Rugged(44)

“You’re freezing,” he says, sounding alarmed. “Look, if you’re too cold—”

“No. Ratings. Must fish.” I force my teeth to stop chattering, and slosh over a tiny bit to stand closer to him. What can I say? He gives good body heat.

“Here.” Flint touches my shoulder, and I instinctively flinch. He pulls back and glowers, swiping a hand across his stubbled chin. “Hey. Laurel. Talk to me.”

I close my eyes tight. I do not want to have this conversation when I’m numb and there are cameras and fish everywhere.

“Everything all right?” Jerri shouts. Crap. I take a deep breath.

“I’m good. Just…show me how to fish,” I tell Flint. He watches me a moment longer, his gaze shrewd. “Look, I’m still adjusting to this…being on camera thing. The sooner we do this, the sooner I can dry off.”

Flint’s perfect mouth is still compressed in a hard line, but he nods.

“All right. Let’s show you how to cast. Maybe you should watch how I do it first.” His voice is tighter now; he knows not to touch me.

“Okay,” I say, watching as he takes out his rod. Heh. Rod.

Man, even that stupid phallic joke does nothing for me.

“Hold down the bait casting reel button with your thumb,” he tells me, demonstrating. He puts his pole back, then slings it forward. “Release the thumb. Let the bait draw the line out.” I watch as the line whips through the air, a graceful scrawl against the sky. “You push the button back down to slow your spool,” Flint says, demonstrating again. The bait lands perfectly in the stream with a delicate ripple.

“Nice,” I say, genuinely impressed. “So I’m supposed to do the same?” I look down at the rod in my hands. If it had eyes, they would be rolling at me right about now, saying things like ‘Oh honey, no.’

“It’s all in the wrist,” Flint says casually, starting to turn the crank on his reel. Or whatever this turn thingy is. “Do what I told you, and there’s no way you can foul up.”

“Oh Mr. McKay, ‘no way you can foul up’ is pretty much a challenge to the god of fouling up to come down from on high and smite us,” I say. Flint barks out a laugh.

“Don’t worry, I made an offering of a breakfast burrito earlier today,” he says, playing along, his voice pitching even lower and deeper. The tension’s eased again, thankfully.

I snort and nudge him, readying my rod. Jerri’s been pretty quiet so far, usually a sign that we’re on the right track. She believes in letting the magic happen when it’s there. The truth is, with Flint at my side, it’s hard to make the magic stop.

Stop thinking about magic. And Flint McKay. Focus on fishing, and keeping the blood circulating in your feet. I stamp up and down, still eyeing Flint. That’s right, focus on staying warm. Do not focus on watching him reel the line back in, his arms rippling with muscle, the spray of the river dampening his shirt so that it clings to his chiseled physique, the…you know, maybe I love fishing after all. A little too much, perhaps.

This whole expedition is becoming dangerous.

“I think I should head back up,” I tell him, turning around to wade away in my, well, waders. But Scott, one of the cameramen, gestures for me to get back in the water.

“No, stay there. You two are hilarious together,” he calls, grinning.

“Besides, you haven’t cast yet,” Flint tells me. He moves closer. “Can I help you?” He’s asking to touch me, and he doesn’t want me to flinch again. Taking a deep breath, I force a smile.

“Sure thing.”

Flint puts a hand on the small of my back to guide me next to him. Wouldn’t you know it; my shivering all but disappears. The cold water isn’t a factor anymore. My numb feet don’t bother me.

I bait my hook, pull back, and whip my arm forward, releasing the line too early. Instead of sailing elegantly through the air, it erupts into a startled kind of squiggle, tangling instantly. I nearly get poor Scott through the lip, which would mean a very awkward emergency trip to the hospital.

“Sorry!” I cry, wincing as I pull the line back. Scott waves, but also takes a few steps back.

“You’ve got to keep your wrist loose, but your arm straight,” Flint says, putting his rod down and getting behind me. I’m pressed up against him, and my cheeks flush. I can’t have him touching me without being reminded of his hands on my waist, steadying me as I rode his body. His eyes burning into me, pupils dilating as he came close to—

“We’re running out of battery!” Jerri calls. Damn, I think I’ve been drooling.

“Here we go,” Flint says. He helps my line of motion, helps me throw the line out in a clear, sweet movement. “There. You’re a natural,” he says, leaning down to my ear.

“Yep. Au naturale, that’s how I do,” I say, stepping away so fast I trip on a river rock and nearly collapse. But I find my balance.

I try again, solo this time. The line whips forward, perfectly thrown, and the bait hits the water. The little red and white plastic bobbing thing bobs along. Aw, so cute.

“Nice. Now reel it in, slowly,” Flint says, clapping his hands. I start, watching the line cut through the water. But then I hit some resistance. Huh. Weird. Maybe it got caught on a submerged tree branch or something. Or maybe it’s…