Page 41 of Catch and Release Groom

Never mind it was the time they’d agreed upon.

Imogen told him to fix his coffee the way he liked, since that might be posed during the newlywed game, and then flopped onto the bed, facedown. Leading him to the realization she didn’t care how he took his coffee, only that doctoring and drinking a cup would give her a few more minutes to snooze.

Once he’d finished his cup of joe, he’d shaken her awake with a joke about the early bird getting the worm. She’d retorted that if he had such a hard-on for worms, he should go bother them instead of her.

“Glad to see your spirits so improved after your nap,” he’d deadpanned.

With a groan, Imogen had rolled over, her dark curls splayed against the white pillowcase in a way he definitely shouldn’t focus on. “Hey, I warned you last night that I wasn’t a morning person, and you still came at me at six thirty in the morning with all your”—using a finger, she drew a circle around his head—“you-ness.”

“All my me-ness made you coffee, princess.” Carefully, he lifted the steaming mug off the nightstand and passed it to her as she scooted up against the headboard.

“Hello,” she’d said, cupping the mug in both her hands and taking a sip. “That’s why I’m considering forgiving you for waking me up.”

Now he was reassessing whether he should’ve given her caffeine—she was already a shot of energy, a jolt to the heart, a glittering beam of fucking sunshine. She held too much power over him, a fact confirmed by his lack of frustration when he asked, “Imogen, where’s my rod?”

“I certainly hope you left it in your pants, as indecent exposure is a misdemeanor.” She swayed closer and lightly nipped at his skin, her teeth the best type of punishment to fit his crime. “Surprised you didn’t know that,muffin.”

Easton slid his hand in the back pocket of her blessedly tiny shorts, copping a feel as he hauled her against him. “That’sstudmuffin to you.” His other hand drifted up to her hair, fingers twining in the dark strands, his sharp yank exposing her neck to his hungry gaze. The beating of his heart synced to the fluttering pulse point at the base of her throat, and he lowered his lips to the smooth, soft skin. “And I never claimed to be friendly.”

He kissed his way up the column of her neck.

“See, a few days ago,” she breathed more than said, “I might’ve bought that, but your secret’s out, Easton Reeves.” She twisted her head until their mouths aligned and everything in him longed to close that miniscule amount of space. “You care about helping people—that’s a really likeable quality, by the way.”

If genuine affection didn’t ring through each word, he’d bristle against any compliment that veered too near “You’re a nice guy, but…” There was something else unspoken, though, and he worried that asking for clarification would be the only thing more uncomfortable than the answer, so he decided to stick with quippy and light. “Well, I’m a really likeable guy.”

“Yeah, but if I’d known that going in,” she muttered, a faraway look entering her eye. Before he could press her to fill in the blanks, the client he’d left behind began hollering, claiming he’d caught a fish so big he couldn’t reel it in.

“Sorry, that’s my cue.” Reluctantly, Easton released Imogen and backpedaled a few steps while maintaining eye contact. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and said, “Dude’s been a fisherman for less than an hour, and he’s already telling tales.”

His attempt to return them to joking, flirty territory wasn’t a total failure—Imogen flashed him a smile—but unfortunately, that was all he had time for. At least he had only one client today.

Another hour, then it’d be just Imogen and himself on this stretch of river.

Commence the countdown, he thought as he hustled upstream to figure out what was on the end of the city slicker’s hook.

Because he could guaran-damn-tee it wasn’t a fish.

Chapter Seventeen

“Do you see what I mean?” Easton asked, and no, no, Imogen didn’t.

In order to understand the fly-fishing technique, she would’ve had to be paying attention to his explanation rather than the feel of his arms around her, his right hand guiding her wrist as he demonstrated the arc and drag of the line. Not to mention his outdoors-and-musk scent and the way his deep voice vibrated from his chest and settled in the center of hers.

After his client had driven away in their rented vehicle, she’d assumed she and Easton would return to the resort, where she could order enough food to count for breakfast and lunch. While she stood by her choice to miss the first meal of the day in favor of extra sleep, the granola bar she’d eaten was long gone.

Imogen reengaged, doing her best to recall the instructions she’d heard before getting caught up in the bunch and flex of his biceps. “You’re saying the bubble thing will tell me when a fish strikes?”

“It’s called an indicator, but yes.”

The top of her head grazed his jaw as she peered up at him, his grunty expression now upside down. “My eyes indicate it’s a bubble.”

His exhale carried a boatload of exasperation, and while they’d come a long way since Monday, it was still more fun than it should be to press his buttons and watch his hackles rise.

What could she say? They were sexy hackles.

“Hey, Gator and I were halfway to the truck when you called us back to the rocky shore.” And while the dog got to sunbathe and snooze, Easton informed Imogen that he prided himself on everyone coming away from their fishing session with a tale about a nibble, if not a catch. “This is what you get for taking on a challenge of this magnitude.”

“You say that like I can’t out-stubborn you.”

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