Angling for you, p.11
Angling for You, page 11
“If wading is part of the whole fishing guide thing, then yes, I need to get photos of it,” Gina said. Graham suppressed a smile at Gina’s ignorance about this thing that was so central to her friend’s existence.
“Graham is paying for a guide experience, not a me-wading-while-he-waits-on-the-bank experience,” Sam said, her voice hardening.
Graham reeled in his line, turning to the two women. “Graham wants to see this project through. As a client and…” He held up a hand as Sam started to object. “And as a university librarian invested in Gina’s academic success.” He’d learned that making it about Gina and what she was getting out of it would move Sam more than anything else. Sam folded her lips into her mouth, obviously thwarted.
Gina’s eyes gleamed with approval. “You’re not so bad, Librarian Man.”
“So, Sam…why don’t you get your waders on and show Gina how gorgeous fly fishing can be when it’s done by an expert.”
Expert.
That word, so casually uttered, nearly undid her.
She worked so hard, only to be dismissed by so many men as a sideshow or a curiosity. At worst, attitudes like, What does she know, really? And at best, Look at her, playing with the big boys. Isn’t she cute? The weight she always carried, the pressure against her lungs, eased a bit.
“So?” Gina asked. “What does wading entail? Besides, well, wading. Obviously.”
Sam blinked, returning to the present moment. “Waders, for one.” She waved at her pack a few feet away. “You could take shots of just me after Graham’s session, but I’m sure you don’t want to hang around that long.”
“I’ll be the judge of how long I want to wait,” Gina said, tapping one pink-tipped finger against the body of her camera.
“And I’d be happy to watch you wade for a while,” Graham said. “I’m sure I could learn something just by watching.”
Cornered, Sam looked from her client to her friend and back again.
“Get on with it, girl.” Gina waved her camera at the gear Sam had put on the ground nearby when they had arrived.
Sighing, Sam sat on the ground and took off her shoes, tucking her thin nylon pants into her socks. She took her waders out of their bag and pulled them on, standing to hook the straps over her shoulders. Bending over, she retrieved her wading boots and put them on, double knotting the laces.
“Those are huge.” Gina giggled. “They look like moon boots.”
“This is fishing, not fashion,” Sam said as she bent again to retrieve a rod from the collection she had brought with her. Stepping carefully, she entered the river, the water pushing and tugging at her legs as she stepped deeper. When the water was swirling around her knees, she turned into the current and cast upstream, managing her line by coiling it with her left hand as the fly drifted toward her, keeping just enough slack in the line. Not getting a take, she lifted her rod and cast again, focusing on nothing but the movement of the water and the fly as it drifted toward her. As her muscles loosened and her casts became smoother, she lost herself to the rhythm of the motion and the quiet sounds of the woods and stream.
Graham could watch her all day.
Sam’s motions as she cast her line were fluid. She was utterly focused. Concentration and calculation showed on her face as she watched the fly drift, her left hand drawing the line in, making a neat coil. He barely heard the shutter of Gina’s camera snapping until she elbowed him in the ribs as she straightened, stretching to ease her back.
“She’s pretty amazing, isn’t she?” Gina asked.
Graham merely nodded. She was amazing. She made all the things he found so difficult look so easy. Her movements, so precise and powerful, astonished him. She moved her rod tip, executing a mend to take up some excess slack in the line as it drifted. He remembered trying to learn how to do this maneuver, how much it had frustrated him as a teenager.
She made it look as effortless as breathing.
Beside him, Gina sank to her knees to get a different angle, snapping photographs all the while. After a couple more of Sam’s casts, she stood again, lowering her camera.
“I think I’ve got everything I need here. I’m going to scram and leave you two to it. Thanks for letting me tag along. These are going to be great for the website.” She lifted the camera.
Graham shuffled his feet and rubbed the back of his neck. “No problem. I mean, it’s my pleasure. I’m happy to help Sa…um. You. Both of you.”
Gina grinned, a cheeky twinkle in her eyes. “Well, Sa… um…we—yes, we both appreciate it. I’m going to head back and take a look at what I’ve got in here. But I’m pretty sure what I have is gold.”
“I’m sure too.” Graham’s eyes shot back to Sam, standing in the sunshine, glittering water all around her, casting her line in a smooth arc that spun out straight, the fly settling on the moving water with a lightness that took his breath away.
Chapter Eleven
Time went away for Sam as the fly bobbed with the current. When it approached too close to her for any fish savvy enough to have lived through the winter to dare strike at, she dropped the handful of line into the soft rush of the water. Lifting the rod, she loaded it, stroking forward and back in short, accelerating movements until the line had unfurled to the length she wanted it. Then the cast, like letting go of a breath. The fly settled and she began to draw up the slack again, steady and sure, concentrating on the area where she had seen a few rises. There was a fish there. She had seen it. Flirting with her. Daring her.
“Come on, lovely. Come on,” she murmured.
A sharp splash. Sam pinched the line, setting the hook, her mouth stretching in a smile as she felt the fish tug against the rod. She played it swiftly, scooping her net underneath the tired animal when it was close enough.
Turning to see if Gina had caught this moment, she saw only Graham sitting on the bank, his eyes fixed on his cellphone, apparently snapping his own photos of her catch. She waded toward him and he got to his feet.
“Congratulations,” he said. “Dinner?”
“No.” She laughed. “Way too small. Anyway, catch and release for me. At least, mostly.”
Lifting it out of the net, she eased the hook out of its jaw. Graham took a few pictures of the trout’s shiny rainbow skin and she bent down, revived it, and released it back into the cold water. In a moment, the fish reoriented itself to its environment and darted away.
“Where’s Gina?” Sam asked, shaking her hands dry and looking up and down the bank for her friend.
“She said she had gotten all the photos she wanted and left. I guess she forgot that the point of fishing is…catching fish. Anyway. My phone photos won’t be as good as hers, but I can send them to her. Maybe she can use them.”
Sam shrugged, the world reclaiming her, the timeless bubble she had been in as she fished popping and contracting to nothing. “It would have been silly for her to stay.”
“Not silly at all. Watching you was incredible. It made me feel inadequate, to be honest.”
Sam pierced him with a look. “Don’t compare. Keep your eyes on your own paper. And besides, there was no guarantee that I would catch anything.”
“Really? I thought you were fishing’s Wonder Woman.” He nodded at the line that streamed from her rod. “You have your lasso of truth and everything.”
“Ha. Right.” She wound the remaining line, the clicking of the reel a sharp counterpoint to the soft rushing of the water, the rustle of the trees. “When did she leave?”
Graham shrugged. “Maybe…a half hour ago?”
Sam’s eyes went wide, guilt surging through her. “A half hour? I’ve used up a half hour of your paid guide time just…doing my own thing?” She started to clamber up to join him, sloshing through the shallow current.
“Can I help?” Graham extended a hand and she looked at it for a moment before taking it in hers, allowing him to pull her up the bank. He was only an inch or two taller than she was but his strength was impressive. Sam was no lightweight with her broad shoulders and years of physical activity.
“Thanks,” she said, her rapid breathing having nothing to do with the short climb up the side of the bank.
“Think nothing of it.” His gray eyes bored into her with that now familiar intensity and Sam swallowed.
“I really should apologize. I’m meant to be teaching you and…time got away from me.”
“Don’t apologize. It was like watching a dancer or an acrobat. So much skill…” A breeze ruffled his hair across his forehead and Sam clenched her hand into a fist to keep from reaching out and brushing it away.
Sam swallowed. “Thanks. But this still isn’t what you paid for.”
“How do you know?”
“What do you mean?” Confused, Sam eyed Graham warily. He was looking at her with an enigmatic expression. He gave a little nod, then moved to put on his own waders.
Give her some space.
Sam’s eyes were wary, black pupils like pinpoints against the blue of her irises. She watched him as he pulled on his waders and tugged on his boots. She was reminding him of Honey again. Best let her come to him when she was ready.
If she ever was. If he ever was. Student. No-go area, remember? His grasp on his own rules was getting more tenuous every moment he was with her.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Her voice was sharp, harsh over the susurrus of the water and the trees.
Confused he tried to remember their conversation. “What question?”
Her expression hardened. “If you didn’t pay for a fishing guide, what did you pay for?”
He slapped his hand to his forehead, flustered. “No, I mean I did pay for a fishing guide. Of course I did. I just…I’m still learning from you even if I’m not the one doing the casting. You’re amazing. It was a privilege to watch you.”
Sam’s eyes went from wary to incredulous, one dark eyebrow arching. “Stop trying to blow smoke up my ass.”
Graham finished tying his boot and straightened, trying to read her face. “You know how good you are.”
“Maybe, but that’s not the point. I’m here to make you good. So, let’s get started.” She nodded at the rod he had been using lying on the ground. “First of all, never leave a rod lying on the ground. It’s an invitation to step on it.”
“Right.” He picked up the rod and moved back beside her, stepping with her into the swirling water, thinking about the effortless way she had moved and feeling like a clumsy oaf in comparison.
“Before you get started, walk through what you want to do in your mind, then forget about it.”
He looked at her, startled. “Forget about it?”
“Yeah. Just focus on your breathing.”
“How is that going to help?”
“It’ll get you out of your head, hopefully. I’ve noticed you tend to overthink things.”
“You’ve noticed, huh?” Embarrassed, he was still gratified by the fact that she observed him this closely.
It’s her job, nitwit. Don’t get ideas.
“It’s kind of hard to miss. But I suppose it’s on-brand for your profession.”
“On-brand?”
One shoulder came up and she grinned sheepishly. “Librarian. Thinking. In your head a lot. Anyway, if you let your brain do what it wants first, it may settle down and let your muscles take over. There’s too much going on for your brain to think about all the details at once. If you try you’ll get bogged down.”
“Huh. Makes sense, I guess.”
“It works for some people. Give it a try.” She moved a few feet away, giving him space.
Closing his eyes, he reviewed the tips she had given him. Don’t let the rod decelerate when you’re loading it. Keep your elbow in, wrist locked. Don’t grip the rod too hard. For good measure, he replayed the memory of her flawless casting a few moments before and gave himself a final instruction: Just do that.
Reopening his eyes, he focused on his breathing like she’d said, rod moving faster and faster until he let the fly sail out onto the water. It landed on the surface and started to drift with the current.
“Good.” He nearly started at her voice, closer than he expected. “Now start drawing the line in. Not too fast. Just keep up with the drift.” He did as she said—or tried to—and was rewarded with a pop and a splash. Pinching the line and tugging he got…
Nothing.
“Something spooked it and it refused the fly at the last minute.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “It might have seen the line, might have been something else. Keep it up. It may rise again, or it may have brought a friend.”
Graham focused on the fly, waiting for that second take, left hand taking in line as it threatened to pool under his rod. A splash and a tug on his line yielded nothing but nonetheless felt like he had won the lottery. “I got a strike!”
“You did.” Sam’s eyes glowed with pride. “Try it again while you’re still in the zone.”
Without thinking, Graham loaded the rod, cast, and started to collect line as the fly drifted. A few moments, a pop, and then—a tug. He twitched the rod, adrenaline surging.
Nothing. He’d lost it. Again. His rod felt disappointingly light in his hand.
He glanced over at Sam. She nodded at the line going slack, and he stripped off the line, the adrenaline rush fading.
“Again?” she asked.
He nodded and tried again, this time netting nothing. Then again, another abortive strike. His teeth gritted together.
“Hey.” Her cool fingers touched the place where his jaw muscles bunched with tension and he froze. “Sorry.” The fingers retreated as fast as they had come.
He slid his eyes sideways to look at her, afraid to move more than that, not wanting to see that wary distance in her eyes again. “Don’t be sorry.” Do it again, he wanted to say.
Her cheeks flushed red. “That was…unprofessional of me.”
He gathered his courage and inhaled deeply. “How much longer until you get your degree?”
She blinked, her brows drawing together in confusion at his apparent non-sequitur. “The end of summer session. If I can afford a second class. Why?”
He inhaled, gathering his courage, felt it ebb away again. “No reason.” A lateral route to achieve what he wanted presented itself to him. “But I was wondering if you would go with me to my brother’s wedding next weekend.”
She couldn’t possibly have just heard that. He must have said something else. Something innocuous. Shock held her rooted to the spot. The constant movement of the leaves in the breeze and the swirl of water around her calves were the only things that told her that time hadn’t stopped.
“Excuse me?”
Red blossomed along his cheekbones. “Wedding. My brother. Next weekend. Come with me?” His eyebrows lifted, accompanying a pathetic smile that indicated he expected her to say no.
“Why me?”
He inhaled, a sharp sound in the quiet woods. “I like you. I enjoy your company. You’re… You’re nice to my dog.” The words came out in a rush, as if he had tried and failed to hold them back.
“Anyone would be nice to Honey.”
“She wouldn’t go to just anyone, though. I trust her taste in people. It’s impeccable.” A glimmer of humor showed in his gray eyes.
Sam took in a deep breath. Considered the way she found herself tugged toward him. Thought about how much of a mistake accepting his invitation would be.
“Is this the guy who was expecting a fly fishing bunny for his bachelor party?”
He winced. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Where’s the wedding?”
Graham’s shoulders straightened and his head came up. His hopeless expression softened into something else. “Virginia. Leesburg. A winery.”
Sam chewed her lip. “So, not an overnight trip.”
“No. I wouldn’t…no. Not a date. I don’t date students.”
“I don’t date clients either.” She paused, considering the weird, sinking feeling that had accompanied his no. “Why me?” she asked again.
“I…want someone to go with me. Someone I can talk to. Someone Honey appreciates.”
“Yeah. I get that’s crucial. Is she going to be attending also?”
His lips tugged up in a hopeful little smile. “No. She didn’t get an invitation.”
“Your brother’s a cretin, not inviting his canine niece. She could have been a flower girl.”
The smile widened. “You know it.”
Sam fought the urge to chew on a fingernail. “Fancy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is the wedding fancy? I don’t exactly have a wardrobe full of ball gowns.” She didn’t even have a single dress in her closet, as a matter of fact.
Graham’s free hand came up and waved away her concerns, his expression lightening further. “Not fancy. A vineyard. Late afternoon. Not black tie or anything.”
Sam swallowed hard, looked Graham in the eye. “Okay.”
“Okay, you’ll come?” His face looked absurdly hopeful.
God help her. “Yes.”
Chapter Twelve
“Why are we parking in front of the outdoorsy megastore?” Gina asked, squinting in suspicion at Sam as she eased her truck into a parking spot in front of the outlet mall in Columbia.
“I have to pick up some tying stuff. And I’d prefer to buy local, but I’m not going back to Mike and Don’s shop.” Ever.
“‘I need a dress,’ you said. ‘I have no budget,’ you said. ‘Help me shop, I’m useless at dressing myself,’ you said. You said nothing about fishing stuff. And by the way, that thing is horrifying,” she added, pointing at the huge, three-dimensional bass leaping out of the store’s sign.
“Yes, I need a dress. And I need fly tying supplies too.”
“Fine. But if you spend big money on fuzzy shit to make fake bugs and small or no money on a new dress, I’m coming for your priorities.” Gina unbuckled her seat belt and slid out of the truck.
