Page 30 of Catch and Release Groom

Not that he was her significant anything. She spun on her heel and started away from him as if to prove it, her strides long and determined.

And headed in the wrong direction.

Under almost any other circumstances, he’d hesitate to stop any woman moving with such purpose, much less one inspired by putting distance between them. In this case, it was either do so now or have to track her later, when she inevitably ended up lost.

Easton cleared his throat, his pulse thundering faster at the idea of being the predator to her prey. “Imogen?”

Her shoulders snapped into a rigid line, and how in tarnation had they gone from a heated embrace to such a chilly rebuff? His mouth landed him in trouble plenty, but this time, he hadn’t said a thing—not that he’d needed to once her body met his and his baser instincts took the wheel. From there, any sound he’d made had been involuntary.

“Yeah?” Imogen didn’t even bother turning around.

Easton got the message loud and clear: this trial run had been deemed unsuccessful. He told himself it was for the best. The townsfolk wouldn’t rest until they got the scoop on his date, and the only thing worse than attending Grace’s wedding solo would be if someone discovered he’d asked a perfect stranger for the sake of his ego.

A factor that was definitely at play as he poked the bear. “Don’t you mean ‘yes, my love, my honeybun?’” He plastered a huge grin on his face and aimed it toward the biggest cluster of people. “Imogen’s the master of pet names, and I am but her humble pupil. We even put a clause in our vows about using them to showcase our love, for ever and ever, till death do we part. Isn’t that right, pookie?”

Well, she certainly pivoted around at that. “I super appreciate that,muffin”—she coated the words in a sticky-sweet poison that promised to make him pay for the corny nicknames—“I simply thought we should get a move on. It’s not fair forour loveto hold up everyone who came to see the falls.”

Imogen’s smile turned a hint brittle as she gestured for people to join her, and then she took another step away from their intended destination.

“Great point, cupcake,” he called after her. “But, since getting lost will make it a lot harder for me to have and to hold you, I thought I’d let you know you’re headed in the wrong direction.”

Easton adjusted the strap of his backpack, commanded Gator to come along, and resumed leading an expedition he wasn’t even supposed to be on.

If Imogen wasn’t going to bother conversing face-to-face, he figured there wasn’t any reason for him to wait and see if she’d turned to follow.

Of course, he didn’t even last a full minute before checking on her. Again and again, as the trail steepened and Imogen skidded on the gravel, Margot and Constance were there to laugh with and encourage her instead of him.

Finally they reached the cragged, rocky shelf where water from Black Creek poured over the edge in a powerful torrent. It sprayed treetops, created rainbows in the mist, and formed a winding path that flowed for miles and miles before feeding into Lake Coosa.

Shortly before everyone on the expedition across the lake had split, the bushy-mustached captain pulled Easton aside and reminded him tourists liked a few myths and legends sprinkled in with their historical facts.

So, as their group neared the safety rails, he raised his voice and launched into a tale most likely taller than it was accurate. “As per legend, Noccalula Falls was named after a Cherokee Chief’s daughter…

“Famed far and wide for her beauty and strength of character, many braves asked for the princess’s hand in marriage. But only one, a powerful chief from a neighboring tribe who promised a share of his amassed wealth in exchange, was favored by Noccalula’s father. When her father told her of the match, she pleaded with him to reconsider, as she’d already given her heart to a young warrior from their own tribe. Sadly, the chief refused. Her lover was exiled, the betrothal announced, and the date set.”

Easton tried not to watch Imogen’s face as he neared the tragic bit, but he caught a glimpse of red lips rounding into an indignantOon the Cherokee maiden’s behalf.

“On the day of the wedding, Noccalula was overcome with grief. With everyone distracted by the festivities leading up to the ceremony, she slipped away, the fringe from her wedding robes dragging a trail behind her.”

Every set of eyes remained glued to him as he paused to swallow and wet his lips. The captain had been right—their group held their breath as they awaited the story’s ending, the roar of water the only sound.

“Called to the rush of the falls, she found herself standing on the brink of that great yawning chasm below…”

Several of his listeners crowded closer to the fence to take another look, and Easton gave them a handful of extra seconds to marvel at the distance of the drop.

One by one, they returned their attention to him, and he found himself enjoying a story he generally rolled his eyes over. It reminded him of shooting shit with fisherman, about lucky spots and types of bait, and big, record-breaking catches.

“Unable to accept a fate that’d been chosen for her and unwilling to live in a world without hope and love, Noccalula leaped.” He paused to give that part of the story the weight it deserved and then spoke in a quieter tone. “Heartbroken, Noccalula’s father named the falls in her honor and proclaimed that from that point on, all members of his tribe would be allowed the freedom to choose.”

The tragic ending was where the similarities between story time at the falls and those circulating in bait-and-tackle shops took a sharp detour. If a fish managed to grow an inch during a retelling, it was to amuse and entertain, not to teach morals or evoke tears.

Like withRomeo and Juliet.Back in high school, he and Grace had read it together as part of an assignment. At the close of the final scene, as he sat there experiencing a clash of annoyance and relief, she’d tearily asked why he couldn’t be more like the whiny prick who’d run around half-cocked the entire play.

Yeah, the dead guy.

“What?” he’d asked, all vestiges of relief long gone. “You want me to bail on plans and pick fights with your cousins?”

“No, romantic. I sometimes wish you were more romantic.” Grace rolled the worn paperback copy of the play in her fist, her gaze fixed on the motion. She told him she was serious about pursuing a career in the arts, and if he was serious about her, he’d be more supportive.

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