Page 8 of Stick Break (Boston Bucks #8)

“I’m named after a fictional alien-slaying badass.” Her brows shoot up. “Yeah. My mom was a superfan of theAlien franchise. My older brother’s name is Easton. I guess they saved the weird name for the second kid.”

“Weird?” she teases.

“It came withnicknames,” I say, dramatic sigh included. “You know what kids called me growing up?”

She perks up, lips twitching. “Do tell.”

“Some went with Believe It or Not. ” I pause, giving her a second to connect the dots.

She frowns, then her eyes pop. “Oh, Ripley’s Believe It or Not. ”

“Yup.” I snort. “Yeah, those kids weren’t exactly comedic geniuses.” She’s already giggling, so I pile on. “I also got Rip Cord. Rippy Longstocking. ”

“Oh, that one’s solid,” she says, clearly delighted.

“Wait, there’s more. Teenage years? I had a breakout moment and became Zitley. ”

“Oof. Harsh.”

“Yeah. And then there was the time I got caught in a rainstorm and some genius coined Dripley. ”

That gets a real laugh out of her, loud and free. “Dripley. That’s gold.”

“Oh, youlikethat one, huh?”

She nudges me with her elbow. “You know, Rip… I find itveryhard to believe you were ever the guy getting picked on at recess.”

“Oh yeah? What gives you that idea?”

She waves a hand slowly, up and down. “Just a hunch. Something about the whole… six-foot-something, FAFO energy you give off.”

“FAFO?” I ask and then laugh. “Oh, fuck around and find out.”

“Yeah.”

I chuckle. “I wasn’t always big. And honestly, the names never really bothered me.”

“Well, that’s good,” she says. “Because I might start calling you Dripley from now on.”

“Great. Can’t wait to hear that in public again.”

“Now you’re Big Bear,” she says, grinning.

“And Ripley Stripley to some,” I reply before I can stop myself.

Her head tilts. “Ripley… Stripley ,” she says quietly like she’s heard it before.

Wow, way to draw attention to who you really are, dude.

“Uh, Rip?” she asks.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think your girlfriend’s going to be upset that I crashed your place? I mean, I don’t want to come between you two.”

“She’s not really my girlfriend,” I blurt.

She blinks. Her face shifts just enough for me to catch the flicker of surprise, and maybe confusion, before she looks away. I open my mouth, then shut it again like a malfunctioning fish.

“It’s just that…uh.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” she says softly.

“I know. I just…” I scrub a hand over my face. “She used to be. We’re on again, off again. Mostly off these days.”

Charly goes quiet, and a shadow moves across her expression. She must be thinking about…him. The guy who leaked that tape. My hands tighten on my fishing line, the tension running up my arms. What kind of asshole does that? I don’t care how mad you are—you don’t break someone like that .

“You’re currently… off?” she asks.

“Yeah.” Just that. Simple. Not simple.

She looks like she wants to say more, but I nod to her bobber. “You’ve got something.”

Her eyes go huge. “No way.” She jumps up, nearly taking the rod with her. “Oh my God, is it a fish?”

“Not sure.” I drop my line and move behind her. “Easy,” I say, close to her ear.

She shivers—and I get the sense that it has nothing to do with the catch on her line.

“Come on, Mama needs a new pair of cargos,” she says, grinning as she works the line.

I chuckle just as a summer flounder leaps from the water. Charly squeals like she just won the lottery. “ Ohmigod, it’s a fish.”

“It’s a fish,” I say, laughing at her pure joy.

“I caught a fish. I can’t believe I caught a fish.”

I reach down, cover her hands with mine to help her reel it in. “Nice and slow,” I murmur, guiding her.

Her scent drifts up—coconut and something sun-warmed—and for a second I forget we’re reeling in dinner.

The fish flops onto the rocks and Charly jumps back like it might lunge at her. “Ah, nope. No thank you.”

I take the rod and crouch beside the flopping flounder. “Now we take it off the hook. Then I slice down the belly and clean it.”

I glance back—and she looks horrified .

“Are you… going to kill it?”

“That’s kind of how this works.”

“I… I don’t want to do that.” Her voice is shaky.

“I can do it.”

“Maybe we could just… have peanut butter sandwiches for dinner?”

I pause, then nod. “Okay.”

Walking to the water’s edge, I release the fish gently. It floats for a second, stunned, then flicks away into the surf.

When I turn back, she’s hugging herself, looking like someone just told her Bambi was nonfiction.

“Hey.” I step close and wrap my arms around her, pulling her in. “You okay?”

She nods against my chest. “I guess I never thought about what happens afteryou catch one.”

“It’s okay.” I smooth a hand over her back. “We can do catch and release. There’s a market down the road if we want fish.”

She lets out a breath, shoulders still tight. “Sorry. I know you wanted to catch dinner.”

“I wanted to relax,” I say, simple and true. “Fishing’s helps me with that.”

She looks up at me, cheeks pink, lashes fluttering. And I don’t know if it’s the sunrise, the salt air, or the fact that she just squealed over a flounder—but I might be in trouble here.