Heather accepted the fishing rod from Bo without squeamishness. She held it in front of her with a determined gleam in her eye.
After he baited his own rod, he reached out and took her hand. He was pleased she didn’t resist. Her hand felt slim and small in his. “Careful, now. These rocks can be slippery. On some of these I’ve paid the price of admission.” He guided her up the rocks to reach a small flat bit of sand, a perfect perch for fishing. “This is my secret spot.”
“Secret, huh?” she teased. “Every car that crosses the bridge can see us.”
“Yeah, but they aren’t looking at us. And even if they were, they can’t see we’re standing on sand. Besides, from where they’re looking, they think we’re just fools standing on the rocks looking for dolphins. Which, by the way . . .” He pointed toward the bridge.
Heather squealed with joy when she spotted the pair of dolphins arcing in the water under the bridge. The dorsal fins eased in and out of the water with enviable grace, heading their way.
“They’re so lovely,” she breathed, peering out over the water. “I’ve never seen a dolphin before. It’s so incredible to watch them.”
Bo loved watching her expressions shift, revealing her extreme pleasure in the simplest things. He doubted he’d ever tire of watching her face.
“I still can’t believe no one’s ever taken you fishing,” he marveled. “How could a person reach twenty-six years of age and not know how to fish?”
“Easy,” she replied. “I never knew anyone who fishes.”
“Your father?”
Heather shook her head. “Nope.”
“Well, thank God I came along.”
She slanted him a gaze, smiling a little before glancing away. “Exactly.”
HEATHER COULDN’T BELIEVE she was flirting so outrageously with Bo today. She felt that they’d crossed some line yesterday when she’d told him about her anxiety. Knowing that he understood and clearly still wanted to be with her helped her lower the steel wall she tended to raise at the first triggers of fear. There was a new freedom between them, hard to put into words. Perhaps playful, definitely flirtatious. Whatever the word, the mood was definitely reaching a new level.
Bo let her watch him cast a few times, to give her a sense of the movement. He was as fluid with his motions here as he was working with wood. As an artist, she appreciated how everything he did had a sense of elegance to it. His movements were controlled yet graceful. Her fingers itched to sketch the way his muscles tightened as he cast far out into the sea. Then his tanned forearms grew taut as he reeled the line back in. Over and over, in an intricate dance. He savored the practice, she could tell from the expression on his face. When he turned to face her again, she startled, wildly wondering if he could tell she was watching him rather than the rod and line. There was something in his smile that told her he knew.
“So what are you fishing for?”
“Whiting. Spots. Croakers. Maybe pompano. I like to use live bait for them. If I was alone and it was low tide like this, I’d go wander among the rocks and hunt for flounder.”
“You can catch flounder here?”
“Can I?” He made a mock harrumph. “Honey, they call me the Flounder Whisperer. I work bait around the rock groins moving from groin to groin with light tackle, a five-gallon bucket, a cast net, a floating bait bucket, and a small nylon tackle bag. I wear old tennis shoes, though like I said, I’ve had my share of cuts and bruises on those rocks. Along here I can slide the flounder up on the sand, no landing net needed. I caught a twenty-six-inch flounder last summer,” he added proudly.
“I have a lot to learn,” she admitted. “I don’t know one fish from another.”
“You’ll learn. Ready to try?”
“Absolutely.”
Bo stepped closer to her and set down his rod. Moving slowly, as if he were approaching a skittish animal, he stepped behind her, and his long arms slid around her to take hold of the rod.
Heather smelled his pine soap, and when his body touched hers she felt his warmth and his power. She closed her eyes a moment to still the fluttering she felt. She turned her head to look up, but couldn’t see his face. “Am I holding the rod right?”
Bo’s face lowered closer to hers as he reached out to shift her hand into the correct position, adjusting her grip slightly, his fingers pressing lightly against hers. She swallowed thickly and felt warmth in parts of her body that made her light-headed. She’d never been so physically attracted to any man before. He was saying something about a bale, but she couldn’t understand any of it for the pounding of her heart. When he stepped back, she felt a rush of cooler air and gulped, shaking away the fog in her brain. She had to pay attention.
“It’s like throwing a baseball,” he was saying, moving his arm back in a pitching motion. “You just put your finger on the line like I showed you, and then release it.” He stretched his arm far out and moved his index finger. “Got it?”
“Could you show me again where to put my finger?” she asked, feeling silly for having to ask again.
Bo moved closer, but this time he didn’t wrap his arms around her. It might’ve been better for the purpose of the lesson, though she would have preferred it if he did.
“Your index finger is what we call the trigger finger. You grab the line with it. Like that, see?”
Heather nodded, determined to get it right.
Bo moved behind her again, and she closed her eyes as another surge of sensations raced through her.
“Pull back your arm; bring it back, that’s right. Now out it goes.”
She cast the rod with a sharp push, but nothing happened.
“The line didn’t go out,” she said, disappointed.
Bo laughed and shook his head. “You have to lift your finger from the line. That’s why it’s called the trigger finger. Don’t be afraid, Heather. Let ’er rip.”
Heather licked her lips and tried again. She brought her arm back and, once she cast the rod forward, lifted her finger and saw the bait soar out over the water to land with a satisfying splash.
“I did it!” She felt triumphant.
“Yes, you did. Now reel her in,” he said encouragingly, stepping closer and showing her how to do it properly. “Do it a few times. You’ll get better with practice. And lookee there”—he pointed to the water—“there’s a nice red drum just taunting you.”