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“My parents always packed me off to summer camp. By the time I was born, they were over family trips and having kids at home. I wouldn’t say I can fish as much as I’d say, I’ve gone through the motions enough.” Her words were light and carefree, yet there was an undercurrent of sadness.
Why did she do this?
All the time.
It was starting to drive him up a damn wall.
No matter the situation or what had happened, Jessica always spun things into a positive light and diminished anything bad or negative. He knew from the extensive background work he’d had to pull on her as part of their undercover investigation that her parents had been downright negligent when it came to her. It sounded to him like her parents hadn’t wanted the responsibility of another child and had instead handed her off to a range of nannies, teachers, and camp counselors to raise instead of doing the work themselves.
Even when she spoke about taking a bullet at point-blank range for her friend, she simply brushed it off as something she’d do for her best friend.
What about Jessica?
What about her life?
She was nosey, and she inserted herself where she didn’t belong, but she also had the biggest heart for others. He’d thought he’d known all there was to know about Jessica freaking Chapin before the investigation really got started. But now? After living under the same roof as her for two months?
Samuel didn’t know shit about her, but he wanted to. He wanted to know what made her tick? What was the moment that had changed her life? Why didn’t she ever get angry?
“Damn it,” Jessica said and danced back as her fishing rod clattered to the dock.
“What? What is it?”
He set his rod aside and turned to face her.
Jessica cradled her left hand against her chest, lips pulled back into a grimace.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I was stupid.”
Stupid his ass.
She’d been third in her class at law school. To say she was brilliant was an understatement and an insult.
Infuriating woman.
“Let me see?” He reached for her wrist.
She rolled her eyes, “Ug, Samuel…”
Blood dripped from a small puncture wound on her thumb.
“It’s nothing,” she insisted.
He pressed the cuff of his black track jacket to the small wound. “You want to get an infection? You know what that’ll do to your recovery?”
“It’s a scratch. Nothing major.”
“It is not. What did you do?”
She huffed but didn’t pull her hand back, which was how he knew it wasn’t as minor as she claimed it was. “I was just going to put another worm on the hook…”
Fishing was a terrible idea.
Who’d thought to send them fishing?
“This needs to be cleaned right now,” he said and glanced up to where their fisherman instructor was watching them. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
He inclined his head and ambled off.