Fishing. The man has seen me naked, made me orgasm in front of a mirror, carried me up a mountain, and now he’s standing here dressed like the world’s most attractive fisherman.
I wait for the punchline. A laugh. Agotcha. Something to explain why Patrick McLaren is cosplaying as a fisherman in my driveway.
Nothing. He just stands there, completely serious, thumb hooked through a suspender.
“I don’t… I don’t understand.”
“You’ve got a list to finish.” His voice is gruff, like he’s annoyed at having to explain something obvious. His eyes catch mine, a flicker of heat sparking there. “And since you apparently have a thing for fishermen, I thought I’d save you the trouble of finding one.”
The air leaves my lungs in an embarrassing squeak. “Have athletic sex with rugged fishermen.”
“Steady on.” His mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “I said we’re going fishing. Let’s start there.”
“We’re actually going fishing. Like, with rods and... fish?”
“That’s typically how fishing works.”
I can’t stop staring. There should be regulations against men that hot voluntarily putting himself in rubber suspenders. It’s like watching James Bond moonlight as a plumber.
“But you just got back from London with those magazine people. Don’t you have important CEO things to do?”
“I wined and dined them last night. My afternoon is clear.”
“You cleared your afternoon to take me fishing?”
“Your list isn’t going to finish itself.” He says it dismissively, but I catch the way he won’t quite meet my eyes, like he’s embarrassed by his own sweetness. He adjusts his cap.
I beam. The man cleared his Saturday afternoon to help me check off “athletic sex with rugged fisherman.”
Well, fishing. We’re starting with fishing. But still.
He rounds the Land Rover, pops the boot, and lifts something out.
Another set of waders. Smaller. He holds them up by the suspenders. “These are yours.”
I stare at the rubber legs swinging in the breeze. “You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know!” My hand slaps over my mouth as an ungodly snort bursts out. “Oh myGod.”
I take the waders from him, clutching the heavy rubber in both hands, and try to smother the ridiculous grin spreading across my face. I have never in my life been happier to be handed a pair of rubber waders.
My stupid heart is treating it like he’s just given me roses.
I clomp out of the cottage, every step punctuated by the erotic squeak of rubber on rubber. It isimpossibleto look sexy in chest-high waders. I tried to salvage the situation with a snug white vest top underneath, hair loose, but honestly, it’s like sticking a bow on a tractor.
One glance in the Land Rover’s side mirror nearly finishes me. The rubber has stretched across my chest in a way that doesn’t look remotely seductive. It looks… agricultural. I don’t just have tits. I havebig rubber tits.
Patrick leans against the Land Rover, waiting for me. When his eyes sweep over me, I want the earth to swallow me whole.
“Did you just happen to have these lying around?” I ask.
He pushes off the Land Rover, one corner of his mouth tipping higher. He steadies me by the elbow as I clamber into the passenger seat, which, yes, is necessary because rubber waders plus my existing lack of grace equals a guaranteed trip to A&E.
“Mine, yes. Yours, no.”
That sends a rush of warmth through me. “You got my size right.”
