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Ellie

I was standing waist-deep in a river, holding a fly rod I had no business owning, and praying to the ghost of my grandfather not to let me die

I squinted at the clear Montana water like it was going to whisper instructions. It didn’t. The ripples just sparkled back at me, calm and indifferent, mocking my complete lack of outdoor skills.

This trip wasn’t just about trout. I had thirty days until my birthday and two very specific goals.

Number one, catch a fish in honor of my grandfather.

Number two, punch my V-card.

That second one? Yeah, it was a long shot. But after two bottles of wine and one very blunt best friend, I’d made a promise—and booked this trip. Possibly not my finest decision, but the wine said otherwise at the time.

There was a checklist, too. He had to look like he could chop wood, brood properly, and—most importantly—know what to do with his hands.

So yeah. That was the plan for my summer vacation.

Catch a fish. Kiss a mountain man. Lose the V-card. Don’t cry about it.

“This is fine,” I muttered, adjusting my grip on the rod. My shoes were already soaked through, but it was a warm day so I didn’t mind. I knew I probably should have invested in better—waterproof—clothing, but the trip had already turned into a beautiful, budget-busting disaster.

With the fishing lessons, I knew I’d be eating bologna sandwiches in my room for the entire week. But I was here to do something for myself. Cast my line out into the big world, so to speak.

Take a chance, sweetheart. I could hear the echo of my grandfather’s voice and shivered.

“I am,” I whispered back. “Even if the water is freezing and I’ll probably end up as fish food.”

I hadn’t meant to be out here alone, but I’d gotten excited.

The guide was late—probably chopping firewood or off wrestling a bear or doing whatever mountain men did at the crack of dawn.

Still, I’d imagined someone rugged and hot, with a flannel shirt—despite the summer temperatures—rolled to the elbows and a broody stare that said I’ve got emotional damage and six-pack abs. I mean, a girl could dream.

Restless and unable to get my vacation started, I’d eaten breakfast and thought, how hard could it be to cast? I’d watched YouTube videos last night so I wouldn’t be a complete dunce. Plus, I was always the one who had to untangled the Christmas lights without crying every year. Same energy, right?

Wrong. So very, very wrong.

I flicked the rod just like the video said. Graceful. Controlled. Like a dancer with a really long, flexible partner.

And promptly snagged something solid. Something behind me, not in front of me.

Something that groaned.

“Son of a—!”

My heart leapt into my throat, did a little panic dance, then settled. The rod jerked. The line pulled taut. I turned around to see a really hot guy walking toward me looking like a pissed-off god of the wilderness.

He was huge. Not just tall, but broad-shouldered, thick-armed huge.

His t-shirt clung to muscles I had only seen on Instagram.

A baseball cap pulled low over a face that was currently scowling at me.

His hands looked like they could snap a fishing rod in half—or hold a woman up against a wall without even breaking a sweat.

Not that I was thinking about that. Obviously.

Oh. And one of my neon-pink beginner flies was stuck in his chest. Right in the muscle. “Oh my God, oh my God, I hooked a person—”

“You’ve got a hell of a cast, sweetheart.” The sarcasm was thick enough to spread on toast.

The rod jerked in my hands. I saw him wince and immediately dropped it. “I didn’t mean to, uh—I was just practicing my cast. I didn’t know anyone was back there.”

“Most people look behind them first,” he said dryly. “But points for accuracy even if I wasn’t what you meant to catch.”

Don’t be so sure about that. The thought whispered through my mind before I could stop it.

I rushed forward to help, because that seemed like the decent thing to do when you’d just harpooned a stranger.

But rushing through knee-deep water on slippery river rocks was apparently not my forte.

I slipped and went down in a spectacular splash that would’ve won awards for most graceless water entry.

Cold river water surged around me, soaking me from chest to toe as I flopped like a stunned trout. The shock of it knocked the breath from my lungs.

The man didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk. Just stood there like being assaulted by idiots was part of his morning routine.

He reached up and removed the hook and I couldn’t help but notice… well, everything about him. But especially the way he moved with the easy confidence of someone who actually belonged out here.

I felt like a fish out of water. No pun needed. It was just accurate.

After he removed the hook, he moved into the water.

It seemed to curl around his legs like it was happy to see him.

He offered me one calloused hand, and I took it, letting him haul me to my feet as if I weighed nothing.

Which was a bold-faced lie because I was definitely in my thick thighs save lives era and had been stress eating pizza for the better part of six months.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly.

“Define okay.”

His eyes did a quick sweep down my body, and I followed his gaze. My soaked white knit top had gone completely see-through, clinging to my very pink sports bra and, well, everything else that made me female. I might as well have been standing there in cellophane.

“Fuck,” he muttered, making me blush. He peeled off his t-shirt without another word and handed it to me.

I about swallowed my tongue. With all that tanned skin and sleek muscles on full display I became wet for an entirely different reason than my unexpected dip in the river.

I stood there like an idiot holding his shirt to my chest.

Our eyes met and locked.

“I, uh.” What exactly was I supposed to be doing?

A slight breeze rolled across the river and goosebumps rose on my arms. Right. Change my wet shirt.

He didn’t say a word, just turned around and crossed his arms across that magnificent chest like it was no big deal that a woman—a stranger—was stripping behind him.

I quickly took off my shirt and hesitated over my bra. It was soaking wet too. Clingy. Cold. I took it off, wrung it out the best I could and put it back on. I yanked his t-shirt over my head. It smelled wonderful and it made my brain go a little fuzzy.

Any other woman would’ve been using this moment to their advantage—flirting, smiling, maybe inviting him to turn around early. But me? I just stood there like a half-drowned squirrel, wondering what the hell I was doing.

I tried to wrangle my inner Bold Ellie to the surface. The one who’d booked this trip with a specific purpose. The one who wanted to feel something more than safe.

But she wasn’t ready yet. I gave a deep sigh, wondering if she ever would be.

This was not the sexy wilderness moment I’d imagined. No sultry glances. No smolder. Just wet socks, clingy fabric, and the overwhelming urge to ask him if he liked girls who tripped over rocks and trauma-babbled.

“Thanks. Um. I didn’t bring a towel. Or dignity, apparently.” I straightened the hem over my thighs. “Okay, all done.”

He turned around slowly and I tried very hard not to stare at his chest and failed immediately. “You’re bleeding,” I blurted, pointing at his shoulder where a thin line of red was slowly making its way down his nipple.

He shrugged like getting stabbed with lures by incompetent tourists was just another fun day at the office. “Just a scratch.”

“I hooked you like a trout. It’s not a scratch—it’s a stabbing. I stabbed you.” I gestured helplessly. “Should I call 911? Is that even a thing here? Do you have mountain EMTs on ATVs?”

“It’s a barbless hook,” he said, completely unfazed. “You’d need skills to actually injure someone.”

Wow. Okay. Rude, but fair.

I crossed my arms, feeling ridiculous and shivery and more than a little mortified. Water was still dripping from my hair, and I was pretty sure I looked like a drowned rat. A horrible thought occurred to me. “Are you with the guide service?”

He gave me a long, deadpan look that somehow managed to convey both resignation and mild amusement. “Yep.”

“Of course you are,” I whispered.

He exhaled hard through his nose. “I’m Nate. Nate Colson. And, since you’ve already tried to kill me, we might as well get started.”

“Started?”

“Your lesson.” He gestured to the water around us. “That’s why you’re here, right?”

That and about a thousand other reasons, I told myself.

But this was the most important. Honor my grandfather’s memory by stepping out into the unknown—which just happened to be a literal mountain river and catching a fish. Even if I was clearly going to be terrible at it.

“Okay,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

He bent down and picked up my rod and handed it to me. I tried not to make a joke about holding his rod. I really did. But the smirk on his face said he mentally probably beat me to it. “Lesson one—always know where your fly is going before you cast.”

“Noted. What’s lesson two?”

“Don’t hook the guide.”

“Also noted.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

He almost smiled. Almost. “You said this was your first time fishing?”

I nodded. “First time fishing. First time Montana. First time voluntarily peeing outdoors. Big day all around.”

This time he did smile, just a little quirk of his lips. “Why now?”

The question hit deeper than I expected. “My grandfather used to bring me to this area when I was a kid,” I said softly. “He passed last year. I wanted to do something he loved. Thought maybe it’d feel like a connection, you know?”

Nate was quiet for a moment, studying my face like he was looking for something. Maybe trying to see how serious I was about this. “So he taught you to fish.”

“He tried. I was more interested in catching frogs and making daisy chains.” The memory made my chest tight. “I was eight and thought fishing was boring. Now I’d give anything for one more lesson with him?”

“So you came back here to learn to fish.”

“I turned thirty last month.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

“And I realized I’ve spent my entire adult life playing it safe.

Teaching kindergarten, dating the same type of guy, eating at the same restaurants.

Grandpa was always telling me to be bold, try new things. So here I am, being bold.”

“And hooking strangers.”

“That part wasn’t in the plan.” Well, not the way it had happened, anyway.

I wanted to blurt out the other reason I’d taken this trip.

Lose my virginity on a vacation fling. I knew what that made me sound like, but it wasn’t that cold or calloused, really.

I just wanted someone to look at me like I meant something, at least for a night.

I’d long ago stopped thinking there was a white knight ready to charge the castle and claim me.

I had the right to have a little fun, right?

He looked at me for a beat longer than necessary, something shifting in his expression. “Well, you’ve definitely made an impression.”

Heat crept up my neck. “Good or bad?”

“Jury’s still out.” But there was something in his voice that sent a little zap up my spine.

He moved back to where he’d dropped his gear. “Come on, city girl. Let’s see if we can teach you to catch fish instead of guides.”

“I have a name,” I said, following him.

He glanced back. “Yeah?”

“Ellie.”

He looked at me like he was memorizing it. Maybe memorizing me in all my wet t-shirt glory. “Ellie,” he repeated, voice low. “Let’s try this again.”