Page 39 of Grown-Up Second Chance

“You bring it out in me,” I confessed. “You always did.”

“I remember,” he said as he brought the rod forward, causing the line to puddle on the grass in front of him. Then he demonstrated the entire cast again.

I had to admit, it did look beautiful when he did it. I just had no hope of imitating such grace.

He showed me a few more times, reiterating his instructions.

“Your turn,” he said.

There was no escape route.

I padded over to him.

He handed the rod to me. “Grip it here.” He pointed.

I wrapped my hand around the pole.

“Not quite.” He placed his hand on mind and arranged my grip to his satisfaction. “I’m going to stand behind you and guide you.”

He moved into position.

Close. Too close. I could feel his body heat. And it stirred up old feelings, sensations I’d forgotten for decades. My body core softened, and the tips of my breasts tingled.

Fishing. That’s all we’re doing. I’m fishing. God only knew why, but that’s what we were doing.

Fishing.

That was it.

He must not have felt a thing because he was still teaching.

“So, point your rod down,” he said, guiding me into position. “Then slowly … now faster, faster, stop!”

My body was so invested in the backward cast that it kept going even as my arm obeyed his command and stopped. I wobbled back and forth.

He put his hand on my waist to try to stop me from falling.

It felt like a hot brand. I dodged away from it.

And plopped onto the ground.

He dropped to his knees. “You okay?” he asked.

I took a mental inventory. “Yep.”

“Let me help you up.”

“No, no. That’s okay.” I did not need him touching me again. I flipped to my knees and boosted myself up. As I did, I saw a few of the RV campers looking our way.

An audience. Just what I needed.

“Maybe that’s it for the day?” I asked hopefully.

“I never thought of you as a quitter,” he said.

I wasn’t one.

“Okay. I’ll try. But why don’t you stand over there.” Somewhere you can’t touch me.

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