Her Rugged Rancher (26 page)

“Sure.” He stood and followed to the side of the boat farthest from the mangroves. “I thought you said the fish like to hide in the tree roots?”

“The little ones do, but getting your line trapped in the trees is a huge pain. Most of the time it snaps, and then a bird can get tangled in whatever is left in the branches.” She patted him on the back. “Don't worry. There are plenty of fish on this side of the boat, too. Now, take the pole in your right hand, like this.”

She quickly showed him how to hold the pole with one finger securing the line before releasing the wire bail that controlled the reel. He imitated her movements, finding that the muscle memory built from those trips as a kid was still there.

“Good, now just bring the tip of the pole back. No, not so stiff...that's it, you've got it!”

Without even really thinking, he released the line just as the pole swung overhead and his hook sailed out to land right in the middle of the cove. Hot damn, it was like riding a bike, you never really forgot. Thank heavens for muscle memory.

Mollie beamed, her smile as bright as the Florida sun overhead. “Great cast! You'll be a fisherman yet.”

“I have to catch something first.”

“You will—I have faith in you. Besides, you have an excellent teacher.”

Her words proved prophetic, and what seemed like only minutes later he felt a tug on his line. The current? Or something more. A second later a harder tug gave him his answer. “I think I've got something!”

“Ooh, awesome! Keep reeling. Let's see what you got.”

He had no intention of stopping; he was having too much fun. Seconds ticked by with the turning of the reel as he brought the fish closer to the boat. When it broke the water, Mollie leaned out and grabbed the line, handing him his prize, a sleek white and silver speckled fish.

“You did it! That's a spotted trout, and if it's big enough to be legal it's our dinner tonight.”

He was grinning like a fool, but he didn't care. He was on a boat in Paradise, he'd caught a fish and he had a beautiful woman smiling at him. Simple pleasures, sure, but often those were the best kind.

* * *

Mollie couldn't take her eyes off of Noah. His bronze skin was shining in the bright sun, his hair ruffled by the breeze, and he was standing there like every proud fisherman before him, except he wasn't every fisherman. He was a famous artist. And yet that didn't matter, not out here. In his T-shirt and flip flops, he looked...perfect.

“So, is he big enough?”

Right, focus on the task at hand, Mollie. You're fishing, for heaven's sake; since when do you get all girly when you could be fishing?

“I'll grab the ruler, just a sec.” Digging in the tackle box, she found the same folding ruler she'd used for her own first fish and measured carefully. “Fourteen inches. That's an inch under legal. Looks like he's gotta go back. Need some help unhooking him?”

“No, let me try.” His brows furrowed in concentration as he carefully eased the hook back out. “Did it. See, I'm a quick learner.”

“It helps that you're good with your hands.” His eyes widened at the remark. “I mean, with sculpting and—oh, hell, you know what I mean. Just put the fish back in the water and pretend I didn't say that, okay?” She knew from long experience that the best way to get past one of her ill-thought-out remarks was to just acknowledge it and move on.

Smirking, he did as she instructed, proving once again he could follow instructions. If only her tongue would do the same. “Ready to try again?”

“Sure, but I'll bait it myself this time. You haven't even gotten a line in the water yet. I can fend for myself.”

“Thanks.” She quickly baited her own hook and cast out into her favorite spot, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was managing fine, which was no surprise. He really was good with his hands, which despite her protest to the contrary had her thinking about all the other ways he could use them.

Damn, she needed to cool off before she did something crazy, like make a move on him. She never did that. Guys were not interested in skinny brunettes with fish slime on their hands; they wanted blonde bombshells who got manicures and wore sundresses. Her own cutoffs were getting so frayed she'd need to throw them out soon, and her tank top was faded and plain. Her biggest nod to fashion was her extensive collection of bathing suits. It's not that she disliked shopping as much as she figured she was never going to look like a supermodel, so why bother?

Noah might make her feel good about herself, but she needed to remember she was still a small-town tomboy who probably smelled like bait. And even if he was interested, he was leaving in a week. She respected herself too much to be just an upgrade on some guy's vacation package. She needed to treat him like all the other guys she knew, a buddy, someone to have some laughs with. She could do that. She just needed to put things back in perspective.

Thankfully, when it came to perspective, she had a secret weapon. Putting her pole in one of the rod holders, she retrieved her camera bag from where she'd stowed it earlier. Her Canon Rebel was secondhand, but worked better than a lot of the newer models she'd seen tourists carrying. More importantly, she'd spent enough time with it to learn all its quirks, until it had the same familiar comfort as a favorite pair of slippers.

Noah was watching his line with the intensity of a lion stalking its prey, and she was able to snap several shots of him before he noticed.

“I wondered how long it would take you to get that thing out.”

“Sorry, I don't usually sneak photos of people like that. You just looked so....” Gorgeous? Distracting? “Focused,” she finished. “I can get rid of it if you want, but it's a good shot.”

He shrugged. “If it's good, keep it.”

It was good, she knew without looking. She'd felt that tingle that said the shot was exactly how she wanted it to be. “Thanks. And I promise I'll give you a heads-up if I aim your way again.”

Glancing at her still slack line, she moved to the bow. There was an anhinga perched on a partially sinking tree stump drying its wings, just begging to be photographed. Stretching out on her belly, she steadied the camera, letting her world shrink down to the size of her viewfinder. Shot after shot, the hypnotic sound of the shutter clearing her mind. By the time the gangly bird flew off, she had a cramp in her neck and could feel the sting of a sunburn starting. No telling how long she'd been there; hopefully Noah wasn't too bored. So much for being a fun tour guide.

She rolled over and saw him reeling in his line, Baby asleep at his feet. A minute later, he pulled up a small fish, deftly snagging it in one hand. “Are these things good to eat?”

“Oh, yeah, that's a mangrove snapper, but he's a bit too small.”

“I figured, but this is the third one I've caught. The first two were bigger, but I wasn't sure what they were or if I should keep them, so I let them go. Guess I'll send this one back to his buddies.” He deftly released the fish, unconcernedly watching it swim away.

“Two more? You should have said something!”

“I didn't want to break your concentration. I hate it when people interrupt me when I'm working.”

She shook her head. “I appreciate that, but I'm supposed to be helping you. You could have kept those bigger ones for dinner tonight.”

“I'm fine. There was nothing pressing I needed. Besides, we can still have a fish dinner.”

“I don't think so.” She eyed the sun, now directly overhead. “It's getting too hot to catch much now. We'd have to stay out until nearly dark if we wanted to have a chance, and I didn't bring enough food or water for that.”

“You forget, there's more than one way to skin a cat. Er, fish.” He winked. “Trust me. Be at the Sandpiper at six and I'll show you.”

* * *

Noah stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. After the fishing trip this morning, he'd taken a walk on the beach, then ordered room service for lunch, staying in his room to work on some sketches and catch up on email. He'd also used part of the afternoon to track down the area's best seafood restaurant. Initially he'd approached Nic, but the hotel proprietor had deferred to his wife, explaining that Jillian had lived on the island far longer and was the better source of information.

She'd been exactly that, and he now had a reservation for two at a place called Pete's Crab Shack and instructions to bring back a slice of key lime pie. It seemed the mother-to-be had a craving for it. Hopefully the place was as good as they had hyped it to be; he wanted to do something nice for Mollie after all the time she'd spent with him this morning.

He'd had a really good time, far better than he'd expected. She'd impressed him with her knowledge of the plants and wildlife they'd seen, but mostly he'd just enjoyed being around her. He liked that she didn't need him to entertain her every minute; she didn't hang on his every word or try to flatter him. In fact, although she probably wouldn't admit it, she'd been so relaxed around him she'd forgotten he was there. Another guy might be offended, but he knew what it was like to get caught up in the moment. And having a bit of quiet time to himself had been just fine, too.

Pulling a pair of casual but neatly pressed khakis and a lightweight button-down shirt from the closet, he dressed and wondered what Mollie would be wearing. So far he'd only seen her in casual clothes; would she dress up tonight? Not that it mattered; she'd look great in a paper bag. She didn't need to fuss with her appearance to be a knockout; between her fine bone structure and those Bette Davis eyes she was already there. It really was too bad she'd insisted on things staying platonic. A vacation fling with someone like her would give him memories for a lifetime.

But she had every right to draw the line, and the part of him not located below the belt respected her for doing it. She was right, he wasn't sticking around, and she deserved way better than a quick roll in the sand with the likes of him. She deserved someone with a lot less baggage and a lot more permanence.

Tonight, though, tonight she was his, if only for dinner. Grabbing his wallet, he strode out of the room, locking the door and pocketing the old-fashioned key. One more sign that the Sandpiper was sticking to its historical roots. Everything in Paradise was that way—modern enough to be functional, but with a 1950s, wholesome vibe he'd never thought to see outside of a
Leave It to Beaver
rerun. As a kid, this was the kind of place he had wanted to live. Now, it was a great place to regroup and recover.

Downstairs he avoided the cluster of travelers in the lobby, ducking out the side door instead. The humidity slapped at him as soon as he stepped onto the deck, but the temperature had dropped a bit and the forecast was for a balmy evening. Even so, the whitewashed porch offered an extra measure of comfort. The wide roof protected him from the still-warm sun and oversize paddle fans provided a constant breeze. Rambling his way past comfortable-looking patio chairs and baskets of vividly blooming orchids, he made his way to the front steps where he'd first met Mollie, just twenty-four hours ago.

And there she was, walking up the path in a pair of black jeans that looked painted on and a halter top held up by the thinnest of straps. One good tug and...well, he wasn't going to think about that. There was enough skin showing already to make him a bit weak in the knees as he descended the steps to meet her.

“I'm a little early,” she apologized, “but I couldn't wait any longer—I'm starving.”

“Well, then, let's get going.” He kept pace with her across the parking lot, wedging himself into her tiny car. “I think I could get very used to being chauffeured around, although I'd request a bigger limo next time.”

“Hey, beggars can't be choosers, and if you think I'm waiting around for a cab, you've lost your mind. I need food, stat, and you promised me a fish dinner.”

“I did. We have reservations at Pete's Crab Shack. Jillian recommended it.”

She glanced over at him in surprise. “I didn't think Pete's took reservations.”

An uneasy feeling settled in his gut. “Is it not good? I told Jillian I wanted the best. If there's somewhere else you'd rather go, just name it.”

Pulling out of the lot, she grinned. “No, Pete's is great, and it really does have the best seafood anywhere on the island. It's just not the kind of place you make reservations at.” Chuckling, she patted his leg, sending heat straight to his groin. “I can't imagine what they thought when you called.”

“Probably that I'm some pretentious out-of-towner who doesn't know how to blend in with the locals. Guess they're right.”

“Hey, I'm flattered by the thought, even if it was unnecessary. And if we
had
needed reservations, I'd be glad you called.”

“You're saying it's the thought that counts?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Well, that's something. So, if this isn't the kind of place that takes reservations, what kind of place is it?”

She slowed and turned into a crowded parking lot. “You tell me.”

* * *

Mollie parked the car and tried to see the restaurant through Noah's eyes. She hadn't lied—Pete's really did serve great food—but right about now he was probably kicking himself for his choice in venue. It sounded like he'd been expecting something fancy, and well, Pete's wasn't. Maybe she should have warned him, but she refused to be embarrassed.

The weathered wooden structure was perched precariously along the dunes, looking like one good storm would tumble it right into the sea. Outdoor wooden picnic benches made up most of the seating, with a tiny indoor dining room that was mostly used by senior citizens and out-of-towners.

Noah got out of the car and scanned the building. “When Jillian told me the name, I kind of thought
shack
was a euphemism.”