“Let’s see it then,” he challenged.
Lucy gripped the pier and, still in her party dress, climbed down the four rungs to the edge of the water.
“Dip your toe in,” Even commanded.
Lucy dipped the edge of her ballet flat to the surface of the ocean. Then she moved her foot back to the rung, but it snagged the hem of her skirt. Holding on with one arm, she moved her other hand to push the fabric away. Her foot slipped, and she fell backward into the salty darkness. She kicked to the surface, but her leg tangled in some wire and she couldn’t reach.
The water overwhelmed her. Her lungs burned as she held her breath for what felt like forever.
One of the workers on the dock pulled her free. Her parents were livid. The ruined dress clung to her while her father ranted.
“Stupid Fat Caterpillar,” Evan had murmured as he walked away.
Stupid Fat Caterpillarreverberated through time and burst into the present, encroaching on this latest excursion.
Lucy’s reflection from Twin Lakes reassured her the hair and the weight were long gone. The emotional scars? They remained.
Her stomach pitched a little when the wave from a speedboat rocked the small canoe she shared with William.
The muscles in his arms working as he rowed were the highlight of the trip. Her massive neon orange life jacket suffocated her skin, and the dang thing chafed. A lot.
Universal fit.Not even.
Finally, she’d had enough of the thing. She unlatched the clasp and tugged the keyhole opening over her head, breathing a sigh of relief as cool air hit the sweaty skin trapped under the polyester-covered foam.
Heaven.
William sat at one end of the boat, his legs sprawled while he twitched his rod every so often. Lucy stayed at the other end, ignoring her line completely.
“Does anyone actually enjoy this?” she asked.
He glanced from the lake to her. “It’s peaceful. Don’t think. Relax.”
That’s what he’d said at the barn dance, too. That didn’t end so well.
“I can’t relax,” she muttered.
“What’s on your mind then?” He set his fishing pole against his leg and focused on her. “How are you liking Confluence?”
“It’s okay.” She shrugged. “You know how it is in this business. Don’t get too comfortable anywhere because the next opportunity is always going to move you away.”
“You’re not staying in Confluence?” he asked seriously.
“Not forever.” She shook her head. Broadcast journalism was an inherently fickle industry. He had been in the business long enough to know how things worked at this level.
He scowled, rummaging through the tackle box near his feet. “I don’t know why everyone wants to leave Confluence. You’re an excellent producer, and Parker’s happy with the way you’re handling the assignment editing. Maybe you should consider sticking around. You could easily make news director in a year.”
No. Confluence was her opportunity to be in front of the camera, not commit to a career behind it.
“What’s your end game then?” He twitched his rod again.
For the briefest of moments, she had forgotten she talked to an exceptional reporter with a specialty for digging out information. She didn’t want to share more than absolutely necessary so she dodged his question with one of her own. “Why do you do that? The twitching-your-rod thing.”
The edges of his lips tugged up. “Twitching my rod?”
“Yeah, the whole jiggling your pole bit.”
His shoulders began to shake with laughter. “Jiggling my pole?”
