by Unknown
I realized that I was officially on this professor’s hate list and wanted off fast, so taking a note from my mother’s lectures on how to impress professors, I raised my hand. She hesitated before calling on me. “Yes, Olivia?”
“Sorry, I was just curious if we were allowed to read our own poetry during the class readings or only assigned works?”
She considered me. “You’ve written your own poetry already?”
“I’ve tried.”
She looked pleased. “Well then, yes.” She addressed the class. “Since this is an intro class, I assumed most of you would be new to writing poetry, but if you, like Olivia, are already a poet, then feel free to bring your own work. Just know, this isn’t a joke. No Dr. Seuss copycats allowed. Understand?”
Everyone nodded, and I leaned back in my desk, happy that at the very least, Lauren had a more positive association with my name now. The lecture continued with the normal stuff—syllabus review, attendance expectations, etc.—and as the class came to an end, I realized that I was going to really like it.
Lauren finished up, and I started out the door, when a deep voice called, “Nice work, Ms. Warren.”
I turned to see a guy walking up. My first thought—beyond why was he calling me by my last name—was that he was too pretty to be a guy. The kind of pretty that made you think Mother Nature had accidentally checked the wrong box and he was supposed to be a girl. Golden locks hit his chin, streaked with white blond strands that made me wonder if he had highlights. His deep brown eyes were waiting for me to respond, but I was too busy taking in his outfit. He was dressed in navy cargo shorts and a plaid dress shirt with a tie hung loose around the collar. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and on his feet were a shiny pair of loafers. The kind fifty-year-old men wore. It was like he’d started dressing with one look in mind and got distracted, adding another on top.
Or maybe he was blind.
“Olivia,” I said, correcting him.
He held out his hand for me to shake. “Of course. I’m Taylor.”
The name matched his face so perfectly I almost asked if he were making it up. Instead, I smiled, because that was what you did when a guy as pretty as him was talking to you. I waited for him to say something else.
“Oh, sorry, I lost my train of thought.” He looked down, and then back at me with a coy smile. “I was just complimenting you on the work back there. Not many students can start a class at the bottom of a professor’s list and end up on top.”
I laughed as I started to walk, Taylor keeping pace beside me. “Not sure about the ‘on top’ part, but I most definitely started at the bottom. I can’t believe I walked in late on the first day of class.”
He grinned. “Happens to the best of us. Are you an English major?”
I nodded. “Yeah, trying. You?”
“Only thing I can stand. I’d die of boredom with anything else.”
I stopped to look at him. “Yeah, me, too.”
“Well, nice meeting you, Olivia. See you next time?” He started down the hall, but turned back. “Seriously though, nice job. Something tells me you’re a lot more fun when you’re on top.” He gave a lopsided grin and was gone before I realized just what he had said or the innuendo of what he might have meant.
I reached my next class, which was two floors down from Poetry, to find a note on the door that class was cancelled for the day and the first class would begin on Wednesday. I left the building, wondering if I should check out the library, and nearly walked into Preston.
“Small Town. Going somewhere in a hurry?”
I stepped back, smiling. “Speaking of going somewhere.” I motioned to his outfit. He was wearing a long-sleeve UPF shirt—similar to the one I was wearing, but his was blue instead of yellow, like mine. On his head was a bandana printed with fish all swimming in opposite directions. He looked like he’d either already been on the water or wished he were there now.
“Yeah, I’m heading out to Bulls Bay. Tarpons are hot right now. Gotta cast when the catching’s good, ya know?”
I laughed. “No, actually, but I’ll take your word for it.” I started to go around him.
“Hey, wait.”
I lifted my hand to shadow my eyes from the sun. “Yeah?”
“Would you like to come?”
“Fishing?”
My expression must have given me away, because Preston burst out laughing. “Yes, fishing. It’s not as bad as Kara says. Try it. You might like it.”
“That’s pretty doubtful.”
“Well, then you can get some sun.”
I held out my arms to show the UPF shirt. “Not so much into sunbathing.”
He laughed again. “You’re difficult as hell, aren’t you? Just come on the damn boat with me. I promise you’ll have a good time.”
I hesitated. I knew nothing about fishing. Nothing. I’d made an idiot of myself enough around Preston Riggs. The last thing I needed was—
“Am I going to have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you there myself? You’ll have fun. Trust me. Do you want me to say please? I’m not against begging.”
I hadn’t realized that I was staring at the ground, combing my ponytail with my fingers. Or that Preston had edged closer to me and was now so close I could smell his clean, barely-there scent. Like he bathed in that awesome-smelling men’s body wash, but refused to wear actual cologne. Simple. Masculine. And entirely too tempting. It was the kind of smell you only got to enjoy when you were in a guy’s personal space, and I found myself wishing I could stay in Preston’s a little longer.
“Okay.”
“‘Okay’ you want me to beg or ‘okay’ you’ll go?”
I smiled. “I’ll go. But I’m not touching a fish.”
He laughed. I was starting to like his laugh. How freely he offered it, like it came more naturally to him than to others. “Oh, you’re touching one.”
“No way. They’re all slimy and ick. I’m not touching one.” We started around the building, toward one of the parking areas out back.
“Says the girl who’s never touched one. But that ends today. I’m going to help you catch your first fish, and once you’ve reeled the bastard in, you’re going to remove the hook, take a flashy picture with your prize, and toss it back. After we’re done, you’ll be begging me to go again.”
I could see the passion in his eyes, and while I seriously doubted I would ever beg him to go fishing, I was intrigued. It had to be pretty fun to get him this hyped up. Then again, we were talking about fishing.
***
We reached Preston’s truck and drove toward Bulls Bay, and he talked about fishing the entire time. Apparently, August was prime for tarpons and Bulls Bay was the perfect spot due to the schools of menhaden that blanketed the area.
“Does your brother fish, too?” I asked, not realizing that he had never mentioned he had a brother.
“Brother?” He glanced at me and then back to the road. “Oh, I see Kara’s been talking again. Girl couldn’t stop if you paid her. But to answer your question—no. His idea of fun is golf. Me, not so much. The only way I can stand it is if there’s beer involved, otherwise it’s boring as hell. The water is different. You never know what to expect. It’s a grind some days for sure, but others are crazy. So many fish I lose count. Those are the days that make the rest worth it. Fishing is exciting. There’s an end product that’s tangible. And to me, golf is nothing but work. Where’s the fun in that?”
I thought of Matt and how he lived for golf. How he played for Westlake Academy and made the sport seem so prestigious, as though next to no one could do it. Which might be true, but Preston was right. Nothing was as boring as golf.
He eyed me again. “Shit. You golf, don’t you?”
I shook myself from my thoughts. “Uh, no. I know how. My dad golfs, and my—” I caught myself from saying
boyfriend and had to swallow hard to keep going. “Well, pretty much everyone in Westlake golfs. It’s one big country club.”
Preston gave me a curious look, but didn’t ask any questions. A second later, we were pulling into a storage unit packed with boats. He pulled around to the back of the complex and parked in front of a unit separate from the others.
“Be right back.” He slipped from the truck and entered a code into the unit, causing two garage doors to lift. A flat boat was parked in one spot, a large white boat in the second. The words Gone Fishing were printed across the side of each boat.
Preston hooked the flat boat up to his truck. I glanced around while he removed the cover from the boat, and my eyes landed on something I hadn’t noticed before—the name of the storage facility. Riggs Storage. Riggs, as in—
“Sorry, it’s a production getting everything setup. That’s why I never go out unless I have at least four hours to give it. Otherwise, it’s sort of a waste.” His eyes settled on me. “What?”
“It says Riggs Storage. Does your dad own this place or something?”
He put the truck in drive, started forward, and then spun the wheel around with his palm the way guys do. “Oh, that.”
“So, does he?”
“My dad? No.”
“Is it your brother or just some quasi-crazy coincidence?”
He smirked over at me. “Quasi-crazy? Who are you, Small Town?”
I smiled. “You’re seriously avoiding the question, aren’t you? Is it a secret? Are you part of the Russian mafia or something, and all the business dealings happen here so you can’t say? I guess that would make sense.”
Preston burst out laughing. “That would make sense? And why Russian? What’s wrong with the American mafia?”
“I don’t know. Russians are fierce. Their mafia would probably hang our mafia’s balls over their rearview.”
At that he started choking. “So now we’re talking about the mafia’s balls? Seriously, where did you come from? It sure as hell isn’t Westlake.”
I laughed. “Yeah, well. I know how to cross my legs at afternoon tea, if that’s what you mean. I just have different thoughts running through my head at those luncheons than what the girl beside me is wearing.”
Preston nodded and we settled into an easy silence before he finally said, “It’s mine.”
I glanced over at him. “What’s yours?”
“The storage place. Riggs. It’s mine.”
“You own it?”
He nodded slowly like he was waiting for me to become one of those people who asked a million questions.
“Well that explains the private unit in the back. I bet you bought the place just so you could do that, didn’t you? You didn’t want other boats anywhere near yours.”
He grinned. “Something like that.”
Before long we were cruising through Bulls Bay in search of Preston’s favorite tarpon spot. I tried to keep my focus on our surroundings or the ocean or anything other than the way the wind caused his shirt to suction to his chest. Or how he tapped his foot as we rode. Or the way he looked more at ease than anyone I’d been around in my life. I wondered how he managed it. If it was an act or if he was truly that relaxed.
“What?” he asked. I hadn’t realized that in my thoughtful effort to not stare I was, in fact, staring.
I glanced back out over the water. “Nothing.”
“Oh no. You’re not getting out of it that easy. What is it?”
I let my gaze settle on him. “You just look so at ease. It’s a little unsettling.”
He smiled wide. “Should I try for painstakingly uncomfortable? Because I’m pretty sure you’ve got that one covered.”
“I’m not uncomfortable.”
“Hell yeah, you are. You’re all wound up, and I get it. Life will do that to you. But here, nothing else matters. It’s just you and the water. That’s why I come out here. For a break. On the water, I can let myself go, forget. It’s freeing.” He turned to look at me. “If you’ll let it be.”
I felt my lip quiver and looked away. I didn’t want to reveal the truth—I had never felt free a day in my life. And it was only worse now, since I had my past staring over my shoulder, watching me like a ghost that refused to let go of its home.
He shut off the engine and the boat coasted quietly while Preston messed with the rods. We were in clear, shallow water, maybe three to five feet deep. Preston handed me a rod. “Stand there,” he said, motioning to the front deck of the boat. Clearly he intended to make it easy for me to stand and fish, but the last thing I wanted to do was end up in the water, soaked, so I’d have no choice but to take off my UPF shirt and show off the fact that my skin was disgusting. I squatted down and hung my legs over the side of the boat, allowing the water to rise to my calves. It was warmer than I had expected. I heard Preston cast his lure beside me, and then heard the spinning sound of him retrieving it.
“So what are you trying to get a break from? What has you so tied up on land?”
Preston shrugged, his forehead scrunching up. “Life. And I thought you didn’t do the whole sunbathing thing.” He nodded toward me.
“I don’t.” I tilted my head back in the sun. “I’m doing the freeing thing. How’s it look?”
He laughed. “Lazy. You aren’t going to catch a single fish using your feet as bait.”
I peered into the water. “Why are they called schools of fish, anyway? Why not groups or herds or congregations?”
He shook his head. “Congregations? You must be the most unusually minded person I’ve ever met. And they aren’t all called schools. There’s a swarm of eels and a glide of flying fish, just to mention a few. But I don’t know why each have those different names.”
“I’ve heard they school together to stay safe from predators, which is sort of a kid-like thing to do if you think about it. They’re fish kids.” I giggled.
Preston sighed. “Okay, enough talk. Get your ass over here and let me show you how to work that thing.”
I made a show of getting up, taking my time and issuing a few choice words.
He released a long, slow breath. “Are you done complaining? Okay. Now, take the pole in your hands.”
“It’s already in my hands.”
This time he was the one with the choice words, and I burst out laughing, nearly dropping the pole into the water.
“Hey, hey, hey. That’s a four-hundred-dollar setup you’ve got there and it doesn’t float. Show some respect.”
I grinned. “My apologies, Captain.”
He gave me a pointed look that almost caused me to break into giggles again, and then held out his rod. “You want to hold it like this.” I followed his example, but it didn’t look as natural on me. “Relax. No, not like that. Look.” He sputtered as I tried to match his grip, and then, growing frustrated, set down his pole and took mine from me. “Let me see your right hand.”
I held it out, and he eased his hand around my wrist, his fingertips barely caressing the delicate skin there. He positioned my hand on the pole, closing his own hand around mine so I was gripping it properly. “Just like that. Now, your left.” He stepped behind me and brought my left hand to the reel, his body pressed against my back, his clean smell so intoxicating I almost moaned right there in front of the fish kids.
I drew a long, steadying breath and glanced over my shoulder at him, our faces so close they could touch. He cleared his throat and stepped away. My cheeks flushed.
We fell into a comfortable silence as we fished, the water lapping against the bank and the occasional passing boat the only sounds. “Am I doing okay?” I asked, after about twenty minutes of fishing and little talking.
Preston wiped the bottom of his shirt across his forehead, exposing his bare stomach—his perfectly cut bare stomach. I swallowed hard.
“Getting th
ere. You fish like you’re afraid of the pole, but we’ll fix that. It’s like anything else. Practice and you’ll get better.”
I grinned, casting again and slowly reeling it back. “I wish I had a boat. I’d practice and really show off the next time we fish.”
“You can practice with me.”
My eyes shot up, but before I could respond he jerked his rod up. “There he is!” I didn’t know whether to ask if he needed help or get out of the way. I set my pole down and watched as he fought the fish. It seemed like a battle of wills. Preston would reel in some line, then the fish would take it back out, over and over.
After what seemed like forever, Preston reached down and muscled the largest fish I’d ever seen into the boat. The fish lay across the deck, flapping and breathing and looking completely disgusting, but you would never know it by the look on Preston’s face, which showed every bit of pride I knew he must have been feeling.
“This big beauty is a tarpon,” he said. “Do you have your phone on you for a pic?”
I pulled my cell from my pocket and set it to camera. “Sure. Are you ready?”
He pulled the fish across his lap and smiled wide. “How is this? Look okay?”
I nodded, feeling a strange pull in my stomach as I glanced up at him. “You look . . . perfect.”
Chapter Nine
Preston’s excitement carried us the entire ride to his apartment, where he insisted we visit before he took me to Liberty. I wasn’t nervous . . . exactly, but I wasn’t thrilled to be meeting his roommates either. I knew the fishing trip had somehow catapulted us into friend mode. I could tell by the way he had relaxed more around me, how we were comfortable whether we were talking or in silence. And really that was fine. Friends was fine.
At least that was what I kept telling myself.
We parked in front of his apartment, which was on the second floor of the third building on the left of the complex. It was quiet. No music blaring. No loud talking. There was no one outside on the small balcony that connected to his apartment, and I realized that Preston must live alone.