Page 82 of Every Beautiful Mile

I circle back around to where he leans against the large island in the kitchen.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s awful.” I say, unable to hide the smile that tugs at my lips.

He snorts. “Upstairs,” he points to a railing above us. “Is a loft space with a TV and a ping-pong table. It’s where the boys usually hang out. Their bedrooms are up there as well. Mine is down here, down the hall.”

He gestures down the hall and looks at me with a kind of intensity that makes my insides leap into one another.

In my mind, walking down that hall is the equivalent of walking off a cliff and absolutely not happening.

With every second we stand in his house, my body feels more and more like a rubber band being pulled too tightly. I need water. And a therapist. And to get the hell out of here.

He must see my struggle, because the next thing he says is, “Let’s get the kids and fish.”

***

It turns out, Marin and I are terrible at fly fishing, and we have absolutely no shame as we stand in the river in our oversized hip waders.

“Okay, let your lines out, ladies,” Ethan says, standing knee deep in the water next to us.

Surprisingly, we manage this step and the neon-colored string floats down the river with the current.

“Good, now tip the rod down. No, not in the water, Marin—” He wades over to her and gently guides her hands to the correct position. “Like this.”

I mirror what he shows her before he moves onto the next step.

“Ready? Now comes the magic. Lift up, pull back, pause, snap forward.” He demonstrates the motion, making his line dance through the sky with a graceful loop. “Just back and forth, not too much movement of the shoulder. It should be in the elbow and wrist. See that?”

He does it again.

We both try—repeatedly—but God, we’re awful. We lose every fly Ethan ties on and can’t stop laughing about it.

“Ethan, I promise we’re trying.” Between the snort I let out and the way Marin cackles like it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever said, it’s hard for him to believe us.

He scrubs a hand over his jaw.

“Got a trout!” Austin calls as he holds up a fish from farther down the river.

“I wanna see!” Marin shouts back, reeling in her line, and wading down to them.

I turn to Ethan and shrug hopelessly, fishing rod in hand, feeling ridiculous in the oversized waders.

“You go down there with them. I’m a lost cause,” I tell him.

He shakes his head. “I’m not letting you off that easy. Try again.”

He wades over behind me and guides my casting movements with his arms locked around mine. He smells like sandalwood and pine trees, which are apparently my new favorite scents because I can’t stop inhaling.

I stand, caged in his arms as he controls the movements, and I can’t help myself—I lean into him. His arm rubs against me every time he casts the line and warms me by degrees. It’s a slow form of torture.

“Ethan, you work the rod like it’s part of your body. I have no idea what I’m doing,” I say as the line flies through the air.

“If working a rod that’s part of my body is what you want help with, I assure you I have better ideas than fishing, Penelope.”

Between his warm breath on my ear and the meaning behind his words, I stagger back into his chest as he vibrates with a chuckle.

“Okay, you know what? That is not what I meant. Don’t say things like that when you’re all cagey around me and smelling like you do. Let me out of here.”

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