Page 31 of The Science of Attraction

He snorted and turned his head just enough to catch my eye over his shoulder. “Is that right? And here I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.”

I repeated in my mind what I’d said, and heat bloomed in my cheeks. “Okay, smart-arse. How about you focus on what you’re doing?”

He smirked. “Oh, I am. I definitely am. Hold the rod lighter, feel the weight of it in my hands, keep the stroke fluid so it transfers energy smoothly.” He waggled his brows. “Does that about cover it?”

I stared at him, face flaming and thankful for the baggy rubber waders I was wearing, but I couldn’t help but laugh. I hadn’t been flirted with like this in years and it was kind of fun. “Behave.” I turned his head back around to the front and stood off to the side.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he answered drolly, adjusting his grip yet again.

“Lighter.” I tapped his hand and he relaxed his fingers. “Now, how about you try again, and remember the rod is only an ignition point.”

He shot me a wicked look, then gathered himself and nodded sagely. “Ignition point, right, got it.”

I laughed and lightly whacked him up the back of the head. “Behave. What I mean is it’s not the rod that’s really throwing the fly. The energy from the casting stroke travels through the line like a whip, and it’s that propulsion that carries the fly, not the rod itself.”

“Casting stroke. Propulsion. Rod and whip.” He shot me a sly look. “Theoretically speaking, I should be good at this.”

I snorted and shook my head. “Focus.”

He cleared his throat and wiggled his butt, digging his feet into the stones. “Sorry. Iampaying attention, I promise. Let me try again.”

I stood back and watched as he practiced a few more casts, tweaking his form and offering advice as needed. Surprisingly, he listened, and it wasn’t long before he was doing a lot better. If he caught a fish, I’d be gobsmacked, but he could at least throw a decent-ish beginner’s cast that wouldn’t take out an eye, including his own. Not that I wasn’t going to give him a wide berth anyway. He’d scare the fish.

Bank practice done, Liam declared himself ready for the real deal and grumbled again at the waders. “I look like I’m dressed for a water sport convention,” he griped, pulling distastefully at the bib front.

I almost choked at the image and quickly waved him into the water. “Come on, Aquaman.”

He brightened. “Now there’s an image I can get down with.” He took a few steps into the shallows and his gaze snapped back to mine. “Holy shit. No way. No fucking way.” When he began to back out, I put the rubber boot of my waders against his shapely arse.

“I did warn you that the water is glacial melt, remember?” I nudged him forward again with my boot.

He took another couple of steps and gasped. “Holy Jesus fuck!” His eyes bulged and his mouth hung open for a few seconds.

“Aw, is it a bit cold?” I grinned shamelessly.

“Cold?” Liam glared back at me. “Cold? No, Jules. A winter walk on a beach is cold. The ice hanging from my veranda roof is cold. Jesus, the Antarctic polar cap is cold. But this, Jules—” He was practically shouting. “—this isstick your balls in a freezer until they’re royal blue and ready to shatter into a million piecescold. That’s how cold this water is. And you’re about to see all of that come to fruition in the next few minutes.”

A laugh from downriver had Liam raising his middle finger Brent’s way. “And that’s enough from you. Jesus Christ, you people are crazy.”

“Come on, you’re almost there,” I encouraged, following him in.

He took another few tentative steps, then gripped my arm. “I can’t fucking breathe,” he gasped. “If you want a hobby, what’s wrong with a book group and a nice coffee?”

I chuckled. “It’s not that bad. You get used to it.”

He cast me a dubious look. “No, I fucking won’t.”

I eyed him squarely. “Well, there’s no shame in calling it quits. You can go read that book of yours in the ute and stay warm.”

Those hazel eyes narrowed on mine and his jaw ticked dangerously. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? The soft townie can’t cut it with the real men? Not a chance in hell, mister. Now move over and give me room.”

Bingo.I swallowed a smile, waded a safe distance off to the side, and talked him through a few more casts. When I figured he was at least safe to leave on his own, I walked upriver until I found a deep pool to my own liking and began to cast. A warm spring day, a river to ourselves, the company of an intriguing man who set my blood on fire, and the stress of the station and my father a good forty kilometres away—it didn’t get much better than that.

A teasing flash of colour skimmed just below the surface before disappearing into the depths. Then another. And another. Every one of them turning their noses up at my perfectly respectable fly. So maybe things could get just a little bit better. Trout. The fly fisherman’s crack.

Not that I really needed a catch to be enjoying myself. With every cast, glimpse, and teasing nibble, the numbing crystal waters lapped and swirled around my thighs and my feet buried themselves deeper into the stony bed. A hush descended to blanket the river, broken only by the babbling chuckle of water through the shallows and Liam’s occasional grunt and expletive.

And then?—

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