Page 42 of Catch and Release Groom

“But I already caught something.” She tiptoed a flirty finger up his arm and playfully tugged on his earlobe. “You.”

Without his vest in the way, the move left her flush against him, and she wasn’t sure if the roar in her ears was from the rush of the river or her rapidly throbbing pulse.

There, in the beat of silence that followed, she realized a tiny part of her hoped he’d reply that yes, yes she had, and he was all hers, hook, line, and sinker.

And indicator, evidently.

Earlier in the day, she’d had a minor freak-out, afraid she was catching feelings. She’d attempted to ring up her bestie for advice, but the service was as spotty as her logic had been ever since Easton Reeves knocked on her door.

Finally, while standingjust soon a large moss-covered log that extended into the water, she’d found a glimmer of a signal. Not enough for a call, but to type in a message and hear that satisfyingswooshas it soared into the ether.It was also a good thing she’d literally had hours to kill, because it took a riling eternity to send and receive each text.

During their disjointed exchange, Mallory assured Imogen that nothing about her arrangement with Easton had to change. No-strings fun didn’t mean a lack of feelings, just realistic expectations.

Which she couldtotallydo.

“This is one of my best rods,” Easton said, seemingly out of nowhere, although she supposed they were still technically fishing. He also nudged her back around to face the fishing line and flow of the river. “Glad you at least had the good sense to toss it ashore before chasing after your phone.”

Was that a compliment? Or veiled criticism?

She braced for the reproach, ready to defend herself—anyone could’ve slipped; both her phone and case were waterproof; and she’d also purchased extra coverage, just in case.

“Keep the line moving, just like that.” Easton handed full control of the fishing pole over to her, no spiel about how, unlike her art, his fishing—or cycling, in Brett’s case—was more than a hobby.

Anxiety bubbled up the instant he let go and left her to her own devices, all the slipups she might make tumbling through her head. She narrowed in on the line and tightened her grip so she wouldn’t end up losing the rod and all the points she’d gained.

It struck her then how accustomed she’d become to hearing a list of grievances after any mistake she made, real or perceived.

“Now reel it in to maintain the tension.” His voice remained calm as he continued his instructions. “Good—you’re doing a great job.”

Warmth flowed through her veins, her inner self so hungry for approval she had to remind herself she didn’t settle for crumbs of praise anymore.

Since there was a big difference between rushing to obey and ignoring the advice of a qualified expert, she reeled in her line, slow and steady. “Like that?”

“That’s perfect.” He pointed across the surface of the water, his voice vibrating through her and shaking all sorts of feelings loose. “See the way the fly skims along, similar to the other bugs ’round here? That’s exactly what we want.”

Sunshine suffused her body, and here she was full-on swooning during a conversation about bugs. His use of “we” caused a cascade of tingles as well, even though it didn’t mean anything, and sorting out the burble of conflicting thoughts would have to wait until she was alone in her cabin.

It probably meant she also needed to get serious about the self-discovery she’d planned to do on this trip. Then again, who said she couldn’t get an assist from the ruggedly handsome fly-fisherman at her side?

Suddenly, she felt it. The slight tug.

Imogen scanned the surface of the river, holding her breath as she watched the orange sphere attached to her line. Down it went, and she jumped up and down and shouted, “The bubble, the bubble! It’s bobbing!”

“That’s your indicatorindicatingyou got a strike.” Water sluiced around his wading boots as he stepped closer, and she swung the handle of the rod his way, only for him to shake his head and call out instructions she quickly followed, her heart beating double-time.

“Now reel it in, keeping the tension tight.” At her harried glance, Easton placed his hand on her lower back. “I’m right here, but you don’t need me for the rest. You’ve got this.”

Shoulder muscles burning, she continued cranking at the reel, and there wasn’t anything slight about the pulling anymore. Easton continued his encouragement, cheering her on and then gripping the protruding handle at his hip. “I’ll have the net locked and loaded, so once you pull that fish out of the water, you can swing it right in.”

“Just reel in the fish and put it in the net,” she affirmed, her resolve growing as she wound the line faster.

“Yep, and I’ll take it from there.”

Sure. That sounded possibly doable.

A squeal escaped when the fish broke the surface, fins slapping, scales gleaming. Its rubbery spine allowed for all sorts of impressive acrobatics as the line tugged it opposite the current’s flow.

Droplets splattered her skin as she lifted the fishing pole, showing off her catch like a dude on a dating app. Then she swung the slippery bugger toward the net.

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