Page 40 of Her Wild Coast Refuge

He ducks through the wires, then holds it open for me. “Then what the hell was last night?”

“A mistake.” I hurry after Lexie, the grass snapping at my shins.

Lexie sets the gear on a large stump. “Okay, to fish for Kings, we need to up your game.”

“She’s insulting us and it’s not even lunchtime,” Quinn says.

Lexie laughs. “And here I thought you two were tough.”

“You want to find out?” Quinn replies, grinning.

She cocks an eyebrow, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Yes, actually.”

For the next half hour, Lexie hops between me and Quinn as we warm up our casts, our lines swishing in the crisp morning air.

Lexie races over to stand behind me. “Your wrist is too stiff.” She grabs my rod and tugs it a little. She’s right. I’m gripping it like a weapon.

“Try again.” She’s so close now I catch a faint scent of honey.

My cast is a little off-target, but the line floats in a softer arc and unfurls beautifully.

“Now, I want you to hit that little spruce,” she says, pointing to a short scrubby tree at the edge of the meadow.

My reel zings as I strip line and cast, concentrating.

“Wrist,” Lexie warns.

I loosen my wrist and elbow.

“Yesss.” Her eager tone sends a tingle down my neck.

I release my cast, my obliques coiled for balance, and watch my line float into space before landing two feet away from the spruce.

“Good.” Lexie cradles my hips, pivoting them like the agitator in a washing machine. “Try to relax here, okay?”

Relax? Yeah right. Not when her hands are tight on my hips like this and her body is whisper-close, her warmth radiating into me.

“And breathe,” she sings. “We can’t have you passing out and falling out of the boat.”

Before I can reply, she heads across the meadow to help Quinn untangle his hook from a clump of willows.

Finally, we pass Lexie’s inspection, and pile into the truck.

“King salmon are the real deal. I can’t let you leave Alaska without experiencing it.”

During the drive up the highway, Lexie explains how we’ll fish with our two-handed rods from the boat. It sounds challenging, but her excitement is infectious.

While her favorite radio station entertaining us with an eclectic playlist, we drive alongside a wide river as it snakes into the mountains, the shores flanked by shrubs of Labrador tea and stubby willow. We settle into our favorite mutual topic: music, and soon we’re arguing about the best opening lyric. Lexie refuses it can be anything but Prince’s Let’s Go Crazy and Quinn is set on The Chain by Fleetwood Mac.

“You’re both wrong.” I shake my head. “Don’t Stop Believin’? Journey?”

Lexie’s eyes grow wide. “Ohmigawd I love that song!”

We pull up to the turnout belting out the chorus with the scent of river and earth filling my senses.

“Wait, wait, I just remembered another classic,” Lexie says as we hop out, “and there’s no freaking way you can top this one.” She makes a fist like she’s holding a microphone, then hunches her shoulders and bats her eyelashes. “At first I was afraid, I was petrified.”

I roar with laughter. “Gloria Gaynor? Get out!”

---