“Wyatt, what happens if no fish . . . get snagged?”

“You mean, bite?”

“Sure.” I huff. “Bite. Eat. Hook. Whatever the right word is. What happens then?”

He lies back on the blanket and covers his face with his hat. “Then we wait until one does.”

“All day?”

“All day, Big City.”

I can do this. This is country life according to him. People, who I don’t know or understand, enjoy this. I guess it would be relaxing if I could actually relax, so I try. I have to remind myself that he made an effort to bake with me, so I can do the same with fishing.

My leg starts to bounce as I wait for a fish to . . . bite. They should be hungry, right? I don’t know what stocking a lake entails, but I’d assume that only the Hennington’s come here. I’m also safe to assume that they don’t come every day because they work. If that’s the case, they should want to eat.

“Here fishy, fishy, fishy,” I call quietly.

“Angie?” Wyatt’s smirk is visible from under his hat. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m calling the fish! Maybe they come like a cat?”

Wyatt bursts out laughing.

I remember the old Sesame Street episode that my brother loved. It was Bert and Ernie in the boat. Ernie, of course being the sensible one (that’s me in this situation), knew he could get the fish to come into the boat. But Bert (Wyatt) thought he was nuts. But the fish jumped up. It was brilliant.

“Laugh away, babe. I’m telling you . . . it’ll work.”

He sits up, unable to even attempt to control his hyena-style laughter. “I’ve been fishin’ since I was little, and I have never seen anyone call for a fish.”

“It worked for Ernie!” I defend.

“Ernie?”

“Yeah!” I say as if it should be obvious. “From Sesame Street. He was always the smarter of the two.”

Wyatt’s jaw drops as his shoulders bounce. “I’ve gotta see this.” He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Fine.” I perk up and lean over the side of the boat again. “Here fishy, fishy, fishy,” I say it again, reenacting the scene as I remember it. He sits there, trying to hold it in. I slap his leg. “Stop! Don’t laugh at me,” I complain playfully. I look at the line that still doesn’t move. “The fish are sleeping. That’s all. You came out here too early. They’re late risers.”

His warm, rich laughter filters the air. “You’re probably right.”

“I know I am. Fish would love me if they knew me.”

Wyatt shifts forward on his knees. His hands cage me in. Slowly he leans forward, careful not to jostle the boat. “You,” he says, his eyes melting into a hooded softness, “are the single most beautiful thing in this world. The fish would be lucky to get hooked on your line.”

Everything inside me clenches. My breathing becomes slightly faster as his lips inch closer. “Me?” Wyatt nods. “Are you hooked on my line?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “You’re out here on my boat, on my land, and in my life, makin’ me see things for the first time. I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve never wanted to be something so much, and yet hope it eludes me a little more.”

My hand touches his cheek. “You want me to keep fighting this?”

His eyes close as he rubs his face in my palm. “I love watching your walls crumble. I love watching your reasons diminish. I’m really going to enjoy it when you finally realize just how much you want me.” His voice drops, and he looks at me again, serious this time. “Because make no mistake—you’ll want me. I’m makin’ damn sure of it.”

I don’t doubt him for a single second.

I shift in my seat a little bit and try to slow my racing heart. “I think we should make a bet.”

He grins. “Name the terms.”

“If I catch the first fish, you have to bring the fish home and cook it with your brothers on a different day so I don’t have to eat it.” He nods. “And if you catch it, I’ll do this fish fry thing you speak of.”

Wyatt puts his hand out. “Deal.”

We shake, and then I start praying to the fish Gods, if there are any, to please let me win. First, it would be funny to watch him lose to a city girl. Second, I really don’t like fish. They have those beady eyes and some have teeth . . . no thank you. I would much rather stick with an animal I don’t have to look at before I eat it.

I’m weird, but I can’t do it.

After another hour of trying to guess what shape the clouds are, which sucks after three minutes, Wyatt closes his eyes. I do spot a penis-shaped cloud, but that’s only slightly amusing.

I’m too bored to nap again. I truly have no idea how people find fishing fun. My fish calling doesn’t work, and gazing at the horizon is about as fun as trying to count leaves, which I got to one thousand four hundred and twenty-two before I quit.

“I’m bored,” I mutter.

“Let yourself relax, baby.”

Fat chance of that. “This is me relaxed.”

He opens one eye and smirks. “You could always try to call for the fish again.”

“Shut up.”

Wyatt laughs. “You never know, it could work.”

“Don’t make me throw you off the boat,” I retort.

“You could try.” Wyatt takes my hand, pulling me on top of him. “Or you could kiss me again.”

My heart races as I look into his eyes. Now that would be fun. My lips slowly make their way to his, but I freeze when I hear this cranking sound.

Both our eyes snap up, and I see the fishing pole moving and the reel spinning. A fish! I don’t know whose line it is, but someone has a fish.

Then it dawns on me it could be his line.

Shit.

“Wyatt!” I slap his chest. “Something is hooked!” I climb on to my knees and go to grab the rod, but I have no idea what to do. It keeps spinning and making that noise. I look over at him with a mix of fear and excitement. “Aren’t you going to help?”

Finally, he gets up and puts his hand on the spinning wheel thing, stopping it. “Here, reel him in slow.”

Wyatt shifts around so his front is against my back. His hand covers mine as he guides me through catching what I’m praying is not dinner. His warm breath heats my neck, and I melt a little into him. “Like this?” I ask.

He nudges his nose in the crook of my neck. “Mmm hmm.”

His lips press against my skin, and I have to focus on not throwing the damn rod off the side of the boat.

“Just keep going?” I ask with a double meaning.

He stops kissing me when he feels something that I clearly didn’t notice. “Stop for a second.” I do, and the line jerks again. “Okay, pull him in nice and slow.”

We do and the reel gets harder and harder to turn. Wyatt starts to pull the rod with his arms wrapped around me.

The fish finally comes out of the water, and I gasp. “Ahh! Hi, fishy!” Wyatt brings him over in the boat. “Put it back!” I yell as the fish flops by our feet and all the blood drains from my face.

“Put it back?” Wyatt asks like I’m crazy.