her for not giving up. The line flew wildly in all directions.
Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. Crossing to her, he threw up his hands. “Hold on. I’ll help you.”
She held the rod out to him, and he demonstrated a few times then passed it back to her. She tried again but still couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. He could see the exasperation on her face. “It looks so easy when you do it.”
“I’ve had years of practice. Want me to show you again?”
She shook her head. “It’s not working like that. I keep watching you, but I’m not getting it. I need you to actually show me.” She stepped in front of him and put her back against his chest. Grabbing his hand, she pulled it around her waist and rested it next to hers on the rod.
He swallowed, getting the idea, trying to think straight as the rounded curve of her butt nestled against his crotch. Sliding his other arm around her, he put his hands on top of hers and guided them to where she should properly hold the rod.
Avery was tall, and he had to put his head over her shoulder, his ear next to hers so he could see their hands.
She turned her head, squinting in concentration. He couldn’t concentrate on anything except the feel of her cheek where it brushed against his beard. He could smell the minty scent of her gum as her breath tickled his face.
“Okay, I can see the clock next to me, and I can picture where ten and two are,” she said, wiggling closer to him and making him suck in his breath. “But I can’t seem to get the fishing pole to do what I want.”
The use of the term “fishing pole” was enough to break him out of his stupor. He swallowed and tried to ignore the way his arm rested on her hip. “First of all, we don’t call it a fishing pole. That might have been what you used when you were on the banks of a pond with your grandpa, but this is a fly rod, not a fishing pole.”
She nodded, and wisps of her hair tickled his neck. “Okay, point taken. From here on out, I will refer to this as your rod.” She chuckled, obviously amused at her own joke. He was not amused. He was too busy trying to ignore the contact her butt made against his front every time she moved.
