Chapter 13 Riley

CHAPTER 13

Riley

"THE BEST PLACE to stand is on that outcropping over there," Colton says, pointing it out. He's rolled his sleeves up to his forearms and I don't miss the way his corded muscles flex under his tanned skin as he moves. "But before we head over, I'll show you how to cast and you can practice before you attempt to get your line in the water."

"That's not necessary," I say. I've been fishing plenty of times and I know my way around a reel and tackle box.

But, of course, Colton ignores me. He grabs the fishing rod and dives right into a lesson anyhow. He describes how the reel works and what to do when a fish is hooked. After demonstrating the proper casting technique, he hands the rod back to me. "Any questions?"

My eyelid twitches with irritation. "Can you please hand me a night crawler?" I ask through gritted teeth, holding out myhand.

Colton scrutinizes me like he expects me to be grossed out by the things, but ever since my fourth-grade class studied compost and had a red wiggler worm farm, I've been A-OK with earthworms. I even did an entire art series in charcoal, colored pencil, and watercolor dedicated to worms. They really are fascinating creatures.

With his mouth still hanging open like one of the poor fish we're supposed to catch for dinner, I don't bother to wait for him to hand the bait over. I grab one from the cup in his hand and give it a solemn apology. "Sorry about this, buddy," I say. "Thank you for your sacrifice."

The rod and reel aren't nearly as nice as the one Grandpa Bob taught me to fish with, but I expect it's significantly better than whatever the pioneers had—probably a length of string tied to a pliable branch. I find a clump of grass to press the tip of the rod into to check the action. Then I test the smoothness of the reel by spinning it. Could be worse.

There's a bit of shade by some trees along the bank, near the outcropping Colton pointed out, and I figure it's as good a place as any to stand above the pool. If I cast to the side, I should be able to get the hook in the water without catching the line in the branches.

Turns out, I'm a little rusty. My first attempt plops down into some vegetation in the muck along the creek bed. Thankfully it doesn't snare and I reel in the line. The hairs on the back of my neck rise and I just know that Colton is standing behind me, arms crossed over his chest with a slight smirk on his face.

Like my not being grossed out by a wriggler is a fluke.

Like he expects me to suck at fishing because I don't look like an angler.

Like he expects someone like me to fail.

Boy, does he have another think coming. Grandpa Bob and I did most of our fishing in the ocean near Monta?a de Oro State Park, but I've been freshwater fishing plenty of times. Ponds, lakes, rivers, streams. Once I dust off the rust, I'll have this in the bag…err, net.

I pull back the fishing rod and let the line fly again. This time, it splashes down into the pool below, sending shallow ripples across the surface of the water. I give it some slack as the bait disappears below the reflective surface.

There, I bet that showed him.

I sneak a backward glance to find him standing just as I predicted: crossed arms, slight smirk, hat tipped down just enough to hide his eyes. Clearly, my dazzling displays of baiting the hook and casting off weren't enough to prove my abilities as a fisherwoman. Just wait until I reel this sucker in.

I'm just about to open my mouth to say something—I haven't quite figured out what yet—when I feel a slight tug on the line. Instantly, my nerves buzz with a familiar adrenaline rush. I hold the rod a bit more tightly and pull the line taut. The tip of the rod bobs again. Once I'm confident I've set the hook, I release some slack and keep the rod at forty-five degrees and lined up with the fish, just like Grandpa Bob taught me.

"Reel it in a bit," Colton advises from over my shoulder.

I was paying more attention to the fish than I was to him and he managed to sneak up on me. The last thing I need right now is him breathing down my neck, micromanaging and second-guessing everything I do. I inch toward the edge of the banking, but don't follow his advice. The fish darts beneath the water and I let out even more slack.

"No, no," Colton says, taking another step toward me. He's totally up in my personal space bubble now. The scent of mud and freshly trampled grass is replaced with Ivory soap and leather. "You have to reel it in by winding the handle. Here," he says, reaching toward the rod. "Let me show you." His fingers brush over my hand, sending a cascade of tingles across my warming skin.

"I'm fine," I say, tugging the rod out of his reach as I step to the side, away from him. My toe kicks a few pebbles loose and they skip down into the water. The fish pulls against my tug, but it doesn't feel ready to reel in just yet. Grandpa Bob always said my gut would tell me when the time is right, and I'm not feeling it…or Colton's know-it-all attitude.

"If you would just give me the rod," Colton says.

"I said I've got it," I insist, shifting closer to the edge as the fish gives a strong tug on the line. The tip of the fishing rod flexes, and inside, a voice in my head keeps saying, Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…

The fish pulls against the line and then the tension eases.

Ding. It's time.

I grasp the reel, and just as I'm about to start pulling it in, Colton steps closer and reaches out as if he's going to pry the rod from my hands.

"What the hell," I say, leveling him with a laser-beam glare. "I know what I'm—"

In an ideal world, I would've lit into Colton for being such an ass. But in reality, the words are tugged right out of my mouth as the ground crumbles from the shelf beneath us. Soon, we're skidding down the embankment just like the pebbles from earlier. I lose my balance, slamming onto my butt just before I hit the frigid creek water feetfirst. Colton lets out an earsplitting yip when he plops down into the muddy creek bed beside me.

While startled by the unexpected dip and the fact that the wind's been knocked out of me, I don't think I'm injured.

I can move my toes.

And fingers.

And my head is just fine, as evidenced by the ball of anger ping-ponging in my skull.

I ease myself up to sitting, the mud squelching around my pant legs, and notice that while the fishing rod is intact, the line has snapped.

Just like I'm about to.