Page 4

“Fish Out of Water”

Didi

"So you're actually going to teach me to fish?" I asked as Noah wrestled with the tangled mess I'd made of the fishing line. His fingers worked quickly, somehow turning my disaster into something usable.

"Seems like you could use the help," he replied with a wry smile. "Have you ever fished before?"

"Is it that obvious?" I sighed, watching him thread the line through the rod guides. "This is definitely a first for me."

"What made you decide to try fishing in the middle of your vacation?" His tone remained casual, but I caught the subtle shift to detective mode. Those perceptive blue eyes missed nothing.

I leaned against the dock railing, trying to appear more relaxed than I felt. "I needed a break from work, and every picture I've ever seen of people fishing shows them looking completely at peace. Plus, I have this beautiful private dock. Seemed like a shame not to use it."

"What kind of work has you needing that kind of break?"

"The kind that never stops," I replied, deliberately vague. "Old habits die hard, I guess. Even on vacation."

His hands paused momentarily before he kept going. "I can relate to not knowing how to relax. Sheriff Callahan just ordered me to take the Fourth of July off. Apparently, I haven't taken a personal day in eighteen months."

"You? A workaholic? I never would have guessed," I teased, surprised by how easy the banter felt.

His lips quirked upward. "At least I do know how to fish. And yes, it can be very relaxing." He tied a complicated knot I'd never manage to copy. "Tell you what—I'll grab my gear and join you. We can enjoy the sunset while we fish off the pier."

I hesitated. The idea of spending more time with Noah Sterling was simultaneously appealing and alarming. The last thing I needed was to develop an attachment to anyone during my self-imposed exile—especially not someone who noticed too much.

"I don't want to impose on your evening," I said, trying to sound casual rather than cautious.

"No imposition." He handed me back the now-properly-rigged rod. "Besides, if you catch a fish, I'll cook it for dinner. Can't beat fresh lake bass."

"You cook too?" The words slipped out before I could stop them, tinged with more interest than I'd intended.

"Nothing fancy," he replied with a half-shrug that did fascinating things to his shoulder muscles beneath his t-shirt. "But I can throw together a decent fish fry. Local specialty."

The offer was tempting. Dinner with a gorgeous man who could save me from both shipwrecks and culinary disasters? After weeks of takeout and microwaved meals, the prospect of a home-cooked dinner—even one I'd technically caught myself—was almost irresistible.

"It's a deal," I said impulsively, surprised by my own answer. "Although I can't imagine I'll actually catch anything."

His smile reached his eyes this time, crinkling the corners in a way that made my stomach flip. "You'd be surprised. Fish are biting this time of evening. Be back in ten."

As he walked away, I watched the confident set of his shoulders, the way he moved with such assurance. What was I doing? I'd come to Hope Peak to hide, to recover, to avoid men entirely—not to go on impromptu fishing dates with the local law enforcement.

"This isn't a date," I reminded myself firmly. "It's a neighbor being neighborly."

But the flutter in my chest told a different story.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd spent an evening with a man who wasn't a colleague or an interview subject.

Not since catching my fiancé with his coworker in a compromising position three months ago.

I would have probably believed Brittany's excuse for why she'd been on her knees under Ryan's desk if his pants hadn't been unzipped when he stood up.

The memory still stung, though less than I'd expected.

Maybe because I'd been too preoccupied with my stalker situation to properly mourn my relationship.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Jamie's name flashed on the screen along with a text that immediately tightened my stomach.

Another package arrived at the station today. Security confiscated it, but I got a look before they took it. Photos of you at the coffee shop across from your apartment. From last week, Didi. LAST. WEEK. How did he know you go there? Has anyone from Chicago contacted you directly?

I clutched the railing, suddenly lightheaded. The thought of ChicagoNightOwl watching me, photographing me at my regular coffee shop made my heart pound. The station was supposed to be keeping all correspondence from him, but clearly he was escalating.

Before I could reply, another text came through.

Thomas Vincetti from CPD called. They're getting a warrant to check security footage from businesses near the coffee shop. Stay put where you are. Don't post ANYTHING online, not even with location services off.

I typed back quickly:

I'm being careful. No posts, no check-ins, nothing. Tell Officer Vincetti thanks for the update.

My hands shook as I slipped the phone back into my pocket. The brief peace I'd found vanished as reality crashed back. I was hiding for a reason. Playing house with the attractive neighbor wasn't part of the plan.

"Everything okay?"

I jumped at Noah's voice. He stood a few feet away, fishing rod in one hand, a small tackle box in the other, and two bottles of beer tucked under his arm. How long had he been watching me?

"Fine," I said, forcing a smile. "Just a text from my best friend."

"Must've been some text." He handed me one of the beers, his expression neutral but eyes sharp. "You went pale."

"Friend drama," I said dismissively, accepting the cold bottle. "Nothing serious."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't press. Another point in his favor—perceptive but thankfully not pushy.

"So," I said, deliberately changing the subject, "now that I have a properly rigged rod, what's next?"

"Bait," he replied, setting down his tackle box and flipping it open. "You've got two options—artificial lures or live bait."

"Please tell me 'live bait' doesn't mean actual worms." I wrinkled my nose at the thought.

His laugh rumbled across the water. "It absolutely does. Or minnows, if you prefer."

"Is there a third option? Maybe something that didn't recently have a heartbeat?"

"City girl confirmed," he teased, pulling out a small plastic container. "Artificial it is. Less effective, but you'll sleep better."

I watched as he attached a colorful lure to my line, his hands moving with the same confidence he'd shown when securing the boat last night.

The simple domesticity of the moment struck me—standing on a dock at sunset, having a man teach me to fish.

It was so far removed from my Chicago life of soundproof booths and midnight broadcasts that it felt like playing a role in someone else's life.

"Ready to go," he announced, handing me back the rod. "Now for the casting lesson."

"The what now?"

"You don't think the fish are going to jump onto the dock when you whistle, do you?" His eyes crinkled with amusement. "You need to get the line in the water."

"Right. Obviously." I gripped the rod awkwardly. "Just... throw it?"

He moved behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body. "Not quite. Here, let me show you."

His arms came around me, hands covering mine on the rod. The sudden proximity sent my heart racing, his chest solid against my back. The spicy scent of his aftershave immediately made my knees embarrassingly weak.

"Grip here," he instructed, his voice low near my ear. "Then you pull back to about two o'clock."

He guided my arms through the motion, his body moving with mine.

"And then forward, releasing the line at ten o'clock."

We cast together, the line arcing through the air before landing with a satisfying plop about twenty feet out.

"Nice," he murmured, his breath warm against my neck.

For a moment, neither of us moved. I felt every point where our bodies touched, his hands still covering mine, how easy it would be to lean back against him fully. The tension between us had nothing to do with fishing.

Then he stepped away, clearing his throat. "Now you reel in slowly. Gives the impression of a swimming baitfish."

I nodded, not trusting my voice immediately. "Got it. Slow reeling."

He cast his own line with a smooth motion that made it look simple. We settled into a surprisingly comfortable rhythm—casting, reeling, recasting. The repetitive motion was oddly calming, and I found my thoughts quieting for the first time in days.

"You were right," I admitted after several minutes. "This is relaxing."

"Told you." He took a pull from his beer. "Nothing like focusing on something simple to clear your head."

The sun dipped lower, washing the lake in rich golds and pinks. In this light, Hope Peak looked like something from a travel magazine—pristine waters reflecting the mountain silhouettes, pine trees swaying gently in the evening breeze. For a moment, I could almost forget why I was here.

"So," Noah said casually, "what do you do in Chicago when you're not on vacation?"

I tensed slightly, preparing my usual vague response. "Nothing exciting."

"Let me guess," he said, eyes still on the water. "Something that involves talking."

I nearly dropped my rod. "What makes you say that?"

"Your voice," he replied simply. "There's a quality to it. Professional, trained. You modulate it without thinking." He cast again before continuing. "Plus you narrate to yourself sometimes. Old habit?"

My pulse quickened. Most people didn't notice these things about me. I prided myself on blending in when needed, on controlling how much I revealed. But Noah Sterling was more observant than most.

"I work in communications," I admitted, which wasn't exactly a lie. "Client services."

"Hmm." The sound was noncommittal but skeptical. "Must be important clients."

Before I could come up with a suitable deflection, my rod bent suddenly.