Page 9 of Mountain Man Summer

"You were right," I admitted after several minutes. "This is relaxing."

"Told you." He took a pull from his beer. "Nothing like focusing on something simple to clear your head."

The sun dipped lower, washing the lake in rich golds and pinks. In this light, Hope Peak looked like something from a travel magazine—pristine waters reflecting the mountain silhouettes, pine trees swaying gently in the evening breeze. For a moment, I could almost forget why I was here.

"So," Noah said casually, "what do you do in Chicago when you're not on vacation?"

I tensed slightly, preparing my usual vague response. "Nothing exciting."

"Let me guess," he said, eyes still on the water. "Something that involves talking."

I nearly dropped my rod. "What makes you say that?"

"Your voice," he replied simply. "There's a quality to it. Professional, trained. You modulate it without thinking." He cast again before continuing. "Plus you narrate to yourself sometimes. Old habit?"

My pulse quickened. Most people didn't notice these things about me. I prided myself on blending in when needed, on controlling how much I revealed. But Noah Sterling was more observant than most.

"I work in communications," I admitted, which wasn't exactly a lie. "Client services."

"Hmm." The sound was noncommittal but skeptical. "Must be important clients."

Before I could come up with a suitable deflection, my rod bent suddenly.

"Oh my God!" I yelped, nearly dropping it. "What's happening?"

Noah's face lit up. "You've got a bite. Reel it in!"

"How? It's pulling!"

"That's the point," he laughed, stepping closer but not taking over. "Keep the rod tip up and reel when it's not fighting."

I struggled with the unexpected weight on the line, the rod bending alarmingly. "It feels huge! Is this normal?"

"Completely normal," he assured me, watching with a barely hidden grin. "You're doing great."

After what felt like an epic battle but was probably only thirty seconds, a flash of silver broke the surface.

"I see it!" I exclaimed, genuine excitement bubbling up inside me. "I'm actually catching a fish!"

Noah moved closer, reaching for a small net I hadn't noticed before. "Bring it in a bit more... perfect."

With a quick movement, he netted my catch and lifted it onto the dock. The fish—about twelve inches long with silvery-green scales—flopped energetically in the mesh.

"Bass," he announced proudly, as if I'd accomplished something remarkable. "Nice one, too. Probably about two pounds."

I stared at the fish, then at Noah, then back at the fish. A startled laugh escaped me—genuine, unfiltered joy I hadn't felt in months.

"I caught a fish!" I exclaimed, bouncing slightly on my toes. "An actual fish!"

Noah's smile was warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're a natural."

"I am absolutely not," I laughed, setting down the rod to get a closer look at my catch. "That was pure luck."

"Maybe," he conceded, kneeling to unhook the fish with a gentle touch. "But you didn't give up. Most first-timers would have handed me the rod at the first tug."

Pride bloomed in my chest at his words. When was the last time I'd tried something completely new? Something I wasn't immediately good at? My career had been a steady trajectory of playing to my strengths—my voice, my quick wit, my ability to connect with listeners. Fishing had absolutely nothing to do with any of that.

"What happens now?" I asked, watching as he handled the fish with care.

---