“Oh my God, seriously, Will?”
He began chuckling uncontrollably. “Have you ever seen a man’s rod? Every time we talk about mine, your cheeks turn red.”
He could not be for real.
“For your information, yes, I’ve seen one,” she huffed. “Tons of them.”
He laughed so hard he held his side. “Tons, huh?”
The blood rushed to her ears. “I’ve seen…enough. I don’t need to see yours, and could we please stop talking about it?”
He pulled himself together. “You’re the best wife ever, Lucy. I want you to know that. I haven’t laughed this hard since I was a kid.”
“Bestpretendwife. Seriously, though, what’s with the flicking thing?”
“Well, Luce, I flick mythingso the fish will think the worm is alive. Try it.”
She mimicked what he did. Nothing happened. The story of this fishing trip was summed up in those two words—nothing happened.
Light played across the ripples of the water, and the boat swayed slightly. They’d been drifting for a while when the tip of her fishing rod jerked. She held tight to the pole and glanced at him. He saw it, too, and moved carefully toward her.
“Put a little pressure on it,” he said quietly.
She tugged. The line tightened.
William beamed, pride radiating from his eyes. “Set the hook and reel him in.”
She swung the rod up like he’d shown her before. Um. The line really strained now, and whatever was under the water wrenched harder. It took everything in her not to drop the stupid thing.
“Crank the reel,” he yelled.
“You do it.” She tried to hand off the pole.
“Your catch. You reel.” He grinned confidently toward her. “You’ve got this.”
She turned the knob thingy frantically. The tight line stiffened further as the pole bent to the pressure. She turned more. The line ended when a massive fish broke the surface of the water. She shrieked, flinging the pole to William. The fish sailed through the air and landed in her lap. She jumped, pushing it off, her mouth open in a silent scream while it flipped and flopped maniacally in front of her. William yelled something she didn’t grasp. She leaped back to get away from the flailing fish and lost her balance. The boat rocked.
She fell overboard.
Cold water stole her breath. So cold.
Freaking hell cold.
And wet.
She came to the surface for a moment and gasped for air before her head dipped under the water again. Panic seized a tight grip around her. When she opened her mouth, foul lake water filled it.
Her nostrils burned. She refused to give up and breathe in the water.
She failed.
The frenzied movements of her arms and legs seemed detached from reality. They pushed and pulled—reaching for the surface but unable to get there.
The water became a solid force around her. She kicked and pushed against it, her lungs burning. Nearly at the surface she opened her mouth to take in a breath, but it was only more water, and then the pull of the lake drug her down again.
Tightness cinched around her middle, and she shoved against it, using her fingernails to dig into whatever clutched at her. Then, just as quickly as she’d gone under, her head emerged from the depths and she spit out a mouthful of lake water.
She gasped, but the air was heavy in her abused lungs. Another jagged breath and she prepared to go under again. She fought against the lake. Fought against the solid trap holding her tight around the waist.
