by Aven Ellis
“I can’t wait to try it again,” I say.
I spy Cade’s other pole lying on the ground and pick it up while he works. I can’t resist wanting to try casting on my own, so I follow his steps. First, I hold the release button. Then, I carefully flick the pole back. Next, I swing it forward while releasing the button.
But instead of the pole coming forward and the line casting out, it sticks. I instinctively flick the pole again.
“Dammit!” Cade yells, breaking the calm. “Son of a bitch!”
I whirl around and see my fishing line attached to Cade’s leg.
The metal hook is through his knee.
“Oh, my God!” I drop the pole and rush toward him. Nausea runs through me as I see the metal hook attached to his kneecap, in one side and out the other.
I freeze. There’s a hook through his knee! I put a fishhook in Cade! It’s so gross. I’m going to be sick. I can’t look at, I can’t, I can’t, I’m going to throw up—
“Josephine, it’s okay,” Cade says calmly. “I can get it out. Go to the tackle box and get the pliers so we can cut the line. Can you do that?”
I’m dizzy.
Everything is spinning.
Cade’s lips are moving, but I don’t hear anything.
My vision is fading.
And I think I’m about to pass out.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I blink, confused as I find Cade leaning over me with a worried expression on his face. I see the sky and clouds and what? Am I on the ground?
“Thank God,” Cade says, gently stroking my hair with his hand. “You scared the shit out of me, Josephine!”
“Wh-what happened?” I ask. I’m so confused as to why I’m looking at the sky. I feel weak, as if all the energy has been sucked right out of me.
“You passed out,” Cade explains. “I caught you before you hit the deck.”
“Oh, God,” I say, mortified beyond belief.
“How do you feel?”
I close my eyes and decide not to answer with “embarrassed.”
“Weak.”
“You need to lay here and rest. Don’t move. Don’t even try to sit up, okay?”
I nod because getting up seems impossible at the moment.
Then I remember what we were doing before I felt sick.
Cade.
Fishhook.
In his knee.
“Did you get the hook out?” I blurt out, concerned.
“What? No,” Cade replies, shaking his head.
“Cade, get it out!” I cry, growing upset. “Your knee, I hurt you. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, sorry!”
“Hey, hey, hey, I’m fine,” he says firmly. “I’m more worried about you.”
“Please go get the hook out. Please. Now. I can’t stand it.”
“Close your eyes. I don’t want you to see me in case it makes you sick again.”
I shut my eyes and focus on breathing the crisp autumn air. I hear Cade get up, noises like he’s rifling through his fishing box, then the back door open and close.
As I lay in silence, I realize what a freaking mess I’ve made of our date, and I feel sick to my stomach all over again.
I lodged a fishhook through his knee. What if he’s hurt? What if he can’t play hockey in camp next week? Panic grips me. Oh, no, no, I pray that’s not the case.
Then, if that weren’t enough, I passed out in front of him. I’ve never passed out in my life! So instead of getting the hook out of his knee, he’s had to catch me, with a fishing pole attached to his leg, and bring me back to consciousness.
And we’ve been outdoors for oh, all of about ten minutes?
I fight back tears. Being outdoors is important to Cade. It’s part of his soul, and I’m a miserable failure at anything involving nature.
No wonder he wants to go slowly. Cade can get out of this now and find a girl who won’t destroy his career with a fishing pole, who already knows how to hike, and who won’t pass out during a date.
I know his ex, Cassidy, loved nature. Their social media footprint still exists, and when I Googled him I saw pictures of them hiking, going out on lakes, kayaking. In other words, a glamorous, adventurous couple.
Cade has gone from a beautiful blond who knew how to zip line to a baker who is lying on the deck of his friend’s house because she freaked out over seeing a hook embedded in his knee.
I hear the door open and close again, and I open my eyes as Cade walks toward me. I try to sit up, but get woozy, and he lunges forward to help me lie back down.
“No, don’t get up,” he instructs. “All I want you to do is lie here.”
“How is your knee? Do you need to go to a hospital?” I ask urgently. I glance over at it, and see it’s wrapped in white gauze and oh, I’m about to cry.
Cade furrows his brow. “What? Why?”
“Will you be able to skate at camp next week?” I ask, my voice growing thick.
“Hey, hey, there’s no need to get upset,” Cade says, stroking my hair gently. “It’s superficial. I’m fine, absolutely fine.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“No, I promise I’m good. I wouldn’t lie to you, remember?”
Cade shifts so he’s behind me and gently lifts up my head and rests it in his lap. I gaze up at him, and he’s staring down at me with the sweetest expression on his face.
“Okay,” I sniffle. Then I clear my throat. “I’m sorry I ruined our day.”
“You didn’t ruin our day. What are you talking about?”
“Cade. Please. I’m a disaster outside. You just experienced it firsthand!”
“You are not,” he says, bending down and brushing his lips against my forehead.
Relief runs through me. Okay. This isn’t going to send him running.
At least not today.
And if I’m taking a page out of Skye’s playbook, that’s all I can grab onto right now.
“I’m kind of flattered, actually,” Cade says, interrupting my thoughts.
“What?”
“That you are trying to hook me so early in the dating game,” he teases, his eyes shining mischievously at me.
Oh, I adore him.
“Stop,” I say, trying to repress a smile.
“You want to reel me in. Trying to get me hook, line, and sinker.”
That does it. I burst out laughing, and Cade joins me.
“There,” Cade says, smiling down at me and brushing his fingertips affectionately against my cheek. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
“This doesn’t bother you?” I ask bravely. “That I suck at outdoorsy stuff?”
“Does it bother you that I don’t know how to cook a freaking Pot Noodle?”
“Nope.”
“Same.”
I reach my hand up and stroke the facial hair on his face.
“Maybe I should just sit on the deck and watch you fish,” I say.
Because a repeat performance of what just happened is the last thing I can deal with.
“Why don’t you continue to lie here, and in about a half-hour, if you are up for it, we’ll do it again. And I’ll make sure there is a lure on your hook before you pick up the pole.”
“Okay. But stand far away from me so there’s no chance I can hurt you.”
“I don’t think you would hurt me, Josephine.”
My breath catches in my throat. Cade is staring down seriously at me, and I know he’s not talking about fishing.
“Besides,” Cade says, lowering his hands to my hip bones and running his fingertips sexily across them, “I’ll need to put you in the proper position, remember?”
My pulse burns white hot as his hands skim back and forth across my hips.
“Yes,” I say, desire filling me.
And as he bends over and presses his full lips to mine for a slow, sensual upside down kiss, I realize the great outdoors with Cade is the only place I want to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY
My opinion of the great o
utdoors has vastly changed today.
I love it.
Or, rather, I love sharing it with Cade.
Warmth radiates through me while I get ready to make pasta dough with Cade for dinner tonight.
While I’m still mortified about the fishhook and fainting episode, the rest of the date turned out to be incredibly romantic. Cade stayed with me on the deck until I could sit up, kissing me, stroking my hair, and comforting me until my energy returned.
Then we gave fishing another shot, with Cade guiding me the whole time. His hands on my hips, shifting me into position and adjusting my form. His voice in my ear. He was so excited when I started casting on my own, and I was ecstatic when I got a bite on my line. With Cade’s help, I reeled in my first fish—a trout! Of course, we had to take pictures of me holding it before I released it back into Max’s pond.
I understand the enjoyment Cade finds in fishing. It’s quiet and peaceful. While Cade might not have found his version of FDR’s Springwood yet, he can renew himself by spending time outdoors until he does.
Now it’s my turn to share something of myself with Cade: my passion for making fresh pasta.
I smile as I ready the ingredients. After returning from Boulder, we went our separate ways to prepare for tonight. First, I indulged in a hot bubble bath. Afterward, I put on my Yves Saint Laurent Black Opium moisturizer and perfume, making sure I sprayed the tops of my shoulders as Cade loves that spot on me.
I slipped into a pair of white skinny jeans and another off-the-shoulder blouse, this time a nude-colored one that looks beautiful against my olive skin. I wound my hair up into a loose chignon at the nape of my neck, and I put in my white pearl Kendra Scott earrings as my accessory. I finished by applying my standard makeup: a touch of mascara, some eyeliner, and my signature rosy-pink lipstick. Now I’m ready for the second half of our date.
I place the board I use for making dough on the countertop and feel the butterflies dance excitedly in my stomach as I anticipate the evening. Sierra is spending the night downstairs with Jude, so we have the place to ourselves.
Buzz!
I reach for my phone and see it’s Cade.
On my way up. Can’t wait to see you.
My heart soars as I read his words. He’s just as eager to continue this date as I am. As if the hours we spent alone together today weren’t nearly enough.
Within minutes there’s a knock at the door. I eagerly open it and let Cade in.
My pulse quickens the second I see him. Gone are the casual flannel shirt and shorts that he had on earlier. Cade’s now dressed in a long-sleeved, pale blue dress shirt, one that is opened sexily a few buttons at the neck to reveal his skin, with dark jeans and black dress shoes.
He’s gorgeous.
Cade’s jade eyes grow intense as they move over me, skimming down my off-the-shoulder blouse to my waist, and his jade eyes grow intense by the time they meet mine.
“You look gorgeous tonight,” he says as he slides his hands up to my face.
He kisses me slowly, lingering, his tongue teasing me a bit before he stops.
I gaze up at him, at the beautiful soul who is capturing my heart, and frame his handsome face in my hands.
“And you look very handsome,” I say, caressing his skin and feeling his stubble underneath my fingertips.
I give him a quick kiss on the lips, and we move into the apartment. I shut the door, and after I do, Cade winds his muscular arms around my waist and draws me closer so I’m snuggled up against his massive chest.
I can’t get over how right this feels, how familiar, how amazingly perfect I fit in Cade’s arms.
Like this is the place where I’m meant to be.
“Handsome enough to learn your pasta recipe?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts. Then he drops a sweet kiss on the top of my head.
I smile as the wonderfully crisp fabric of his dress shirt presses against my cheek.
“Oh, you’re more than handsome enough to learn my recipe, if that were my criteria, but it’s not,” I declare.
Cade steps back from me, his eyes flickering with amusement.
“So why are you sharing your pasta recipe with me then?”
“Someone needs to teach you how to cook a dinner that doesn’t risk a microwave being blown up. But you must be brave. Not only are you going to learn to make dough, but you will have to boil water. On the stove.”
Cade rubs his hand over his face. “Shit. Things just got real in here.”
I can’t help it. I crack up, and he does, too.
“Oh, it’s so real. I take my dough very seriously. It’s my art. We should get started, because it has to rest for an hour before we can run it through the pasta roller.”
“Do I get to run the roller?”
“Prove yourself with the dough first, and I’ll think about it,” I tease.
“You sound like Coach Kelly,” Cade says, referring to the head coach of the Denver Mountain Lions.
“Yes, I’m your pasta coach,” I quip.
I take his hand in mine and lead him to the kitchen.
“Hey, where’s your apron?” Cade asks as he heads over to the sink.
I grin. “I don’t wear aprons on date night,” I say.
“Ah, I see,” Cade says, turning on the water.
While he washes his hands, I pour us two glasses of chardonnay.
“White wine?” Cade asks, eying the bottle.
I nod. “Yes. I pair the wine with the sauce, and this one goes perfectly with Raviolo al’ uovo,” I explain. “The ravioli is filled with fresh ricotta cheese, but tucked in between the sheets of pasta is a golden egg yolk, placed right on top of the ricotta. You simmer the pasta for a few minutes, then transfer it to the pan with the sauce, which tonight will be sage brown butter. The ravioli is heated in the sauce and then served. When you cut it, if it’s prepared right, the egg yolk will flow from the center, creating a sauce of liquid gold on the plate. Nothing is sexier than a taste of the delicious pasta, that creaminess of the ricotta with that rich brown butter. Every bite is pure decadence."
I stop speaking and realize Cade is staring at me.
“You’re incredibly sexy when you talk about food,” he says slowly.
“Food can be very sexy,” I manage to say as heat fills me. “It’s texture. Color. Taste. Aroma. Eating should be a sensory experience. Something to be savored. Enjoyed.”
“I see,” Cade says, his eyes flickering.
Oh, God.
Neither one of us is thinking about food right now.
I turn to my pasta board, and Cade moves next to me, his powerful arm brushing against mine as we stand in the galley kitchen. The chemistry between us is so intense I can barely focus.
“Okay, the first thing we’re going to do is measure the flour on the board,” I say, putting flour in my measuring cup. “We want to create a large well in the center for the eggs.”
I dump the flour on the surface and move it around with my fingertips to create a well, fully aware of Cade’s body leaning into mine as I work.
“I want you to crack the eggs into the center of the well,” I say to Cade. “Crack all those that I have in that bowl there,” I say, inclining my head toward it.
“Okay,” he says, reaching for an egg.
Cade cracks it against the side of the bowl, and then dumps it in the center, repeating the process with the remaining eggs. I add olive oil and water, and a pinch of truffle salt for extra depth of flavor.
“Now we’re ready to incorporate the ingredients, but we don’t want to break the well,” I say, picking up a fork and beginning to move the flour carefully into the center. “Otherwise you’ll have eggs running across the board.”
“Here,” I say, handing Cade the fork. “You try.”
Cade takes the fork and stares at it as if he’s afraid to use it.
“It’s flour and eggs. It won’t hurt you,” I tease.
“Right.”
I can’t help but smile. He�
�s as out of place here as I was this morning at the pond.
He takes the fork but gets too ambitious and cracks the well, sending egg running.
“Dammit,” he cries, dropping the fork. “It’s oozing out!”
I move my hand and catch the egg mixture, pressing it back into the center and reforming the flour.
“Cooking is messy and imperfect,” I say easily, wiping my hands on a towel. “Which is what I love about it.”
“I didn’t ruin it?” Cade asks.
“No, not at all,” I say, smiling.
I take the fork and begin to work it together.
“Now we can knead it,” I declare. “I love this part. You are bringing all these elements together and making them into something beautiful, something that provides you endless creative opportunities when finished. Give me your hands.”
“What?” Cade asks, confused.
“Give me your hands,” I repeat.
He extends his hands, and I put them over the dough, pressing my hands over his.
“You have to put your weight into it,” I say, moving his hands in the motion of kneading. “We’re going to use your palms and fold and knead. We want to stretch the dough.”
I show him what to do. His hands are so big and strong that touching them is completely undoing me.
This experience is sexy. Intimate. Unlike anything I’ve ever done before.
“Does this feel right, Josephine?” Cade asks.
I glance up at him. He’s no longer kneading but staring at me with nothing but heat burning in his eyes.
He’s not talking about pasta dough.
“When it’s done, it’s smooth,” I manage to say. “It feels like velvet underneath your fingers. That’s when it feels right.”
“Like this does?” Cade asks.
I have never felt sexual tension like this in my life.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Like this.”
Suddenly his mouth is on mine, hot, seeking, completely desperate for me. His hands are moving everywhere, and I rake my fingers through his hair, not caring that flour and dough are getting all over the place. He rolls me back against the counter, kissing me desperately, his tongue taking me with urgency.
In one swift move, he lifts me up to the countertop, sending dough and flour crashing as the board slips and falls to the floor. Flour and dough splatter us, but we don’t stop. I wrap my legs around his waist while his hands undo my hair. His scorching kisses continue to burn my lips.
