“You know what?” I let out a small laugh. “Forget I said anything. I hope you have a nice morning.” I turn to walk away.
“There’s an extra pair of waders on a hook inside that shed.”
I turn around slowly to see him pointing to the right of the house. I try to hold back the grin I can feel spreading across my face.
“You sure?”
He just shakes his head in exasperation. “Go change. I’ll grab the waders.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice, and I practically jog back to the cabin. I frantically pull clothes out of my suitcase until I find a pair of jeans I won’t mind getting dirty, a white tank top, and a sweatshirt to go over it. I look at myself in the mirror, throw on some mascara and lip gloss, then pull my hair up into a high ponytail. I search frantically through my makeup for my waterproof mascara, hoping to slick on a coat over my regular mascara just in case, but I can’t find it.
I slip on my running shoes and I’m about to dash out the door when I think about a picnic. I grab the basket off the shelf and look inside. It even has a blanket in it. I throw in the rest of the goat cheese, some crackers, a bag of grapes I bought the other day, and some mini croissants, then head out the door.
When I walk out, Sawyer is standing by the front of the truck. He’s wearing black jeans today, and I notice how well he fills them out. Not only does he have thick, muscular thighs, but the denim is taught across his backside. Today he’s wearing a gray Henley and he has the sleeves pulled halfway up his forearms. What is it with men’s forearms? I know I’m not the only woman who can barely handle them. He looks up when he hears me approaching, and the gray of the shirt matches the blue-gray of his eyes.
“I packed a picnic.” I raise up the basket but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he follows me to the passenger side of the truck and opens the door for me. Before I hoist myself up, he takes the basket from me and places it on the seat, pushing it in so it sits in the middle. He turns back around to face me as I grab the handle on the side of the truck and go to step inside. What I didn’t expect was to feel his hands around my waist, helping me inside. It makes me dizzy, and for a moment I feel like I’m about to lose my balance. I hesitate, standing halfway inside the truck while his hands feel like they’re about to melt my jeans.
“You OK?” he asks, his breath warm against my cheek since he’s so close to me. It causes goosebumps to break out across my skin.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m good.” I practically jump inside the truck and stare straight ahead, scared to see the look on his face.
Sawyer climbs in and fires up the truck. We drive in silence for a few minutes before he glances over at me. “So, what are you working on that has you needing to go fishing?”
“Huh?” I flash him a confused look before I remember the bullshit lie I told him this morning to get him to take me along. “Ohhhh!” I say, quickly trying to cover my tracks. “Umm, it’s this freelance article for Game & Fishing magazine. They wanted a woman’s take on things.” I know it sounds like complete bullshit, because it is, and I have no idea if he believes it.
“So they hired someone who’s never gone fishing to write an article about fishing?” I can hear the skepticism in his voice and I’m pretty sure he’s on to me.
I shrug and smile.
The rest of the trip is quiet. We only drive about 20 minutes before he’s pulling off the road and onto a small dirt path that doesn’t resemble a road at all.
“Uh, are we . . . ?” I don’t finish the statement as I lean over and look out the window to make sure the truck will fit. I glance over at Sawyer, who seems completely unbothered by the fact that it feels like we’re off-roading.
“It’ll fit, don’t worry.”
“Just seems so tight.” I continue to look out the window cautiously.
“Just because it’s tight doesn’t mean it can’t fit. Trust me.”
I glance over at him to make sure I heard him correctly and see a smirk on his face as he stares straight ahead. Did he just make a sexual innuendo? I bite my bottom lip to keep from saying something right back.
The path opens to a clearing in front of the river, and he pulls his truck right up to the riverbed. He puts it in park, kills the engine, and turns to face me.
“When you write your article, don’t you dare tell anyone about my fishing spot.” I think he’s joking, but his expression is stern. I raise my hand as if I’m taking an oath.
“Scout’s honor, I won’t.” I could tell him that there is no article so he truly has nothing to worry about, but I can’t blow my cover yet. I unbuckle my seatbelt and grab the handle of the door, about to open it, when Sawyer flings his door open before turning to me.
“Just wait.”
He jumps down from the truck and walks around to my door, and I realize he’s going to help me down just like he helped me up. He opens my door and I swing my legs around. I’m about to step off when he grabs me by my waist again and pulls me down to the ground like I weigh nothing. My hands instinctively go to his biceps as he sets me down. There’s a gap between us so our fronts don’t touch. I glance up at him and he quickly steps back, breaking the connection.
He grabs the supplies from the back of the truck and we walk down to the edge of the river.
“So, what are these?” I ask, reaching for the waders.
“You wear them so you don’t get wet.” He grabs his and steps into them. That’s when I notice there are boots on the bottom of the rubber pants.
“Do the fish splash that much?” I wrinkle my nose in confusion.
He lets out a loud, almost barking laugh.
“We stand in the water. This is fly fishing.”
I follow his lead and step into the waders, pulling the straps up over my shoulders. I look down my body and laugh. “I look ridiculous.” I take a few steps toward the water and almost fall over. This will take some getting used to.
“Come here,” he says, and I waddle over to him. He grabs my straps and makes sure they’re properly on my shoulders. I almost feel childlike standing so close to him, especially given that my nose is level with his chest.
He reaches down and picks up the poles. “This is called the fly rod,” he says, holding out the pole as I grab it.
“This is the wheel and these are the flies.” He pulls a handful of colorful items from the box on the ground. “I don’t use live bait, but some people do.”
Thank God he doesn’t use live bait. The thought of squeezing a worm onto a hook has my stomach feeling squeamish. “What kind of fish are we hunting for?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Hunting? You don’t hunt for fish, sweetheart.” He flashes me that smirk and I feel like my knees are about to give out. Did he just call me sweetheart?
“Up in this river, we’ll be catching trout.”
“You eat them?”
“Sometimes. Mostly I catch and release.”
“Then why do it?”
“Well, usually it’s relaxing. When I don’t have to explain every move and reason, that is.”
I feel a little guilty now weaseling my way into his fishing trip. “Sorry.”
“Nah, I’m just giving you a hard time. Grab your pole and follow me.” He winks at me with those words.