Bo loved watching her expressions shift, revealing her extreme pleasure in the simplest things. He doubted he’d ever tire of watching her face.
“I still can’t believe no one’s ever taken you fishing,” he marveled. “How could a person reach twenty-six years of age and not know how to fish?”
“Easy,” she replied. “I never knew anyone who fishes.”
“Your father?”
Heather shook her head. “Nope.”
“Well, thank God I came along.”
She slanted him a gaze, smiling a little before glancing away. “Exactly.”
HEATHER COULDN’T BELIEVE she was flirting so outrageously with Bo today. She felt that they’d crossed some line yesterday when she’d told him about her anxiety. Knowing that he understood and clearly still wanted to be with her helped her lower the steel wall she tended to raise at the first triggers of fear. There was a new freedom between them, hard to put into words. Perhaps playful, definitely flirtatious. Whatever the word, the mood was definitely reaching a new level.
Bo let her watch him cast a few times, to give her a sense of the movement. He was as fluid with his motions here as he was working with wood. As an artist, she appreciated how everything he did had a sense of elegance to it. His movements were controlled yet graceful. Her fingers itched to sketch the way his muscles tightened as he cast far out into the sea. Then his tanned forearms grew taut as he reeled the line back in. Over and over, in an intricate dance. He savored the practice, she could tell from the expression on his face. When he turned to face her again, she startled, wildly wondering if he could tell she was watching him rather than the rod and line. There was something in his smile that told her he knew.
“So what are you fishing for?”
“Whiting. Spots. Croakers. Maybe pompano. I like to use live bait for them. If I was alone and it was low tide like this, I’d go wander among the rocks and hunt for flounder.”
“You can catch flounder here?”
“Can I?” He made a mock harrumph. “Honey, they call me the Flounder Whisperer. I work bait around the rock groins moving from groin to groin with light tackle, a five-gallon bucket, a cast net, a floating bait bucket, and a small nylon tackle bag. I wear old tennis shoes, though like I said, I’ve had my share of cuts and bruises on those rocks. Along here I can slide the flounder up on the sand, no landing net needed. I caught a twenty-six-inch flounder last summer,” he added proudly.
“I have a lot to learn,” she admitted. “I don’t know one fish from another.”
“You’ll learn. Ready to try?”
“Absolutely.”
Bo stepped closer to her and set down his rod. Moving slowly, as if he were approaching a skittish animal, he stepped behind her, and his long arms slid around her to take hold of the rod.
Heather smelled his pine soap, and when his body touched hers she felt his warmth and his power. She closed her eyes a moment to still the fluttering she felt. She turned her head to look up, but couldn’t see his face. “Am I holding the rod right?”
Bo’s face lowered closer to hers as he reached out to shift her hand into the correct position, adjusting her grip slightly, his fingers pressing lightly against hers. She swallowed thickly and felt warmth in parts of her body that made her light-headed. She’d never been so physically attracted to any man before. He was saying something about a bale, but she couldn’t understand any of it for the pounding of her heart. When he stepped back, she felt a rush of cooler air and gulped, shaking away the fog in her brain. She had to pay attention.
“It’s like throwing a baseball,” he was saying, moving his arm back in a pitching motion. “You just put your finger on the line like I showed you, and then release it.” He stretched his arm far out and moved his index finger. “Got it?”
“Could you show me again where to put my finger?” she asked, feeling silly for having to ask again.
Bo moved closer, but this time he didn’t wrap his arms around her. It might’ve been better for the purpose of the lesson, though she would have preferred it if he did.
“Your index finger is what we call the trigger finger. You grab the line with it. Like that, see?”
Heather nodded, determined to get it right.
Bo moved behind her again, and she closed her eyes as another surge of sensations raced through her.
“Pull back your arm; bring it back, that’s right. Now out it goes.”
She cast the rod with a sharp push, but nothing happened.
“The line didn’t go out,” she said, disappointed.
Bo laughed and shook his head. “You have to lift your finger from the line. That’s why it’s called the trigger finger. Don’t be afraid, Heather. Let ’er rip.”
Heather licked her lips and tried again. She brought her arm back and, once she cast the rod forward, lifted her finger and saw the bait soar out over the water to land with a satisfying splash.
“I did it!” She felt triumphant.
“Yes, you did. Now reel her in,” he said encouragingly, stepping closer and showing her how to do it properly. “Do it a few times. You’ll get better with practice. And lookee there”—he pointed to the water—“there’s a nice red drum just taunting you.”
She cast again and reeled in, honing her technique. Heather wasn’t the type of person who would take things on by half measures. She was purpose-driven. She couldn’t just linger in a tub of hot water and soak; she scrubbed up and out she went. When she went to the beach, she had her sketchbook in hand. Fishing would give her another reason to go to the water, she thought, pleased at the prospect. It was a sport she could practice and improve in. Better yet, perhaps she could begin sketching fish, and who knew? If her instincts proved correct, she might submit a proposal for fish stamps as well. Heather felt the tingling sense of knowing that she always got when inspiration struck.
Bo let out a whoop. Turning, Heather saw the rod bowed sharply, and the reel’s drag began to scream. Bo spread out his legs and braced himself for the powerful run as the fish muscled toward the rocks.
“You got one!” Heather clapped her hands and laughed with a child’s awe and wonder as he reeled the fish in. He began walking down the rocks to the shoreline. She followed, watching, mouth agape as the large, glistening silvery-blue fish emerged from the water, flopping at the end of the line. Bo declared it a nice-size bluefish and bent to grab it. Heather drew near, feeling sorry for the fish yet excited that he’d caught it. Holding the fish firmly with one hand, Bo removed the hook. As he did so, a pelican flew so near Heather heard the flapping of its large wings. She watched as the big bird landed on the rocks a few feet away, adjusted its wings, then stared at them with an air of expectancy.
“Hey, look who showed up,” Bo exclaimed, looking over his shoulder at the pelican. “Right on time.”
“You know this pelican?”
“Sure. That’s Pete. Pete the pelican. That’s what I call him, anyway. He shows up whenever I catch a fish. Pelicans are opportunistic, you know. Then again, a lot of birds are. I once saw a pelican catch a fish and some gull came to sit on its head. Well, when the pelican opened its bill to drain out the water, the gull stole the fish right from under him.”
Heather laughed, delighting once again in one of Bo’s stories.
“Not that this old bird steals from me,” Bo assured her. “Petey and I, we’ve worked out a deal. I throw him a couple of fish I don’t want, and he leaves the fish I do want alone.” He turned back toward the pelican and tossed him the bluefish. “Ain’t that right, Petey?”
The pelican stretched out its wings and neck and in an impressive display caught the fish in its beak. It jauntily flipped the fish into the air and caught it again, letting it slide in headfirst.
Heather laughed.
“We’ve got to be sure to keep our hooks and line away from ol’ Pete,” Bo said with a grin.
She eyed Pete and thought how wonderful it was to see a strong, healthy pelican after the injured bird
they’d rescued.
She watched Bo as he cast again into the water. He was so at ease in the outdoors. A lowcountry man at home with the sea, sky, and land in equal measures. With every movement he exuded confidence, skilled and sure in his element. He was so different from any man she’d known before. The young men she’d dated spent their free time watching sports on television or playing video games. She’d spent a lifetime with her hand against the glass and looking out from her gilded cage. Bo had lured her outdoors as surely as he’d lured the fish with his bait. Bo could be her guide, opening up a whole new world for her.
Bo looked over and caught her staring. He smirked and put down his rod.
“Okay, break’s over,” he said, coming toward her. “Time for you to catch one.”
Chapter Fifteen
HEATHER AND BO had enjoyed the morning together, each catching several fish that Bo promised would make for good eating. Satisfied with their catch, they’d stretched out on the blanket to eat the picnic Heather had packed. Suddenly a cool gust of wind, tasting of rain, had them grabbing for their paper cups.
Dark clouds were moving in with a gusty wind, the storm seeming to approach ever closer, just as Bo had predicted. Heather saw whitecaps forming on tips of the choppy, turbulent water of Breach Inlet. Pete had already flown off, having eaten his fill, to find a safe place to weather the coming storm. “I don’t like the look of those clouds.” Bo frowned at the sky. “We’d better pack it up,” he said with a tone of regret. “When those fronts start picking up the speed, it’s a race to the ocean.” He sprang to his feet. He took one large, final bite, then set down his sandwich. Wiping his hands on his pants, he climbed up the rocks to the sandy plateau where he began collecting and packing up the fishing gear.
Heather set to work gathering the partially eaten sandwiches—lean grilled chicken with homemade pesto on rye—and the cut fruit and homemade cookies she’d prepared, sorry that their time was cut short. She’d included a bottle of white wine that was chilling nicely in the cooler, but they hadn’t opened it. Bo had informed her that alcohol wasn’t allowed on the beach. Another strong gust of wind whipped a paper napkin from her hand and sent it twirling toward the sky. She leaped after it, chasing it down the beach, finally stomping her foot on it just before it reached the water.
She lifted it high in the air to show Bo, waving it back and forth. Looking up, she felt the first raindrop splatter on her face.
“Oh-oh!” she called out. “Rain’s coming!”
The warning was too little, too late. Instantly more raindrops fell, fat and cold, that left imprints on the sand. There was no time to lose. She dashed back up to toss the remaining food into the cooler. The sprinkle was quickly turning into a steady, pattering rain.
“Hurry!” she called to Bo. She was just gathering the woolen blanket when the sky opened up—a sudden downpour of crashing, pelting drops that left her drenched in seconds, gasping from the shock of icy water. There was no point in trying to outrun it. Her clothing clung to her skin and her hair was plastered to her head. She stood, arms out, blinking in the deluge, and looked over to Bo. He was standing equally still on the plateau staring at her, an inscrutable look on his wet face. Looking down, Heather realized her soaked shirt didn’t leave much to the imagination. The outline of her breasts and nipples poked out from beneath, as though the shirt wasn’t even there. She flushed, feeling exposed. But looking back at Bo, she saw he’d already looked away and was making his way toward her in long strides, carrying the rods and bucket of fish.
“Head for the truck!” he shouted over the downpour. In one smooth swoop Bo reached down to pick up the cooler by the handle and walked off. Heather gathered the now soggy, heavy wool blanket and trotted after him. He tossed everything into the back of the truck, then reached out to take the blanket from her and threw that in as well.
“Hop in!” he called, his voice muffled by the sound of raindrops pelting the ground.
She scurried to her side and climbed into the cab, slamming the door shut behind her. The rain pounded the roof of the truck in a staccato beat, but inside they sat still, panting, in the sudden warmth. Heather felt like a drowned rat. Water dripped from her hair, down her face, to pool in her seat and on the floor of the truck. She swiped water from her face, then looked at Bo. He was doing the same thing. When they locked gazes, suddenly they both started laughing. For no reason they could articulate, the more they laughed, the funnier the situation became. They laughed till their sides ached. Heather couldn’t tell where the laughter tears stopped and the dripping rain began.
“I guess we should’ve left with Pete,” he said as they calmed down, still smiling and wiping his eyes.
“Do ya think?” she asked, using his own words as a tease.
That started another round of laughter that lasted several minutes, until finally subsiding into giggles, then hiccups, then comfortable silence once more. Heather felt like her face would split in two from how wide she was smiling; when was the last time she’d laughed like that?
“Let’s head home.” Bo fired up the engine, and soon the wipers were slapping water from the windshield. Over the ocean lightning flashed, a classic thunderbolt straight from the gods. They looked at each other once again, and the jolt of electricity when Heather’s eyes met Bo’s had nothing to do with the weather. A different storm was brewing, and Heather knew they both could feel it. Thunder rolled, closer now. Bo molded his hand over the gearshift and pushed it into first. As they pulled out of the parking lot and moved forward across the bridge, Heather looked out at the swirling, tempestuous water of Breach Inlet.
She suddenly realized with the force of a lightning bolt that here she was in a car during a storm again. Only this time, she wasn’t experiencing a panic attack. She released a small smile as she felt a sense of awe. This was a powerful sign she was learning to live with worry. And she wondered, glancing over at the man at the wheel, how much of this change was because of him.
THE BEACH HOUSE was dimly lit when Heather opened the front door. The storm still rallied and thunder rolled, showing no signs of dissipating in its fury, but the house was dry and warm. Once inside, they stood for a moment in the hall, water coursing from their hair and clothes to puddle on the floor.
“Wait here,” Heather said, and she rushed to her bathroom to grab two big bath towels. She ran back, almost slipping on the floor, to hand one to him. Their eyes were full of laughter as they both vigorously ran the towels over their bodies.
“There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall,” she told him, and clicked on the lights. “You’ll find more towels in there.” Feeling the hostess, she started toward the hall. “I’ll see if I can find you a spare robe in one of the closets.”
Bo grabbed her arm. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll look around. You take care of yourself.” He then dashed off, creating a dripping trail down the hall.
She smiled, liking his concern for her, and hurried across the living room to her bedroom, also dripping water across the floor. Closing the bedroom door behind her, she began to strip off her clothing. Soon she was naked, feeling vaguely illicit at being so while alone in the house with a man, and not entirely hating that feeling, even as it unsettled her deeply, made her blush in places she didn’t even know could do so. At twenty-six, she was still a virgin and had never been naked with a man. Her anxiety disorder had always found a way to end any relationship before it reached that point. She both treasured her virginity and was embarrassed about it. Based on everything she’d read in magazines and online, being her age and never having had sex made her an anomaly. Someone weird. Or, at the very least, she thought trying to be kinder to herself, someone afraid to date.
She went to the bathroom and hung her wet clothes on a hook to drip into the bathtub. Then she slipped into her white terry robe, tied the belt, and dried her hair with a towel, taking her time. Should she get dressed? she wondered. Or go out in her robe? What kind of signal would that send? The current between
them in the truck had been so real. The tension had grown stronger the closer they got to the beach house. And when they stepped into the house, so dark and empty, the aura of expectation was as thick as any pheromone. She still felt the tingling in her body.
She wasn’t totally naïve. She’d dated men before . . . a few, anyway. They’d kissed and more, but she’d always been able to stop when she wanted to. She was shy, yes, but in control of her reactions. But Lord help her, none of them had ever made her feel the way Bo did. She’d never fully understood the power of desire. This wasn’t a girlish infatuation, or even a twenty-six-year-old’s curiosity about sex. This was a woman’s need. Heather wanted to feel Bo’s lips on hers. His hands on her body. To see where their passion might lead them. It was both a frightening and an empowering physical reaction to the man. And her desire made her feel even more vulnerable.
Removing the towel from her hair, she stared at her reflection. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but her face had gained some color from the morning spent fishing. Faint freckles peppered her nose and upper cheeks, giving her a natural, fresh appearance. Her hair was tousled . . . sexy? Heather shook off the thought. She picked up her brush and slowly eased out the tangles as she worked through her thoughts, her feelings. When her hair was straight and smooth, she headed back out to Bo.
He was already in the living room, looking at photographs on the mantel. He was wearing a ratty old navy terry robe that was clearly a few sizes too small for him. The sleeves stopped halfway up his forearms and the hem ended well above his knees.
She put her hand to her mouth but couldn’t stop her laugh at the sight in front of her. But she had to admit that she’d never been so attracted to anyone in her life, miniature robe and all.
BO LOOKED UP when he heard a noise and turned to see Heather walking into the room wearing only a bathrobe, her hair combed away from her face and just begging his fingers to run through it. She took his breath away. He thought of her naked beneath her robe, and it made him feel suddenly nervous. He wanted her too much.
Beach House for Rent Page 19
