Chapter 27
CHAPTER 27
W e follow a narrow trail that snakes down toward the creek, the late-June wildflowers brushing against our legs. Light yellows and violets bloom along the banks, swaying gently in the breeze. The air smells like damp moss and fresh river water, crisp and alive. My borrowed waders rustle awkwardly with every step, stiff and too big, and I feel like a kid drowning in an oversized snowsuit. Meanwhile, Gabe walks ahead of me, his waders fitting perfectly, like he was born to wear them. Of course .
“This is the best spot on the creek,” he says, stopping by a rocky outcrop that juts into the water.
Prairie Creek stretches out in front of us, its edges shallow and clear, the fast current flowing into a deeper, shaded pool. Sunlight filters through the trees, glinting off the water in golden patches. It’s so pretty, I almost forget how uncomfortable I am, the waders tugging at my hips with every step.
Gabe props his rod against a fallen log and turns to me, confident, commanding, sexy. “Alright,” he says, holding out my rod. “First things first: keep the tip down but loosen up your wrists. We’ll roll-cast with a dummy hook to get the hang of it.”
He steps in behind me, his arms brushing lightly against mine as he adjusts my grip around the cork handle. My breath catches at how close he is, his chest just barely grazing my back, his voice low and steady in my ear.
“Point the tip toward the water,” he murmurs, his hand hovering over mine on the rod, his fingers brushing my knuckles.
I can barely focus, hyperaware of how sturdy he feels behind me, how his breath stirs strands of my hair.
“Then flick from your elbow,” he says, “not your whole arm. Like this.”
I nod, trying to concentrate on what he’s saying instead. My line arcs out, landing in the water with a gentle ripple. I watch it drift, the fly riding the current like a real insect. But my focus keeps slipping—back to the warmth of his body encasing mine.
“That’s it,” Gabe murmurs, his mouth so close to my ear that his breath skims my skin, warm and teasing.
A shiver rolls through me, and I feel it everywhere—tightening my stomach, prickling my skin. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck lift, my nipples pebbling beneath my shirt, the fabric suddenly too rough, too present. Our bodies are touching, pressed against each other, and the thought sends a slow, molten ache curling low in my belly. Does he feel it too? I shouldn’t want to know… but God, I do.
He leans back, his hands lingering for just a second longer than necessary before stepping away. My skin feels warm where he was standing, and I can still feel the ghost of his touch. I watch him wade upstream, his movements confident and easy, like he’s done this a thousand times.
I glance back at my rod, trying to focus. My first cast after he steps away is clumsy—I’m too stiff, too distracted. But I try again, and then again, each cast getting a little smoother. Between flicks of the line, I sneak glances at him.
“Tip down.”
Oh, right. I’m here to practice fishing.
Time blurs in the steady rhythm of the creek. Minutes melt away as I focus on the soft splash of water around my waders and the flick of the rod in my hand. The sun breaks through a stray cloud, and suddenly, the water glows, ribbons of light flashing along the surface. Gabe’s standing right in the middle of it, outlined like some kind of painting. His rod moves in smooth, effortless arcs, like he’s part of the river itself.
I’m so distracted watching him that I cast without looking. The line jerks sideways, and I realize I’ve snagged a branch hanging low over the creek. My face burns hot. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, tugging at the line like it’s going to magically free itself.
Gabe glances over his shoulder, catching me mid-struggle, and smirks. “You’re supposed to watch your rod, not me, Sunshine,” he says, his voice all smooth and cocky as he wades toward me like some kind of fishing god who’s never tangled a line in his life.
“I wasn’t—” I start, but the look he gives me says he’s not buying it. He ducks under the branch, using those practiced hands to untangle the line. It’s so badly warped around the wood that he finally tears the old fly free.
He’s tying the dummy fly back on when I clear my throat, trying to sound casual. “The first day I started planting… you mentioned a bet about how long I’d last tree planting?”
“You’re full of questions today,” he says, not even glancing up from the knot he’s tying.
“What did you bet?”
He finishes the knot and tugs it, his hands flexing as he tests it. And yeah, even his stupid forearms look good while he does that. He exhales and finally meets my eyes. “I said you’d make it the whole season.”
I click my tongue and roll my eyes at him. “Be honest, Gabe.”
“I am,” he says, his gaze steady. “I never underestimated you.” He places the rod back in my hands, his fingers brushing mine. He clears his throat. “But I’ll admit—I misjudged you at first. Thought you’d crack. But I never thought you’d quit.” His eyes flick to mine, something unreadable in them. “It’s like the second someone doubts you, you double down and push harder. Like you’ve got something to prove. You’re feisty as hell, you know that?”
I exhale a quiet laugh, though my chest feels tight, like he’s just peeled back a layer I wasn’t ready to show. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
He smirks, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “It’s a compliment. You don’t back down when things get tough, Soleil. That’s not something people bet against.”
My face flushes—definitely not from the sun—and I take a shaky breath, scrambling for a response. But before I can say anything, he steps back, heading upstream to his spot like he didn’t just completely throw me off my axis. I’m left standing there, rod in hand, staring after him like an idiot, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to focus on fishing when the only thing I want to reel in is him.