Where One Goes(27)

“It’ll protect your clothes,” George adds as he picks up his pole and starts playing with the string attached to it. It doesn’t look like your classic fishing pole.

“Protect them from what?”

“The water.” He points.

“Oh. I’m not doing . . . that,” I state adamantly. “I’ve never fished before.”

George’s mouth curves into a smile, but he doesn’t look at me. “Then you’re about to learn.” I look to Ike but he just smiles as he stares at his father.

“You’ll like this, Charlotte. Fly-fishing is a religion in these parts.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

George and I bicker back and forth for a few minutes until he threatens to tackle me and put the, what he calls, hip-waders on me. I concede and put them on. Of course, they’re about seven times too big for me and waddling to the water is a feat; I can only imagine how hard it’ll be to wade through the water.

“Hold my hand,” George offers as he steps into the river. Taking his hand, I can’t deny the warmth I feel as his fingers intertwine with mine. It takes a few minutes before we reach his father because I keep losing my footing over the slick rocks.

“So you’re the beautiful girl my wife came home raving about?” Mr. McDermott asks and my brows rise in surprise. Was Beverly really raving about me?

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. McDermott,” I say.

“Please, call me Henry. How’s my son treating you at the restaurant?” he asks as he gently whips his rod.

“Horrible,” I reply certainly. “He’s pretty much the worst boss I’ve ever had.” Cutting my gaze to George, I stick my tongue out at him as his father laughs.

“Yeah, well, she did destroy a four-hundred dollar box of liquor, so I wager I deserve to be a little tough on her,” George argues as he plays with his rod.

“And I paid for that mistake,” I point out, “in blood.” As embarrassing as it was to have my ass in George’s face while he tended to my cut, I’m trying to laugh about it now. Of course, George can’t just laugh with me. Noooo. He has to embarrass me even more.

Henry’s brows furrow and George snorts. “It’s a long story, Dad,” George says, noting his father’s perplexed expression. “Maybe one I’ll save for dinner tonight.” My eyes widen as I whip my gaze to George. He wouldn’t dare tell them all the details . . . would he? George stares back at me with a face-splitting grin. “Or would you rather tell it, Charlotte?”

Glaring at him, I push some of my hair behind my ear, and say, “Of course not. While we’re at it, I’m sure I have a few stories I could tell them about you as well.”

George doesn’t respond as he pulls at the line of his pole. That shut him up, I laugh to myself.

Glancing back at Mr. McDermott, I find him smirking at me. “George needs a good girl to keep him on his toes,” he chuckles. “Looks like you found her.” He turns and winks at George.

“Yeah. I need a girlfriend like I need a hole in the head,” George replies gruffly, earning a deep scowl from me. Mr. McDermott, sensing our . . . what is it? Animosity? Whatever it is, he senses it and changes the subject.

“Have you ever fly-fished before?” he asks.

“No, sir. I’ve never done any kind of fishing.”

“Well that’s a travesty,” he states. “Show her how it’s done, son,” he instructs George.

For the next hour, George describes the parts of a fly rod and how it works. He shows me how to cast the line. At one point, he and his father cast almost in sync and it’s oddly beautiful. The casting seems almost like a dance, the wrist and the elbow guiding the line that bends and wafts through the air. And almost as soon as the line hits the water, they pull it back. It’s elegant and serene and for the first time since I’ve met George McDermott, he seems peaceful.

“I’m heading back up. Don’t be too long, you two.” Henry winks at me.

“Now it’s your turn,” George states as his father wades back to the shore.

“I don’t mind just watching,” I say. As simple as it looks, it still seems to involve coordination, which I lack.

“Come on. You have to at least try it,” George insists.

My first few attempts, I fail miserably, and at one point I drop the f-bomb, then frantically look around to make sure his father is actually gone and didn’t hear me. George laughs loudly, taking the rod from me. “Let me show you,” he says, as he moves behind me. With his front pressed to my back, my body heat rises and my heart pounds. Taking my hand, he places the rod in it and helps me arrange the line.

“Now,” he breathes in my ear. “Imagine the rod is an extension of you; like you’re one. It has to be smooth and quick. The bait, or the fly, has to land lightly on the water. When it lands, it has to float. If it drags, the trout will know by the way the water moves around it, and they won’t bite at it.” After he arranges my hands where they need to be, his left arm weaves around my midsection, his hand resting on my belly. His other hand holds mine softly, guiding it back. My body begs to press back against him, to feel all of him, but I fight it. Together we cast the line and pull it back, and I forget for a moment how awkward this should be because honestly, it feels amazing. His mouth remains close to my ear as he speaks, sending delicious vibrations down my body. George smells incredible and while he keeps babbling on about the art of fly-fishing, my mind is honed in solely on every point where our bodies are contacted.