Ronan laughed, the sound carrying across the water. “There’s more to it than that. It’s about patience. Connection to nature. Plus, nothing tastes better than fish you caught yourself.”
“If you say so.” I reached for the rod, curiosity winning out over stubbornness. The thing was lighter than it looked, but awkward in my hands.
He stepped closer, his own rod tucked under one arm. “Here, let me show you. Hold it like this.”
I watched as he showed how to hold the rod, his hands moving with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times. When I tried to imitate him, he shook his head, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.
Instead of taking the rod back, he moved behind me, his chest pressing against my back as he reached around to position my hands. “Close, but not quite. Like this.”
His breath warmed my ear, and his body pressed against mine. I swallowed, suddenly aware of every place we touched. His hands covered mine, gently adjusting my grip. The closeness made my heart race, even after last night.
“You want to pull back and then cast forward, releasing the line right . . . here,” he said, his voice low near my ear as he guided my arms through the motion.
We cast the line together, his body moving with mine and reminding me of last night in a different way. The line flew out over the water and landed with a small splash, farther than I expected.
“Not bad. Now reel it in slowly. Give it little twitches every few turns.”
I followed his instructions, hyperconscious of his proximity. When the line was back in, he finally stepped away.
“Now you try it,” he said, moving to stand beside me.
I went through the motions he’d shown me, deliberately fumbling the release, sending the line weakly a few feet from the dock. “Oops.”
Ronan burst out laughing. “Need some more help with that?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” I replied with exaggerated innocence.
He moved behind me again, closer this time, one hand settling on my hip while the other guided my casting arm. “You’re releasing too early. Hold it a little longer . . .”
We cast again, his body pressed firmly against mine, and this time the line sailed perfectly across the water. I leaned back slightly, fitting myself more snugly against him, noticing his sharp intake of breath.
“Like that?” I asked, turning my head just enough to meet his eyes.
“Exactly like that.”
We stayed close for a long moment, both knowing this wasn’t really about fishing anymore. Ronan’s hand tightened on my hip, his thumb tracing circles on my side. Ronan kissed the back of my neck, then stepped away.
After that, I got better at casting, though I kept finding reasons for him to help me fix my form.
“My daddy used to bring me out here almost every weekend after Grandpa died. Said a man needed to know where his food came from, even if he didn’t always have to catch it himself.”
“Your preacher father was big on fishing?” I glanced at him, curious about this glimpse into his past.
His smile turned nostalgic. “Oh yeah. He said Jesus picked fishermen for disciples for a reason. We’d talk about everything out on the water—school, girls, God, and politics. Things I couldn’t ask him in the church where everyone was watching the preacher’s son.”
I tried to picture a young Ronan, with skinny limbs, fishing beside his father. “Sounds like he was a good dad.”
He nodded, reeling in his line to recast. “The best. What were your summers like as a kid?”
“The library. Mama ran the branch in our neighborhood. I had my own little desk in the back office, surrounded by stacks of books she thought I should read.”
“Let me guess, lots of history? Civil rights leaders? Political theory?” His tone was teasing but gentle.
I laughed, remembering. “Some of that, yeah, but also fiction. Poetry. Mama said a revolutionary needed imagination more than anything to envision a world different from the one we lived in.”
“I love that.”
“Summer days, I’d read until my eyes hurt, then she’d take me for ice cream and make me tell her what I’d learned. Not what the books said, but what I thought about what they said.”
