Boone thinks it’s hilarious.
“You’re holding the rod like it’s going to explode,” he says.
“It might.”
“It’s a fishing pole, Wren.”
“Yes, but I’ve spent most of my life around electronics.”
“This is… not electronics.”
I glare at him.
“That was not helpful.”
Boone chuckles and steps closer behind me on the dock.
The wood creaks softly beneath our feet as the water stretches out like glass in the fading evening light.
“Alright,” he says patiently.
“Let’s try this again.”
His hands gently adjust mine on the fishing rod.
“Loosen your grip.”
“Like this?”
“Exactly.”
The warmth of his hands over mine sends a small spark through my chest.
Which is extremely inconvenient for focusing on fishing.
“Now,” Boone continues, “when you cast…”
“…you let the line do the work.”
“I thought you said fishing required patience.”
“It does.”
“Then why are you standing this close?”
He grins.
“To supervise.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“It’s professional instruction.”
I roll my eyes.
“Sure it is.”
“Alright,” Boone says.
