Two Cabins, One Lake: An Alaskan Romance (11 page)

Zack banged his fist on the door, rattled the knob, and then
banged some more.  “Come out, Helly!  Come out and tell us about your
neighbor.”  He said it in his evil sing-song voice that gave me nasty
flashbacks to childhood teasing.

Oh no.
  I’d shown weakness—and my brothers smelled
blood in the water.

I looked around wildly.  It occurred to me to climb out the
window, and take shelter in my generator shack.  I could live there for a week,
eating high bush cranberries and peeing in the woods.  For the rest of the
visit, I’d just entirely avoid the three-headed mythical monster I occasionally
called family.

Or, or…if Zack picked the lock, I could hit him upside the
head with the plunger.  Yeah, I liked that idea better.  Way too many mosquitos
in the shed.

I heard voices conferring outside the door, and my
apprehension increased.

“Helly, we’ve reached a decision,” Zack announced.  “We
won’t ask to borrow the neighbor’s canoe.”

I heaved a huge sigh, shoulders folding forward with the
depth of my relief.

“We’re gonna invite him to come fishing with us, instead.” 
I heard a mad laugh, and then feet pounding away.

“
No!
”  I frickin’
shrieked
it, and threw the
door open.  But it was too late.  They were already gone.

Through the picture window, I saw the three of them running
along the beach toward the neighbor’s cabin.  And what else could I do?  I took
off after them, continuing to yell, “Noooooooo!”

Yeah, that silence I was telling you about in which birds
sang and water lapped?  Drowned, shot all to hell, and trampled to death.

Gary opened his door just as I ran up behind the abominable
trio.  I saw him look at me, and then I doubled over panting, trying to catch
my breath after the mad dash from my cabin to his.

“Well
hello
, Helly’s new neighbor,” Zack said, his drawl
telling me in no uncertain terms he’d noticed my lake-buddy’s sex appeal. 
“We’re her brothers, Rory, J.D., and I’m Zack.  And we were
wondering
if
you’d like to go fishing with us today.”

I straightened up and shook my head vigorously, making big
eyes at Gary, begging him to decline.  He looked at me for a long moment,
holding eye contact.  I really thought I was making an impression on him, that
he’d say no—I mean, really, there was no reason on this earth why he’d say ‘yes’!—and
he’d go back into his cabin, and I’d go back to my side of the lake, and
everything would be right with the world.

But then Gary said, “Sure.  I’m Gary.”

Nooooooooo.
  It felt like that part in the movies
where the camera angle implodes.

Zack shot me a triumphant look, then, “Sweet.  We’re getting
ready to go now, gonna take the canoes.  We’ll probably be gone most of the
day, so if you’ve got any snacks, or beer,” he said hintingly.

I was so shocked, I actually stood there for several seconds
after my brothers had turned and walked away.  And Gary continued to stand in
his doorway, looking down at me, his lips twitching.  I just couldn’t
believe
…

We met Gary down at the canoes fifteen minutes later.  Zack
climbed in with Gary, while Rory, J.D., and I distributed our weight in mine. 
They tried to make me take the center seat perched on a cooler, but I
absolutely refused.  It was
my
canoe, and
my
fishing equipment,
and
I
was gonna wind up cleaning the fish, and
I
was the lightest
so the front was mine by right anyway—I was taking the front, dammit.

And then, of course they didn’t want to fish on
my
lake.

“That’s too easy,” Zack called from the other canoe as we
pulled alongside.  “Let’s go over the beaver dam, then take a couple of those
portages, get up to one of those lakes where no one ever fishes.”  He waggled
his brows.  “Catch the Big One, one even bigger than cousin Ronnie got.”

Usually I was all for a marathon fishing trip, but Gary was
in the other canoe.  He was looking at me with his eyes glowing unnervingly
bright as they caught the sunlight shining off the water, looking relaxed and
competent, his biceps bulging with each smooth, strong stroke of his paddle. 
Gary who’d kissed me, who’d beat thugs up for me, whose fingers felt like
heaven sliding between my legs.  Gary, who’d been fueling all of my sexual
fantasies since he’d first burned his way across my retinas.

I wanted to bounce up and down on his cock, but I still didn’t
like him.  I also didn’t want to get to know him.  I didn’t want emotional
investment.  I didn’t want to confirm he was an ass, or find out my dog was
right and he was really a good guy.  I wanted him to stay over there on his
shelf, and just take him down when I had an itch I needed scratched.

Going fishing with him, especially fishing all evening,
wasn’t part of the Shelf Plan.

“Are you sure Gary is up for such a long trip?” I asked. 
Hint,
hint.
  I kinda desperately wished Zack were in range of my paddle.  He’d
been careful to steer clear of me since the fishing invitation, but I really
wanted to wallop him one.

They all looked at Gary.  Gary was looking at me.

I probably looked like hitting something.

“Sounds like fun,” the fucker said.  Damn him.  Damn
them
.

We nosed into the beaver dam and climbed out onto shore.  There
was a mad shuffle as my canoe-buddies and I tried to keep our balance on wet, beaver-chewed
sticks while carry-pushing the canoe with the rods and cooler up over the dam
and climbing up ourselves.

Zack and Gary mirrored our actions on the other end of the
dam.  With less stuff and fewer people, they made it to the top at about the
same time.  Once my canoe was afloat above the dam, Rory and J.D. climbed back
aboard.

Zack leaned in to help steady my canoe, and I stepped back
so I wouldn’t be knocked into the water.  He nudged me, knocking me off
balance.  My foot caught on a stick and I wobbled, arms windmilling, a breath
away from toppling over backward and plunging three feet down and into the
lake.

A hand grabbed my arm, hauling me upright just in time to
see Zack vault into my seat.  With a cackle of glee, he pushed the canoe—
my
canoe—off into the narrow channel. 

“Zack!  What the fuck?”

There was crazed laughter as the three paddled quickly
away.  Leaving me with Gary.

Leaving me.  With Gary.

I looked down, realizing there was a big, strong hand still
on my arm.  Beyond that hand, a bicep bulged before a firm shoulder, and above
that sat a rugged, slightly confused face.  Gary was also staring down at his
hand.

He let me go.

We stared at each other for a long moment.  I didn’t know
what he was thinking; I couldn’t tell.  He might have been undressing me with
his eyes, or replaying the sounds I made when I came.

I wondered if he could see what I was thinking.  I was
thinking that from here, I could boonie-bust back to my cabin.  It’d be a bit
marshy and a bit muddy, and I was in shorts, so the wild roses would scratch
the hell out of my lower legs.  But it was doable.  The urge to ditch was
strong.

He looked away.  “You getting in?” he asked.

I crossed my arms, glaring at him.  “Why are you doing
this?” I asked.

“Maybe I want to go fishing.”

“What do you know about fishing?  You didn’t even have your
own rod.”  I’d had to bring an extra for him.

He glanced back at me, looking relaxed.  Lazy, even. 
“Nothing,” he answered.  “Maybe I want to learn.”

I scoffed.

“Maybe I want to get to know my neighbor,” he suggested.

This time, I could see it.  I could see, from the glint in
his eyes, he was thinking about me naked, what he’d seen of me.  Felt of me.  I
shuddered, remembering the sweet slide of his fingers.

“They’re getting away,” he drawled, nodding toward my
brothers.

I glared out over the water, trying to make my decision.

It was a gorgeous day, the sun high overhead in a bright
blue sky.  A slight breeze was keeping the few mosquitos that dared to venture
out over the water off of us.  I’d already spotted a half-dozen pike swimming
away from the canoe in the clear, shallow water.  It was a good day for fishing.

And what would I do if I decided not to go?  Stay home, shut
myself in my cabin?  Play video games?  Or write some more erotica featuring
the man that stood three feet from me?  A pathetic thought.  The thought of
using my pink, bunny-eared vibrator was even sadder.  My vibrator couldn’t
climb in through my window, or pin me up against the shower wall.

The man standing next to me could.  And already had, in my
stories.

I just had to avoid getting attached.  I could do that.  I’d
be sitting several feet away, and facing forward.  I wouldn’t have to touch
him, and I didn’t have to look at him.  Hell, I didn’t even have to
talk
to him.

It was a beautiful day, and I wouldn’t let him ruin that for
me.

I think he knew the moment I capitulated, because his mouth
curved into a smile.

I ignored how sexy he looked with it, and I climbed into his
damn canoe.

Chapt
er Nine

“W
e’re
gonna catch a bigger fish than them,” I said, breaking the silence.  I knew I
was breaking my own no-talking rule, one which Gary had been obeying without
having to be told, but I didn’t do silence well.  I’d been not-talking to him
for two whole lakes now.

We’d portaged twice, and were on the fourth lake in a chain,
the one Zack had wanted to catch the Big One on.  It was now later afternoon,
probably verging on 4 p.m. and my brothers were already out casting into the
water.  In the middle of the lake.  Idiots.

“Dunno,” said Gary.  “They’re pretty big.”

I whipped around and gave him a Look, breaking my no-looking
rule while I was at it.

Gary chuckled.  “Okay,” he said, “a big fish.”  He stroked
with his paddle, then lifted it, the dripping loud in the silence.  “What are
we fishing for again?”

“Ugh.”  It had been a mistake to look at him.  I was
still
looking at him, and my disgust didn’t seem to be making him ugly, like I wanted
it to.  In fact, had he somehow managed to get more attractive in the past
couple hours I’d been ignoring him?  It sure as shit seemed that way. 

“Northern Pike,” I informed him.

He looked confused.  “But this is Alaska.  Aren’t you
supposed to have record-setting Rainbow Trout and a half dozen kinds of wild salmon?”

“Not since the pike ate them,” I said.  It felt eerily like
a normal conversation.  Where was the monster I knew as Gary?  This mild guy
seated about eight feet behind me didn’t jive at all with the image I’d
created.  Had he not had his cocaine today or something?

That was an uncomfortable thought.  He was rich.  Rich
people had expensive habits, and I didn’t know anything about this particular
rich guy.  For all I knew, he had a couple pounds of coke in his closet.

“That looks like a good spot,” I said, and steered the canoe
over to a nice little cove.  I pulled out my rod, the one I’d grabbed for Zack. 
I glanced over at Gary to see he hadn’t even touched his.

He was just sitting there, his forearms braced on his
paddle, which he’d laid across the canoe.  And he was staring at me. 
Specifically at my fingers, which were busy hooking the swivel through a bright
green spinner.

I glanced down at his rod, and saw it didn’t even have a
swivel tied to the line.  Back up at him.  Raised my brow.

He shrugged.  “I’m more a hunter than a fisher.”

“Do you even have a fishing license?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said.

I grunted.  The truth of the matter was, the Alaska Board of
Fish and Game had to actually catch you for that to be an issue, and the idea
of them coming to the lake we’d just travelled to was laughable.  Further
muddying the waters of the law, the reality was that pike were a menace with no
bag limit; Fish and Game actually
wanted
them caught.  Really, my only
hesitation was the fact that I had my guiding license, and this might be
construed as me guiding someone without a license.  Which was bad juju.  If we
were caught.

Eh.

Reel-first, I held the newly-rigged rod out to my clueless,
illegal, smokin’-hot canoe buddy.  “Here.  I’ll use the other.”

He took it, and I was pleased to note he was careful to swing
the treble hooks out away from my face.  Then he cast, rocking the boat.

I held on and gritted my teeth.  “You’ll want to cast toward
shore,” I said patiently (not).   “And reel in fast enough to stay off the
weeds on the bottom, but slow enough so you’re not skipping along the top.”

His lure caught on something.  The rod tip bent as he pulled
back, and his end of the canoe started to drift that direction.  He tugged and
yanked, and whatever it was he’d hooked didn’t move.

I hadn’t even gotten the other line rigged out, and he was
already snagged.  I was starting to feel like yelling.

I spent the next five minutes getting the lure up off a
sunken log.

“I think I got the hang of it now,” Gary said.

And then, with his very next cast—his
very next cast
,
mind you—he threw the lure into the bushes up on shore.

I stared at the shining cord disappearing into the brush,
watched it wave back and forth as he tried to yank it out—but only managed to
yank it deeper—and I felt my shoulders tightening up.  Now, I had a lot of
experience fishing with newbs.  I mean, a lot.  What do you think I do for a
living?  I untangle lines, bait hooks while people are trying to spear them
through my fingers, pretend it’s all right when they break my rod-tips, and
generally keep myself from yelling at bumbling idiots for hours at a time.

But this was Gary.  Gary, the Devil who practically set my
panties on fire along with my blueberry patch.  Gary, who I wanted to strangle every
day of the week.  Gary… who wasn’t paying me to play nice.

“I’ll get it,” he said.  Wedging the rod in the canoe, he
started to pull his end closer to shore.

“No, I can get it,” I said.  I just knew he’d yank so hard
the hook would come back and puncture my eyeball, or he’d tip the canoe
entirely clambering out of it.  Or a lightning strike would come down out of
the clear blue sky and fry me where I sat.  It was safer all the way around if
I got it.

So I started paddling, trying to drag
my
end closer
to the brush.

“I said I’d get it,” he said, paddling harder.

I matched his glare, and his paddling.  The canoe rocked as
we scudded sideways.  Deciding to change my tack, I started paddling the other
direction, swinging us around.

He tried to adjust his stroke, failed, and slid on by his
mark.  Putting me in perfect position to retrieve his lure.  I’d outmaneuvered
him.

Feeling smug, I reached out.

With one hard pull of his paddle, he dragged us both out
away from the shore.  His bail sang as his line spooled out.

“What the hell?” I demanded, trying to pull us back in.  We
needed to get his lure so we could get some real fishing done, so we could
catch the biggest fish, so we could humiliate my brothers.

Gary resisted.

I swung around in my seat to glare at him.  As usual, his
expression was inscrutable.  In that moment, it drove me just a little bit
further than nuts.

And then he did it.  He pulled back his paddle, and he did
it.

He splashed me.

I gasped as lake water spattered across my face and upper
body.  The lake water wasn’t really that cold, so it was just with surprise
that I was doused.  I think it was the Alaskan, uncivilized part of me, but I honestly
didn’t mind being wet.  I didn’t have any makeup to smear, and there was no one
to care that my clothes were soaked.  In fact, the cool water felt kinda nice.

No, the problem was,
he’d
splashed
me
.

I was a responsible, reasonable adult, so I did the only
thing I
could
do.  I splashed him back.

I hauled back and let my paddle fly, hitting the surface
broad-side, with just enough angle to send water spraying at him.  I got just a
glimpse of his face, his startled, dripping expression.  I laughed.

Then he splashed me again, and it was
on
.  Facing
forward already, he definitely had the advantage, but I had a wealth of
experience to draw on.  Water flew, sparkling in the bright sunshine as the
canoe spun in drunken circles and his line spooled out.

I laughed and when I looked around again, I got a big,
direct splash to the face.

“Had enough yet?” he asked.

I blinked the water out of my eyes to see his grin.  Oh, I’d
gotten him good.  His hair was plastered to his skull, his nose and chin were
dripping… and that damn T-shirt was clinging to every dip and bulge in his ripped
chest and abdomen.

I realized that his gaze was similarly stuck to my chest,
and followed it down to find that my white T-shirt had gone transparent over my
flimsy bra.

I jerked around to face forward and pulled the shirt away
from my breasts.  My face burned.

He splashed me again.  Cool water splattered over my back.

The uncivilized, immature, crazy-ass…
  I took some
nice, deep breaths.  Then I said fuck it, and I splashed the hell out of him.

We flailed around for several minutes as the canoe drifted.  We
splashed each other until there was at least an inch of water in the bottom of
the boat, until my arms felt like lead and my face ached from grinning, and
we’d proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that neither of us had even the thinnest
shred of maturity.

“I give!  I give!” he finally cried.

“Ha!” I shouted, holding my paddle overhead in victory.

He laughed, long and loud, the deep, infectious sound
carrying out across the lake.  Damn but he had a gorgeous laugh.

Still grinning, I picked a strand of lake weed out of my
hair.  I was facing forward again, being careful not to turn around.

He sighed, and we listened to the water lap against the
boat.  It really was a beautiful day.

“Truce?” he finally asked.

I looked out over the lake, considering.  “I don’t like
you,” I said.

“I don’t particularly
like
you,” he replied.

I frowned, wondering what that emphasis was about, but I
finally nodded.  “Fine.  Truce.  We still need to catch that fish.”

“Kinda hard to do when I’ve caught the shore,” he said.

“Yup.”

“And I don’t think ‘that fish’ is gonna be here anymore.”

“Nope.  Not anymore,” I agreed.

We retrieved his lure and moved to a spot about fifty feet
further along the shore.  And we finally got to it.

“So you do this for a living?” he asked.

Ugh
.  This was the part where I told him what I did,
and he told me what he did, and we communicated like normal people.

That is, it would have been that part.  And we would have. 
If I was normal.  And him; I was definitely starting to have doubts about his
normalcy, as well.  Not sure if that was a good thing, or if it made me even
more hesitant to get to know him.  I knew all about Alaskan crazies—practically
wrote the book—but Lower 48 crazies were a complete unknown.

I cast out, and didn’t answer.

Which was probably why he felt it would be okay to ask, “Or
do you make your living writing erotica?”

Damn him for reading my stuff. 
Invading my home
, and
reading my stuff.

“I just make a little money on the side with the erotica,” I
said, knowing I had to give him a little or be subjected to increasingly rude
questions.  Not sure how I knew this—maybe I was getting to know Gary just a
little. 
Ick.

“So you’re a fishing guide?” he asked.

“I’m a fishing guide during the summer, yes, and I make
enough with the writing to get me through the winter,” I admitted.  I cast out
again, irritated that I could hear the boys crowing with excitement as they
pulled in fish after fish—even improperly placed as they were—and I hadn’t
caught shit yet.  Isn’t that just how it worked?  The bumbling newb caught the
record-breaker, while the most experienced person, the most knowledgeable, the
most
deserving
, got the shaft.

“What about you?” I asked after another unsuccessful cast. 
Pike weren’t like other fish.  Pike were aggressive.  If they were there,
within a couple casts they’d attack your lure.  They’d follow it, even lunge
several inches out of the water to bite it.

“I’m…into stocks,” he said.

I cut my eyes back at him.  That had sounded like a
half-truth at best to my brother-tuned ears.

Gary was giving me an innocent look.

That
fucker.
  In all my mental acrobatics on how I
was going to avoid talking to him, avoid getting to know him and avoid giving
him information, I’d never actually thought I’d have trouble getting
information
out
of him.  This was not normal.  But then again, someone
who didn’t turn around and run away as fast as they absolutely could when faced
with my three wild brothers wasn’t normal.  They’d actually been the ones to
chase off all three of my boyfriends before Brett.

The first, back in high school, had lasted a couple months. 
We’d flirted in class, and made out vigorously in his truck every chance we got. 
It had all ended when I brought him home for the first time.  He’d come away
with a black eye, bruised ribs, and a diagnosis of PTSD.

The second one hadn’t lasted even that long.  Just days
after Freddie and I had first slept together, Zack came across us in the
college cafeteria, and had invited him out shooting.  Despite my warnings, he’d
gone.  I’m not sure what Zack said to him, but Freddie had never talked to me
again, even ran the other way when I approached him.

The third one, I’d tried to keep a secret as long as
possible.  It was actually pretty easy, because we’d met on the internet and
only communicated by email, text, and phone.  It had been while I’d been living
out here.  But then my brothers had come to visit, and after that, my internet
boyfriend went silent.  I’d sent out dozens of emails and texts, and never gotten
anything back.  It was almost as if they’d killed him…

I glanced at Gary again, almost feeling sorry for him.  He
wasn’t my boyfriend, but the brothers knew I was interested in him, obviously. 
It was a miracle he wasn’t maimed yet.  But I just knew—it was coming.  And I
kinda hoped that when it did, they wouldn’t mess up his face.

Gary yelped.  “I have one!” he yelled, wrenching back on the
rod.  Miraculously, he didn’t topple backward into the water, and neither line
nor rod broke.

“Gently,” I said, reeling in my own line so they didn’t
tangle.  “Reel it in slowly, let him tire himself out.”  I glanced around the
bottom of the canoe and realized we hadn’t brought a net.  No matter, it seemed
like I always wound up out pike fishing without a net.