Angling for you, p.5
Angling for You, page 5
Pull it together, Gray. This woman was doing a job. And she was a student at Montgomery U. That was a double helping of hands off. He mimed another cast without thinking.
“Good. Much better.” Sam’s blue eyes shone with approval and Graham felt a surge of a different kind of pleasure.
“In other words, not a hundred percent terrible?”
Sam looked at him for what felt like forever, the only sound the rushing of the river. “You lose that self-deprecating thing that’s getting in your way and you might actually learn something.” Her face collapsed from a cool, expressionless mask to total mortification and she smacked her hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
Graham swallowed. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one being thickheaded.”
“You’re not. I’m the one who’s supposed to be a professional here. And…” She paused, looking at the river, her eyes scanning the flow. “I’m not exactly doing the most bang-up job of it.” She sighed. “In fact, I’ve been off my game from the start.”
“You’re fine. I feel like I’ve been stepping in it from the beginning.”
Her mouth skewed to the side and she squinted at him. “Maybe we should start again?”
Graham twitched the rod. “Does that mean I should go back to casting like an arachnophobe trying to smash a spider with a broom made of cooked spaghetti?”
She tilted her head, humor lighting her expression for the first time, making her face even more attractive. “Maybe we don’t need to go that far.” She stuck out her hand again. “Samantha Halvorsen. Please call me Sam.”
Graham moved to shake, realized the rod was in his right hand, fumbled it to his left, and wrapped his fingers around hers. “Graham Evans.”
“No nicknames?” The humor was still there in her expression and he was glad that he had been absurd if it kept the laugh lines crinkling at the edges of her eyes.
He feigned a shocked expression. “Only for my friends and family. We’ve just met, madam.”
Her lips pursed, but her eyes twinkled with humor. “True.”
Realizing he was still holding her hand, he released it.
“Shall we try your…first cast?” she asked, continuing to play along.
“Right.” He put the rod back in his right hand, wrapping his thumb around the handle.
“No,” she said. “Fingers like this, the rod rests here. Thumb points toward the tip.” Her hands moved over his, shifting and correcting his grip. He told himself he hadn’t carelessly held the rod on purpose.
He was a terrible liar. Especially to himself.
Sam was ninety-nine percent sure Graham was being a doofus on purpose. But instead of being exasperated, she was amused. Unlike so many of the guys she had to deal with every day, he treated her like a professional. And he had an appealing vein of self-awareness and self-deprecating humor.
Don and Mike should take lessons.
Her shoulders settled and she almost laughed. She hadn’t even realized how tense she had been until this small, seemingly inconsequential interchange. Stepping back from him, she nodded. “Try a cast now.”
His eyes slid sideways at her, as if he was checking for something, then returned to the river. His arm bent and extended, rocking back and forth in a more fluid motion. He looked like he was getting some muscle memory back—it made sense if he had been raised in the sport.
Fifteen years. She couldn’t imagine not fishing for fifteen years. She’d fish every day if she could.
“Again, please?”
He rolled his shoulders, inhaled, and tried again. His form wouldn’t be featured in any expert casting videos on YouTube, but it was good enough to continue.
“Good.” He grinned and the reaction to her mild praise was enough to derail her for a second.
Get yourself together. He is a client.
Total hands-off territory here. No matter how appealing his too-long hair, glasses, and beard were. No matter how delicious he smelled.
Enough. Shut that right down.
She bent to get her fly box out of her bag, pulling out a woolly bugger and attaching it to his line. “Come on.” Moving to a point on the bank that overlooked a wider spot of the river, she took the rod and stripped off a length of line, letting it pool at her feet, then handed the rod to him. She pointed at a point close to the opposite bank where the water circled in a small pool before continuing on downriver. “Try to land the fly there.”
Graham swallowed. Sam forced herself to watch his stance, his posture, his arm. Not the more intimate mouth or throat. He cast short, the woolly bugger plopping halfway to the pool.
“Sorry.” His eyes slid sideways as he stripped the line in and Sam resisted the urge to touch his arm.
“Don’t apologize. You’re here to learn. Try again.”
He nodded, his mouth firming and his eyes focusing on the pool. His arm came up again, bent, rocked, and extended.
“Shit.”
Sam bit her upper lip, trying not to laugh. This time his cast had flown out hard, overshooting its target, and the fly had caught in a tree on the other bank. Reaching out, she wrapped her fingers around the line and gave it a strong tug. The fly was stuck fast, the tree branch bouncing as she pulled.
“What do I do now?” His eyes swiveled from her face to the rustling branch, responding to her tugs but not letting go of the fly. She let go of the line.
“No worries. Reel it in.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’ll let you know if the rod won’t take it.”
He began to wind, the reel clicking slowly. When the slack was gone, he gave a tentative pull on the rod. The branch it was caught on swayed, fluttering the new leaves that had just started to emerge.
“Harder,” she said. “Give it a good yank. Just keep the rod and line straight and the rod won’t break.”
He glanced at her, tightened the reel another few clicks. He leveled the rod and gave it a quick jerk. The tippet at the end of the line gave as she knew it would and he reeled in the excess.
“Crap. The fly is gone.”
“That’s fine. I can tie more.”
“You tied that fly?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Now I feel doubly guilty.”
“No big deal.” But her cheeks had grown hot at his concern for her. She took the end of the line, pulled another length of tippet off the spool attached to her vest, and tied it to the leader. Pulling the fly box out again, she selected another woolly bugger. Before she could tie it on, his hand extended toward her, palm up.
“May I?”
“Sure.” She gave him the fly and he examined it, his eyes large behind the black frames. She shifted, self-consciousness rising in her. “It’s just a basic fly. Some of the guys think it’s beneath their dignity to fish a woolly bugger.”
His eyes lifted to hers and that peculiar intensity she had seen earlier was back. “Some guys are idiots. This is really nice.”
Sam’s eyes lifted to his and fixed him in place, suspicion radiating off of her. “I thought you hadn’t been fishing in fifteen years?”
He raised his hands, rod in one, fly in the other. “I haven’t. But my father had strong opinions on tying. This is a really pretty fly.”
She glanced at the fly he held with such delicate care. “Okay. So, tell me why you think it’s well-tied.”
He looked at it again, touching it with a reverent fingertip. “The body is beautiful. It’s smooth on the hook shank and the…I can’t remember what this fuzzy stuff is called…”
“The hackle.”
“The hackle is even and light. Not lumpy.” He shrugged. “I don’t have the vocabulary, but it looks like a fly. Not a caterpillar.”
She barked a brief laugh. “Fair enough.”
“Sorry. I know just enough to have an ill-informed opinion.”
She took the fly from his fingers again and attached it to the line—tippet, he reminded himself. Terminology was coming back to him in fits and starts, his vocabulary creaking open like a rusted cellar door.
His gaze moved from her hands—he was too fixated on her hands—to the water, swirling and dancing in the morning light filtering through the trees. The slight chill in the air was invigorating and the gentle rustling of the trees, the soft rush of the river, and birdsong the only sounds. The quiet sank into his bones and muscles and his shoulders let go of tension he didn’t even know he was holding.
“This is really nice. It’s beautiful out here,” he said, looking back at her.
She released the fly, letting it dangle from the end of his rod, and looked at him with an amused expression. “People don’t do this because it’s a chore.”
He huffed a laugh, looking at the swirling water. “Most people, no. But Gray Evans as a kid? If it wasn’t a chore, it was a duty.”
The weight of her gaze settled on him like a blanket. “And yet you came back to it.”
His jaw tightened in an ironic smile. “I’m a much more well-rounded adult.”
“I think that describes almost anyone. But why did you feel the need to try again? And why now?”
“It’s complicated.”
“The Phillipson rod?”
“Yeah, but not just that. I wasn’t a kid who wanted to do much. I wanted to be left alone to read.”
“Hence the librarian thing.”
He looked sideways at her. “Sort of. It’s not like I spend my workdays reading.”
“Fair enough.”
Graham paused, considering his words carefully. He was dangerously close to spilling his entire guts to this poor woman. She was too good a listener, too kind. “My dad…I always felt like he wanted us to be him when he took us fishing. And my brothers pretty much did just that. Now? I don’t know. Maybe he really did just want to share something he loved. He’s gone. I can’t ask him.” That hollow ache at the loss of him, the renewed feeling of loss for his mother, threatened to sink his peaceful mood.
“But he did leave you the rod.”
“Yeah. His best one. To the son who dropped the hobby like a hot potato the minute he was on his own.”
“So, you think he was trying to send you a message?”
He lifted his hands, the empty one palm up to the blue sky. “I have no way of knowing. But it seemed like a good idea to at least try again on my own terms.”
Chapter Five
Sam watched Graham as he cast again. He was starting to tire, and it was nearly lunchtime. The sun had gotten hot and he had taken off his jacket. She had expected academia to have given him a soft, stooped posture, but his shoulders were lean and square. He had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and his forearms were wiry and hard. She wondered what he did for exercise. Clearly something.
No. Stop wondering. He’s not an attractive man, he’s a client. Mind back on the job.
He looked at her, anxious eyes seeking her approval, and she smiled. “That’s great. You’ve really improved. I can see what you knew years ago starting to come back.”
“Really?” The dimple dented his cheek again through the beard.
“Truly. It’s time to call it a day, though.”
Graham checked his watch. “Holy cow. I can’t believe it. Noon already?”
“Time flies when…you know the cliché.”
He shot her a shy smile. “I really did. Have fun, that is.”
It shouldn’t have made her feel so good, his admission, his smile. But it did. She swallowed, tried to retrieve her brisk, professional persona. “I’m glad. I’ve loved this sport for a long time. It’s great to see people take to it. Especially with your…complicated history.” She still wasn’t sure why he had been so open with her or how she felt about it. She reached for her rod and he handed it to her, turning to pick up the Phillipson and his jacket.
“Let me help you with the rest of the stuff,” he said as she secured the lines and packed up her gear.
Shaking her head, she said, “No thanks. I got it. I’m used to it.”
“My mother would spin in her grave if I didn’t help out.”
“Help a helpless woman, you mean?”
He shook his head. “Anyone. She was…very strong on fairness. Justice.”
“Ah.” As a test, Sam handed him the two fly rods in her right hand and headed up the trail with the rest of the other gear.
“I…”
“Expected me to hand you a heavier thing?” Sam didn’t look over her shoulder, but she could hear him behind her, his soft footsteps barely audible. She liked that about him. He trod lightly in the woods. Seemed to respect nature.
“Um.”
“I’ve carried a lot more gear than this a lot farther. I can handle it.”
A low chuckle surprised her. She stopped and pivoted. He shook his head and said, “No, please. I should have known better.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means my profession has more women than men in it and I should be more aware of what I’m saying and doing.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Really?” Huh. Maybe he was a fast learner in more than one area.
“Really.” His expression was guileless.
She thought about what he had said for a moment. “Not the same thing as being a woman in a man’s environment, though, I’d guess.”
“No, probably not.” He shrugged. The awkward moment stretched between them.
“Anyway.” She started to turn back up the trail toward the parking lot.
“Have lunch with me?”
Why had he said that?
Well, he knew why he said it. He didn’t want the day to end. Or at least, he didn’t want his time with her to end.
But she was an attractive woman. She had to have a ton of jerks hitting on her, trying to demand her time. And now he had just put himself in that category.
Besides, she was a student. Hadn’t he already told himself a thousand times today that put her in the totally hands-off zone? It was so much easier, putting all students in a box marked “undateable,” regardless of whether or not they worked for the library. He wanted to bash his forehead against the nearest tree trunk until that basic, crucial point was hammered home.
Her expression was unreadable. His, if he could see his own face, was probably ludicrous. His facial muscles felt stiff. He must look like one of those old-fashioned ventriloquist’s dummies. He sure as hell felt like one, blurting out any old thing that flashed through his head like that.
“I…” The apology forming behind his mouth seemed to come out in slow motion.
“Sure.”
Wait. What?
“I have a shift starting at The Fishing Hole in a couple of hours, so it would be most convenient for me to go there. They make a great burger, if that sounds good to you.”
“The Fishing Hole?”
“The bar in Taskerville?” Sam’s feet shuffled in the leaf mould on the trail, her eyes flicking up to one side. “I mean, unless you didn’t mean it…”
“No! No, I meant it. I was just surprised you said yes.”
She gave him a wary look. “Then why did you ask?”
He strove for a reason that sounded cooler than the truth. Decided to go with the truth anyway. “I enjoy spending time with you. It was an impulse.”
“One that you regret?”
“No.”
Her expression softened into something almost like a smile. “Well. Okay, then.” She turned and started moving up the trail again.
He followed her for a few moments in silence. “How many jobs do you have?” he asked.
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes slitting in what looked like weary amusement. “Just now? Two.”
“You have more than two sometimes?”
“I’ve taken graduate assistantships when I could get them for the tuition remission. I sometimes fill in at the tasting room of a winery in Poolesville.”
For some reason, he sensed that she was holding back. “Three or four jobs at a time. Is that all?”
She stopped and turned around again, her face guarded. “I don’t usually talk about my side gig as an international assassin for hire…” Her mouth quirked like she was repressing a smile.
He raised his hands, both full of fishing rods. “If you told me, you’d have to kill me, I get it.”
“Right.” She nodded and turned back up the trail.
They resumed walking and Graham mulled over what she had told him. This woman worked hard. She worked two, sometimes three, maybe four jobs. She was a grad student. She either had a near-pathological need to be busy or she was just staying afloat.
He reached the parking lot, remembering he needed to tip her as she was putting her pack in the old truck’s cab. She took the rods from him with thanks, breaking them down with smooth, practiced motions, but her shoulders went a little tense when he dug out his wallet. He handed her a fifty and she looked at it for a moment before lifting her gaze and nodding at him.
“Thanks.”
“You more than earned it.”
She cleared her throat. “Since you don’t know where The Fishing Hole is, you want to follow me?”
“Absolutely.” Right now, he’d follow her anywhere.
Sam walked into the bar with a sinking feeling in her stomach. This was a mistake. She shouldn’t even crack the door to something more than a totally professional relationship with a fishing client. A good client, at that. Someone who took her seriously and tipped well. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be into the fly fishing chat boards or any other kind of gossip, but you never knew. She thought again about what kind of stories could go around and her stomach sank even lower, around the vicinity of her toes.
Getting a reputation for anything other than a serious, knowledgeable, and talented guide was off the table.
She didn’t know why she had said yes to his “impulse” invitation to lunch. But she had at least been smart about the venue. She could control things here. Graham Evans didn’t seem like a bad guy, but you never knew. And Denise and Jan would have her back if something went wrong.
