“Mangroves.” She turned the engine to idle and went to the front of the boat, lifting the heavy anchor and tossing it in with a splash before he could offer to do it for her. “Red mangroves, specifically. Those freaky-looking roots keep them from drowning. Kind of like a house on stilts. And they act like a nursery for all sorts of baby fish, protecting them from bigger predators.”
“And where there are fish, there are things that eat fish.” As if to punctuate his words, a pair of pelicans flopped to a landing atop the nearest bunch of trees.
Mollie followed his gaze, and chuckled. “Exactly. That’s why the birds hang out here, and it’s why we’re here. Should be enough for all of us. Grab a pole, and I’ll help you get a line in the water.”
“Don’t think I can handle baiting my own hook?” He tried to look offended.
“Can you?”
“Um, maybe? Honestly, that was never my favorite part as a kid.” He probably should be embarrassed by that but he wasn’t. He didn’t feel the urge to pretend or to try to fit in around Mollie. The sheer relief of just being himself in a place where no one cared who he was or wanted anything from him made the whole trip seem worthwhile. He might not be having the typical honeymoon, but he was definitely having a good time. Even if he didn’t know how to put a frozen shrimp on a hook.
Mollie did, though. Sitting on the seat closest to the bait well, she took the sleek black rod with its brass fittings and braced it between her knees, a sight that was way more erotic than it should be. Then she swiftly threaded the hook through a partially thawed shrimp in a figure-eight type motion. “There you go. Now, how about a quick lesson in casting?”
“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 gangl
y 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.”
“Nope.” She elbowed him as she walked by, heading for an open table in the back where they’d be able to see the ocean. “Thirty years ago, Pete started with a three-wall shack and a grill. He’s changed a few things, kept up with the code requirements, but that’s about it.”
Sitting down, she handed him a plastic menu from the bucket sitting on the table. He took it, his eyes widening as he read the selections.
“Ginger curry mahi-mahi served over coconut rice, a
snapper BLT with a citrus beurre blanc sauce, fish tacos with mango salsa—”
“Like I said, the best seafood in town.” She grinned at his enthusiasm; Pete’s had that effect on people. “And let that be a reminder not to judge a book by its cover.”
“So noted.” He set the menu down and held her gaze. “And for the record, I’m glad that we aren’t at some stuffy restaurant with white linen tablecloths. I never know what fork to use.”
“I don’t buy it. No way you grew up with a military father and didn’t learn basic table etiquette. But I’ll agree that this is way better. I tend to avoid any place that expects me to wear high heels, just on principle.”
“So I shouldn’t expect any formal events this week?”
“Not in Paradise. You’d have to go south to Palm Beach or Miami to get that kind of scene.” Was that what he’d expected on this trip? Was he bored already? “You could always get a rental car and shift your vacation there. I’m sure Nic would give you a partial refund, given the circumstances.” It made sense that someone used to running in artistic circles would be bored in such a small town, but darned if she wasn’t disappointed at the thought of him leaving so soon.
“Hey, who said anything about leaving?” He shifted, stretching his legs out under the table. “I’m more than comfortable right here. Unless you’re trying to get rid of me?”
Relief flooded her body—and she wasn’t going to analyze why. “Sorry, I guess I was getting ahead of myself, jumping to conclusions. I do that sometimes. In good news, I’m told by my friends that you get used to it.” She flagged down a waitress, ready to order and restore some normalcy to the evening. “So, do you know what you want?”
He looked deliberately at her. “Everything looks good.”
Wow. Heat rose on her cheeks to match the heat in his voice. Keeping her cool around him wasn’t going to be easy if he kept this up. “Limit yourself to the menu, big guy.”
There, see, she could handle herself. Setting her own menu aside, she waited for him to order.
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