8. Grayson
8
Grayson
Epilogue
I love fishing. Always have. Sitting along a body of water with nothing but peace and quiet is nothing more a man can ask for.
Most of the time, I stare at the water and get so lost in my head that waiting for each bite in-between is enjoyable. It’s like meditation, in a sense.
However, ever since my wife insisted on tagging along, everything has changed.
Piper is a distraction. Can’t watch for bites when I’m staring at her. She scares them away with her giggles, but I can’t help but make her laugh.
Today, she insisted on packing a lunch and turning my attempt to catch us food into a cute little picnic.
It was a bad idea. I thought about it plenty of times when she made up the sandwiches and picked out the perfect blanket.
Now I’ve got her pressed against the very fabric, kissing her instead of focusing on the sway of my rod. I don’t think she even cast her own. Too afraid to hurt the worm. Something like that.
Doesn’t matter. She’s too busy pulling at my hair and licking at my mouth to care.
Personally, I think she doesn’t care if I catch anything or not. She’d be happy with going down to the store and buying a pack of frozen fillets. If it means getting all this attention from her by my favorite pond, then I might be persuaded to take a trip down.
Piper loves rewarding me with kisses when I don’t prickle up at anyone down below. So, I guess it’s a win for me if I cave just this once.
She cups my face as I pull back to look at her. Daring to test my strength, she turns and looks over toward my pole to see the line getting snagged. “Oh, hey–”
“It’s fine,” I promise her before swooping back down for another kiss.
Why do I need a fish when I’ve got everything a man can ask for, squirming right below me, fighting off giggles to save her life? Whatever gets my bait can enjoy the free snack.
While they do that, I’ll do the very same.