Page 5 of Catch and Release Groom

Was that a snort of laughter? Maybe she wasn’t too bad with the jokes after all.

“Oh, by the way,” he called out as he snagged his net and tackle box out of the bed of his truck. But Imogen was already off and scampering toward the shoreline, Gator by her side. Awe softened her features as she took in their peaceful surroundings, and for a moment, he got caught up watching.

A smile even tried to spread before he reminded himself not to get carried away. He appreciated her recognition of the place he considered his home away from home.

But then she had to go and ruin it by whipping her phone out of her pocket. Now he wished he’d let her believe the place was infested with gators, as she’d stopped paying any heed to the scenery or where she was stepping altogether, too glued to the screen in her hand.

“Careful,” he called, irritation filtering in once again. “The rocks get slippery with all the moss and—”

Sure enough, Imogen wobbled and flung out her arms for balance. He wasn’t close enough to catch her, but she managed to right herself.

Arms loaded with supplies, he charged down the grassy slope at a clipped pace, behind in a race he’d never agreed to run. His studded waders handled the terrain with ease, and while he didn’t expect tourists to fork over that kind of cash for boots for a lesson or two, most of them did at least a modicum of research beforehand. “Those thin soles aren’t doing you any favors,” he muttered. “Flip-flops and shorts are best left for the beach.”

“Are you grumbling about something over there?” she asked, a hint of mischief in the curve of her smile. “Seems like a waste of time when you could be soaking in this gorgeous scenery and all this fresh air.”

She sucked in a lungful and tipped her face to the sky. As if those red lips of hers needed any additional highlighting. She wiggled toenails painted in the same vivid shade, and he gave the dainty silver ring adorning her second toe all of five minutes until it was lost to the river. Or maybe some inexperienced fish would catch the glint and she’d be the first person to successfully use her own toe as bait.

As if you don’t want to suck one into your mouth.

His throat went dry as he trailed his gaze up her exposed legs, equally as bared to the elements. And to his deprived libido, as it were.

Since he’d rather steer clear of that hazardous path, he funneled his focus into a more appropriate, responsible line of thought. Skin as pale as Imogen’s would burn to a crisp, particularly with the water reflecting the sunshine right back at it.

“You have any sunscreen in that tiny bag?” Easton tilted his head, indicating the drawstring pack she’d slung over one shoulder.

“It’s not that tiny—although it’s lightweight, has several pockets, and is waterproof to boot.” She sucked in air through her teeth as she waded deeper into the water. “I knew it’d come in handy on this trip.”

“Well, it’s certainly neon enough to prevent hunters from thinking you’re a deer.”

“Aww, thank you,” she said, the sarcasm dripping from her words conveying that she’d noticed she was getting under his skin and seizing the opportunity to burrow deeper. Fair, he supposed, as he’d done some digging himself with that commentary on her shoes. “I left the bottle of fifty SPF in my room, since I haven’t had the chance to unpack yet.”

“What about bug spray?”

“Are you deterred by that?” Her smile reached canary-eating levels. “If so, I might need to make a stop at the store.”

“Funny,” he deadpanned. Truth be told, he’d had to clamp his lips to avoid chuckling at her wit. He dug into his backpack, grabbed his tube of anti-bug sunscreen, and extended it her way. “Don’t want anyone complaining about the flies, since that’s what we’re using as lures in the first place.”

Imogen eyed the cartoon badger on the front of the bottle for a couple of seconds as if it might bite her, and then she finally took it with an uttered, “Thank you.”

While she rubbed a layer of thick white lotion on her skin, he busied himself with getting a rod ready for her.

“I smell like a tiki torch,” she said with a sniff to her forearm. “At least my flips-flops match the scent, if not the setting. Do I get any points for that?”

“Only if you’re at the beach.”

Imogen twisted a strand of hair around her finger, a dark coil that accented her flippancy. “Technically, a beach is any pebbly or sandy shore, so…” Did she think her over-the-top eye-batting would work on him?

Wait. Was she…flirting with him?

Nope, and it didn’t matter.

Using his teeth to tighten the knot between the leader and the tippet, he let her words and confusing actions slide right off him—he refused to be the first of them to lose an item to the river on this outing. He wet the surgeon’s knot by sucking the line into his mouth and gave the ends another firm tug.

When he twisted toward Imogen, she was watching him closely. The cocked, curious angle of her head reminded him of the way Gator occasionally studied him, and so he shifted closer and explained what he was doing.

That was the job, after all. “I’m gonna go ahead and assume you didn’t bring any of your own lures in that handy bag of yours.”

“Do I look like a person who takes fishing lures everywhere I go?”

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