Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 84(@200wpm)___ 67(@250wpm)___ 56(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 84(@200wpm)___ 67(@250wpm)___ 56(@300wpm)
Now I looked at him more closely. Was he… was he concerned about me? Like he actually might give a shit about someone other than his plane?
“Thanks,” I said, handing him my credit card. “But the trip’s probably going to be canceled on account of the blizzard.”
Pete’s lips twitched, but he did a good job keeping a straight face. “No doubt. Might want to pick up some firewood and cocoa now you mention it.”
“Nah,” I said, grabbing the paper bag out of his hand. “I brought a snowsuit, so I’ll be nice and toasty. But I already told my boss I’ll be able to write my Never Have I Ever article about the blizzard, so that’s cool.” I turned to walk out the door but called over my shoulder, “Pun intended.”
I wasn’t completely sure, but I thought I heard him laughing.
I walked out into the strange evening sun with a bright smile on my face. A little sleep, a nice meal, and a bit of flirting with an attractive man… it was a shot in the arm I hadn’t realized I’d needed.
After several months of working my ass off helping create buzz about Heart2Heart’s new promotion, I truly was tired and a little burned-out. It seemed like everything I tried to write for my big “Never Have I Ever” article fell flat. Maybe being here in such a peaceful, beautiful place would inspire me to write something amazing.
I’d booked several new experiences in hopes one of them would spawn fresh ideas. Maybe I’d meet exciting people rich in unique stories and local color.
I stayed up late googling everything I could about fly-fishing. Growing up in south Florida meant I’d had plenty of experience fishing in the ocean, both deep-sea expeditions and throwing a line off a pier, but I’d never been river fishing and definitely not fly-fishing. Presumably, my guide would know what to do.
When I woke up the next day and followed Maggie’s instructions to meet my guide by a navy blue pickup truck parked at the far end of the building, I was expecting a grizzled old local man with a battered ball cap to meet me.
That was the opposite of the man who met me. Instead of a wizened old fisherman, Pete Valentine stood in faded beige canvas pants and another well-worn T-shirt. This one read Valentine Outfitters in faded print. I’d learned from Maggie that Knockwood Bar, Aviation, Tackle, and Hotel was owned by the Valentine family, a band of brothers including Pilot Pete and Behind-the-Bar Boston. I wonder if Maggie was a sister or sister-in-law.
“Hi,” I said. “Are you my fisherman?”
The words tumbled in the air between us like awkward clowns who’d tripped out of an overstuffed Volkswagen Beetle.
“I’m your fishing guide,” he said drily.
“Great.” I clenched my hand into a fist to keep from smacking myself on the forehead.
Note to self: small towns offer little vendor variety.
“Get in the truck,” he said, nodding at the passenger door as if I didn’t know how to follow such simple instructions.
“Is it just us?” I asked, trying not to let the edge of desperation enter my voice.
“Mmhm.”
Great. I climbed into the truck with many regrets. Why had I booked the excursion without asking who my guide would be? Why had I selected a day when no other tourist wanted to experience the joys of a grumpy fishing guide? And most importantly, why did I care so much when I’d spent the evening realizing how lucky I was to be in a quiet, peaceful place?
I would spend the day in meditative silence, only talking the bare minimum to my fishing guide when I needed instruction.
It would be a lesson in patience and stillness. What city dweller couldn’t use a day of peaceful reflection every once in a while?
Jonah Oliver would be quiet as a mouse and return later tonight with a newfound experience of silent harmony in nature.
CHAPTER FOUR
PETE
The motormouth didn’t shut up all damned day.
Normally I’d have been annoyed as hell by the constant chatter, but for some reason, I didn’t mind. I actually kind of liked his relentless cheer. Jonah talked about growing up in Florida, random encounters with crocodiles, the best time of year to visit Disney World, how to treat jellyfish stings, and why he believed psychic mediums might actually be real.
“How else can you explain it?” he asked incredulously. “She couldn’t have known about it ahead of time because the guy lived in Oklahoma before that, you know? Crazy. Totally nuts. But real. You know?”
I bit back a grin. At one point earlier this morning, he’d made a comment about using the day to listen to the peaceful sounds of nature.
That was before the mosquitoes woke up and decided he was a tasty treat.
“Motherfucking bloodsucking homicidal maniacs!” he’d finally shouted, flapping his arms in the air and stomping his feet through the shallow water. Frigid droplets landed on his warm skin and made him wince. “Cold! Why is that water so… oh.”