Page 2 of Catch and Release Groom

Amber-hued eyes glittered in the first rays of the day, the light creases at the corners placing him around early thirties range, and his dark lashes, eyebrows, and scruff-covered jaw framed his face ever-so-nicely. Or perhaps that was just due to his face. Whoever carved it must’ve taken their time creating such a rugged, chiseled masterpiece.

As a bit of a recreational sculptor herself, she wasn’t usually one to criticize another’s art. Had they taken the time to whittle a smile instead of a frown, however, it would’ve upped his attractiveness to impossible levels.

Perhaps that was the point—no one should bethatgood-looking. It simply wouldn’t be fair. Not to the average person, and certainly not to her in her vulnerable emotional state. The idea of delivering a line she’d heard countless times from men enticed her more than it should but, since nothing was worse than being told “You’d look prettier if you smiled” she refrained. She wasn’t here to piss off or ogle a fisherman, no matter how hot or how adorable his doggo.

Although there was nothing wrong with showering giant floofswith affection, so she bent at the waist and extended her hand toward the black nose and fuzzy white snout. Between the perma-grin and white eyebrows that separated its face from the mottled gray coat, the dog looked like a husky, although she’d never met one quite so big and blocky. “And who might you be?”

Soft as silk and with a giant puffy face Imogen longed to smoosh, that was who.

“Are you expecting her to answer,” her cranky-pants owner asked, “or is that your way of asking me indirectly?”

“Sounds like somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.” Imogen continued driving her fingers through the dog’s thick coat and pitched her voice to the same decibel she used on Mrs. Schultz’s yappy mostly hairless dog that lived across the hall. “I bet you’ve had to put up with it all morning, haven’t you?”

For a moment, she thought she’d managed to stun the fishing instructor into submission. Then she noticed his slack jaw and the direction of his gaze. Her cleavage had a bad habit of stealing the show as it was, but her robe had fallen open enough to catapult her breasts into the limelight.

The hottie who’d shown up on her rented porch at the butt crack of dawn jerked up his chin, too late to avoid getting caught, and Imogen snatched the two sides of the garment in her fist and straightened. Since she’d shown him hers—accidental or not—it felt only fair to soak in the sight of the rounded biceps in her eyeline, as well as the protruding veins that traversed the sexy expanse of corded forearms all the way down to his wrists.

At the heat slithering through her, she did her best to convince herself it was nothing more than the rising ball of gas and plasma in the sky. Yep, that was why she was suddenly so toasty warm.

“So?” He stroked a hand over his whiskers, and she noted the skin there was a couple shades darker than his face, leading her to believe he spent a fair amount of his time outdoors wearing that hat. “Are you and your husband ready to go?”

“Husband?” That slap of a reminder successfully rid her of any errant attraction she might or might not be feeling. Just because the guy looked like he could provide her with one of the things she’d been missing during her seven-year relationship didn’t mean he could rub its failure in her face.

“Sorry. Wife?” he asked, and at her creased forehead, added, “Significant other? Point is, we should get going. The early bird doesn’t catch the worm standing around twiddling its thumbs.”

Imogen doubted his grouchy ass would appreciate her pointing out that birds didn’t have thumbs. Not to mention she hadn’t twiddled a day in her life, and the part of her that remained unconvinced she deserved this vacation reared its ugly head and put her on the defensive. “It’s just me.”

“I expected there to be two of you.”

“Yeah, so did I at one point. Things change.”

His bafflement didn’t seem like a compliment. More like the news annoyed him, as if she’d called off her wedding just to ruin his day. Weren’t country folk supposed to be friendly? The reviews raved about the amazing customer service, and while the woman at the front desk was lovely, this guy could use a refresher course on manners.

With a long-suffering sigh, he reached into the pocket of his well-worn jeans and pulled out a phone. Then, even though she hadn’t so much as opened her mouth, he held up a finger, ordering she shush up and wait while he studied his screen. “Cabin Three—er, Chateau de Paramour. Private lessons for two scheduled at six-thirty a.m.”

“Yikes. Past Me clearly overestimated my eagerness to do anything this early in the morning, much less fishing.” She figured joking would be less awkward than rattling off the actual explanation about having chosen the activity for her former significant other, thinking it would magically fix everything.

Guess now they’d never know. Except that was answer enough, wasn’t it?

Imogen bit at a stray hangnail as she glanced into the empty cabin. If she’d had her way, she’d be in Rome right now. As in Italy, and not the small Georgian town about thirty miles east of here, although that was how she’d stumbled upon the Cove Lakeside Resort in the first place.

Compromise, they said. It’ll be fun and make the relationship work, they said.

While there might not be a lot of architectural wonders in the forest to visit and marvel over, if she stayed in her cabin, she’d stew. This trip was also about rediscovering the parts of herself she’d buried and lost in her relationship, and that meant challenging her comfort zone and trying new things.

Not to mention she’d already spent the money on the lesson, and she pinched her pennies so tightly, she hated to let any go to waste. “Like I said, it’s just me. Right now, anyway…”

Keep up the ruse? Let it drop?

Not that there was a ruse. Call it planting a seed of reasonable doubt that someone would come looking if anything happened to her. But with each passing second, risk factors seeped through the cracks, tapping at her shoulder and asking what on earth she was trying to prove by going.

When it came to big decisions that allowed for plenty of time to ponder, she shone. As for the smaller, incessant choices that came along with the minutiae of everyday life? Well, she loathed them enough that she’d left the majority up to her ex.

“Look, lady, I’m just following the itinerary. If you don’t want the lessons, that’s no skin off my back. Tell you what—see that truck right there?” He gestured toward a mud-splattered pickup that matched his giant, camouflage-print backpack and the multi-zippered- and-pouch-covered vest strapped to his chest. “Gator and I will be pushing off in ten minutes. Makes no difference to me if you’re in the cab when we head on down to the river or not.”

With that, he strode toward the truck, one firm pat on his thigh to summon his dog, not giving Imogen so much as a second to reply. Whatwasit with men and their tossed-out ultimatums and insistence thatshehurry, orshebe patient?

Yet if she asked for an extra ten minutes, cue the sighs, eyerolls, and mantrums.

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