25. Lola

Lola

Up until this point, I thought hockey was my least favorite ice-related activity, but it turns out there's a whole host of hobbies surrounding ice, of which I was unaware. Out of all the chilly dates Devon could have planned—ice skating, skiing, walking through New York right around Christmas time—of course, he chose the one that required you to sit in one spot in a smelly little shack and stare down at a hole, desperately hoping something bites on your line. Or, in my case, hope that nothing bothers your line, so you're not expected to do anything.

When we first pulled up outside the lake, there was an annoying voice in the back of my mind that told me Devon had probably driven me out into the middle of nowhere just to wound me and leave me for dead. If I broke an ankle out here, I have no doubt I would also have the misfortune of running into a moose or some sort of new Canadian polar bear.

But then I'd seen the look on Devon's face—the genuine excitement on it—and decided I was going to try and enjoy it. It only took thirty seconds for me to ruin my brand-new boots, but I soldiered on, determined not to sour the mood.

Devon loaded up with poles and a few different containers—one containing the worms and one containing lunch, which he jokingly said we shouldn't mix up. He'd held the worm container out to me, and I'd just looked at him. It's one thing to make me fish, but it's another to make me handle squirming little creatures.

We'd carried all our supplies out onto the ice, which was terrifying because I could only think of it splitting open and swallowing us up, and arrived at what appeared to be a hastily constructed shack with huge gaps between the slats of wood. Devon claimed it would serve to protect us from the wind, but so far, that hasn't been the case.

I pull my coat tighter around my body and try to focus on keeping a positive attitude. It's just fishing. I try to think of a single romance book I've ever read that included a fishing date, but I come up empty-handed.

Anyhow, if Devon is trying his best, including me in his hobbies, then I won't fuss about it. I'm going to try to make the best of it.

I perk up when he hands me a thermos, and I take a sip of it, expecting it to be hot chocolate, but instead, what I get is a straight glug of the blackest coffee I've ever had in my life. I spit it out onto the ice to my right, and he laughs exuberantly.

"That," I say, wiping the back of my hand over my mouth, "was disgusting."

"Oh, what's the problem?" he asks, grinning at me. "You don't like coffee?"

"I don't like that," I say. "I'll go for espresso, lattes, and Americanos any day of the week. But I'm convinced whatever that is came from a construction site."

"You just don't like real coffee."

"Oh my god—" I whisper, remembering what he said about scaring the fish. "Don't tell me you're one of those," I lower my pitch to sound like him, "I only drink black coffee people."

"And what if I am?"

"Is it because you hate yourself? You know you're a menace to society, and you're repenting by not allowing yourself to have lattes like the rest of us?"

"I've never had a latte, and I don't plan to."

"Are you joking?" I ask, rearing back and putting my hand to my heart. "You've never had a latte? How can you hate on something you've never even tried?"

"Doing it right now," he says, rolling his eyes. "You've never done ice fishing before, but you were hating on it when we got here."

"I've been nothing but accommodating and amicable."

He lets out a soft laugh. "Lola, how much you hate this is written all over your face."

I try to school my face back into a neutral expression, but now Devon has made me feel self-conscious about the way it looks, so I just turn away from him. Why are my emotions always so easy for other people to read?

"I don't hate it," I say. "There's plenty to like about being so quiet, you shushing me about scaring the fish—even though you're laughing, which I would assume also scared them—freezing to death, the impending doom of the ice splitting open beneath us and swallowing us like the giant, snapping jaws of the Megalodon—"

"Don't forget the fact that you hate sitting still," Devon adds, and I turn to him slowly, my eyes widening.

"Oh my god," I breathe, and he presses his lips together, realizing he's been caught. "Oh my god, Devon, did you plan this date around stuff you knew I would hate?"

"I never said—"

"That is diabolical, you ass!" Part of me is offended he tried it, and the other part of me is ashamed it almost worked. Well, actually, I suppose it did work because here I am, looking ridiculous while sitting my ass in a folding chair in the middle of a lake and holding a stick that's dangling a worm into freezing cold waters.

"Okay, fine," Devon says, laughing out loud now that there can't be a single fish in this lake stupid enough to come near us. "In my defense, I actually like ice fishing, but it is possible I knew you wouldn't—"

I grab the arms of my folding chair and attempt to slide it away from him, but it's practically frozen to the ice. This just makes him laugh harder, and I want to cross my arms and pout, but I'm still holding this stupid rod.

"You know—" I start, but I'm cut off when there's a tug on my line. At first, I thought I imagined it, but then it came again. "Oh my god," I squeal, leaning backward and almost tipping over my chair. Devon is on his feet in a second, his hands hovering behind my back, ready to help me if I need it.

"Do you know how to do it?"

"What do you think?" I snap, my hands starting to shake. It's just a fish. It's just another stupid sport I don't understand. And yet, my heart is racing, my cheeks flushing with anticipation, the feeling of me vs. this fish, and the desperate need to come out on top.

Quietly, calmly, like he has every confidence in me, he stands right behind me so I can feel his breath on my neck as he whispers guidance on how to reel in the fish. With him talking like that, I suddenly feel like I'm capable of doing it, too, and I'm reminded of when we were together, and he said to keep my skirt on.

A shiver traces up my back, and I have to force myself to focus on what's happening here, not on how Devon and I are all alone, impossibly close, and getting along for a second. I hate that I know exactly how good he could make me feel right now. If we never had that one-night stand, I might be able to convince myself that he would be a terrible lay and it wouldn't be worth the time.

His arms come around me tentatively, like he's giving me the chance to tell him to back away. I take in a shaky breath as I watch his capable fingers wrap around the fishing pole, coming over mine and expertly demonstrating what to do with the line, pulling the right amount, and coaxing the fish out of the water.

I take it back. There must be a romance book somewhere that features a fishing scene. Because watching him work and feeling his muscles flexing around mine, it's too much. I can't believe an ice fishing trip is turning me on.

With one final tug, the fish emerges from the hole, freezing cold water sloshing onto my boots and the bottom of my coat.

But I don't care because Devon is looking at me like I just won the Olympics.

"Look at the size of this one!" he cheers, and I scrutinize him, trying to figure out if this really is a big fish or if he's just trying to hype me up. Then, his head tilts up, and his shining eyes meet mine. There's something so boyish and full of excitement in his facial expression that my chest lights up with joy.

"Yeah," I say, smiling as he takes the fish from the line. Then, the smile falls from my face when he pulls a knife from his back pocket, flipping it open. "Wait—what are you doing?"

"I'm gonna clean it," he says. "Best flavor when you clean it right away."

I frown, confused. "Clean it?"

"Get rid of the scales, guts, all that—"

"You're going to kill it?" I gasp.

"Lola," he says, laughing breathily. "What did you think the purpose of fishing was?"

"Devon, you are not killing this fish!" I move toward it, then realize I don't really want to touch it. "Put him back!"

"Oh, it's a him now?"

"Can you not afford fish? I'll buy you some. Fish and chips, whatever you want—just don't kill him!"

"Calm down," he says gently, some of the amusement leaving his eyes. My emotions must be all over my face right now. All I can think about is how this poor fish is plucked from his home, gasping for air, staring down the blade of a knife that's going to cut him up—

"Devon," I say, dismayed at the tears in my eyes. I try to figure out how to explain it, how to tell him I don't want him to kill this fish. I'm not a vegetarian. I eat meat all the time, but it feels different when it's happening at my hands. I know this fish. This fish and I have a connection.

"I'll put him back," he says, holding the fish with one hand and holding up his other palm. "I'm sorry. I didn't know it would upset you."

"Thank you," I whisper, watching as he slips the fish back into the water, letting him go free.

"You know, Lola," Devon says later as we pack up everything and head back to the SUV. "You're really not like anyone else I've ever met."

"Is that a good thing?" I ask, cutting my eyes to him. I can't get a grasp on what he's feeling. It feels like he should be upset and angry that I was loud all day and then made him release the one catch we had, but if anything, he seems as calm and content as he had been all day long.

"I haven't decided yet," he says, helping me into the SUV and shutting the door. "Now," he continues when he swings into the driver's seat, "you said something about buying me fish and chips?"