Page 8 of Mountain Man Summer

I'm being careful. No posts, no check-ins, nothing. Tell Officer Vincetti thanks for the update.

My hands shook as I slipped the phone back into my pocket. The brief peace I'd found vanished as reality crashed back. I was hiding for a reason. Playing house with the attractive neighbor wasn't part of the plan.

"Everything okay?"

I jumped at Noah's voice. He stood a few feet away, fishing rod in one hand, a small tackle box in the other, and two bottles of beer tucked under his arm. How long had he been watching me?

"Fine," I said, forcing a smile. "Just a text from my best friend."

"Must've been some text." He handed me one of the beers, his expression neutral but eyes sharp. "You went pale."

"Friend drama," I said dismissively, accepting the cold bottle. "Nothing serious."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't press. Another point in his favor—perceptive but thankfully not pushy.

"So," I said, deliberately changing the subject, "now that I have a properly rigged rod, what's next?"

"Bait," he replied, setting down his tackle box and flipping it open. "You've got two options—artificial lures or live bait."

"Please tell me 'live bait' doesn't mean actual worms." I wrinkled my nose at the thought.

His laugh rumbled across the water. "It absolutely does. Or minnows, if you prefer."

"Is there a third option? Maybe something that didn't recently have a heartbeat?"

"City girl confirmed," he teased, pulling out a small plastic container. "Artificial it is. Less effective, but you'll sleep better."

I watched as he attached a colorful lure to my line, his hands moving with the same confidence he'd shown when securing the boat last night. The simple domesticity of the moment struck me—standing on a dock at sunset, having a man teach me to fish. It was so far removed from my Chicago life of soundproof booths and midnight broadcasts that it felt like playing a role in someone else's life.

"Ready to go," he announced, handing me back the rod. "Now for the casting lesson."

"The what now?"

"You don't think the fish are going to jump onto the dock when you whistle, do you?" His eyes crinkled with amusement. "You need to get the line in the water."

"Right. Obviously." I gripped the rod awkwardly. "Just... throw it?"

He moved behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body. "Not quite. Here, let me show you."

His arms came around me, hands covering mine on the rod. The sudden proximity sent my heart racing, his chest solid against my back. The spicy scent of his aftershave immediately made my knees embarrassingly weak.

"Grip here," he instructed, his voice low near my ear. "Then you pull back to about two o'clock."

He guided my arms through the motion, his body moving with mine.

"And then forward, releasing the line at ten o'clock."

We cast together, the line arcing through the air before landing with a satisfying plop about twenty feet out.

"Nice," he murmured, his breath warm against my neck.

For a moment, neither of us moved. I felt every point where our bodies touched, his hands still covering mine, how easy it would be to lean back against him fully. The tension between us had nothing to do with fishing.

Then he stepped away, clearing his throat. "Now you reel in slowly. Gives the impression of a swimming baitfish."

I nodded, not trusting my voice immediately. "Got it. Slow reeling."

He cast his own line with a smooth motion that made it look simple. We settled into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm—casting, reeling, recasting. The repetitive motion was oddlycalming, and I found my thoughts quieting for the first time in days.

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