Page 71 of Defensive Desire

She laughs and I press a kiss to her cheek before we head back outside.

Nate and Cole are already by the water’s edge, sorting through tangled lines like they haven’t changed their technique since high school.

The lake glitters beneath the sun, still glassy in some places, rippling in others.

I hand Emma a spare rod, one we always kept in the shed for “extras,” and show her how to check the reel tension.

Her fingers fumble at first, and she squints at the line.

“Okay. This is more complicated than it looks,” she mutters.

Cole, already six beers in and waist-deep in sarcasm, calls out from a log he’s perched on. “He’s never been that gentle teaching me. Guess I didn’t bat my lashes hard enough.”

I step behind Emma, guiding her arms gently as she prepares to cast.

“It’s all in the wrist. Don’t overthink it.”

She goes for it, but the lure just plops into the water like a sad stone.

“That was practice,” she says quickly. “Next one’s the real deal.”

Cole leans back dramatically, hands behind his head as he looks to Nate with a grin.

“Never thought I’d see the day Logan Kane turned into a patient man. Look at him, all soft and romantic.”

“And yet I can still throw you in the lake,” I call back.

Emma laughs, and the sound bubbles through the trees like the first warm day of spring.

She tries casting again. Better this time. I step back, letting her handle it on her own, and she beams when the line arcs in a perfect loop.

“Thereit is,” I say, trying not to sound as proud as I feel.

We settle into an easy rhythm, casting lines and swapping stories for the next hour.

It's mostly Cole doing the storytelling, of course. He never fucking shuts up.

He’s now deep into some exaggerated version of the time I face-planted into the river when we were thirteen.

“Thought Mom was gonna wring his neck,” Cole says, grinning and slurping another beer. “Showed up at the cabin soaking wet with a fish flopping out of his shirt.”

Emma nearly doubles over laughing, clutching her stomach like she can’t breathe. “I don’t know if I trust any of you near water.”

“Smart girl,” Nate mutters, lips twitching.

The sun keeps dipping lower, the shadows stretching longer, and soon we’ve got a small catch laid out for dinner. Nothing huge—mostly trout and perch—but enough to feed us for the night.

We grill the fish over an open flame, the scent of lemon and herbs filling the clearing. Smoke curls into the trees as the fire crackles, and for the first time in what feels like months, I’m not thinking about practice schedules or injury reports.

Not even the trade rumors.

That is… until Nate breaks the silence.

“So, man, how you holding up with all the trade talk?”

I glance across the fire.

Emma’s still inside, rummaging through the pantry for the marshmallows she brought. I still haven't mentioned it to her, mostly because I don't know what I would say even if I did bring it up.