But he shakes his head and steps back. “It’s all yours.”
“No, no.” I motion toward him. “It’s your trip. Come take it.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure there will be more.”
“Ohmy God!” Mr. Morgan calls from the bridge. “Stop dancing around each other and get me a damn fish!”
I clear my throat. The line in the reel continues to feed out. Whatever’s on the other end is big and moving fast. I hand the rod to David.
“Don’t fight with him. He’ll let you know when he’s ready to come in.”
He takes it, setting himself with his hips and shoulders square to the side of the boat. “What are you, the fish whisperer?”
“Just trust me.”
The line plays out. Every time David’s fingers twitch toward the reel, I shush him and tell him to wait. A fish this big, whatever it is—trying to bring it in before it’s ready to stop fighting will only wind up with a snapped line.
The rod bends and jerks in David’s hands. He keeps checking in with me out of the corner of his eye.
Eventually, the tension in the rod slackens.
“Now.”
David must have been waiting like a sprinter. I’ve barely closed my mouth and he’s reeling. He works so fast, hand flying, pulling on the rod until it’s curved again, that I don’t even have a chance to shout the warning as it dips and swings to the right, banging against one of the flybridge’s supports.
The rod snaps straight.
“What happened?” David gasps with wide eyes.
“Broke the line.”
He frowns, looking confused. “But I did what you said.”
I nudge him gently with my elbow as I take the rod from him. “There will be other chances.”
“You sure about that?” David’s voice drops, and I have to clear my throat because I’m staring again. I’d been expecting a season of bored, rich tourists. Maybe a couple who actually came for the fishing, and a couple more who thought they knew what they were doing and wouldn’t listen when I tried to help them bring in their catch.
David is none of those things. And the way he speaks to me and watches me, I’m never sure if he’s talking about fishing or something else entirely. Of course, the “something else” is totally off-limits, but out here on this perfect boat away from Harper and her rules, it feels tempting to at least imagine it.
“Da-David.” Mr. Morgan voice is so soft and high that I don’t hear it at first.
“That’s why we set out multiple reels,” I say.
“David.”
“So you think we’ll catch something else?” David’s face is full of hope. Fishing will break your heart over and over, but even though we’ve just met and I wanted so badly to resent him and his boss for being here, I can already tell I’ll do my best to help him enjoy this trip, even if his asshole boss hides up top the whole time.
“Do you—” My question is cut off by the sound of violent retching. I turn in time to see Mr. Morgan leaning against the rail as he pukes over the side.
“Oh shit.” David rushes to the ladder as Mr. Morgan lurches toward the open back of the flybridge. I stumble forward too because a fall from there is a hell of a lot farther than the step down from the dock this morning. But just as Mr. Morgan is about to teeter over the edge, the boat rocks against a wave, and he stumbles back into his seat before flinging himself at the rail to throw up again. David scrambles up the ladder with the same long-limbed grace he seems to have for everything.
“I don’t feel so good,” Mr. Morgan says when David reaches him.
“Yeah, buddy,” David says, putting his arm around his shoulders.
“It’s so wavy up here.”
“We’ll get you home.”
