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Everyone pairs up, and soon it’s just me, Dad, Riley, and a handful of worms.
Dad nods. “You two should head on down to the switchback,” he says, pointing to a section of the creek I know well. It’s a great fishing spot, with an embankment right over a deep pool, but it’s also a bit of a hike from where we are now. “I’m going to check on the rest of the gang.”
I glance at Riley’s new boots and shake my head. “We can find a closer spot so you don’t have to walk so far.”
Riley sets her hands on her hips, a fishing rod in one hand and a net in the other. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”
“With those new boots, you’re apt to get blisters.”
“Blisters, schmlisters. Just try to keep up,” she says, shoving the net at me.
I’ll give it to her; she sets a brisk pace. By the time I’m done fumbling with the net and earthworms, I have to jog to catch up to her. When we finally reach the bend in the creek, I’m breathing hard. She barely looks like she’s broken a sweat. Instead of letting myself get soft, I double down. Must be all those spin classes or hot yoga or whatever the latest West Coast fitness trend is this month, I think in an effort to force myself not to be too impressed by her.
I’m definitely not impressed with her.
Not in the slightest.
Nope.
CHAPTER 13
Riley
“THE BEST PLACE to stand is on that outcropping over there,” Colton says, pointing it out. He’s rolled his sleeves up to his forearms and I don’t miss the way his corded muscles flex under his tanned skin as he moves. “But before we head over, I’ll show you how to cast and you can practice before you attempt to get your line in the water.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say. I’ve been fishing plenty of times and I know my way around a reel and tackle box.
But, of course, Colton ignores me. He grabs the fishing rod and dives right into a lesson anyhow. He describes how the reel works and what to do when a fish is hooked. After demonstrating the proper casting technique, he hands the rod back to me. “Any questions?”
My eyelid twitches with irritation. “Can you please hand me a night crawler?” I ask through gritted teeth, holding out my hand.
Colton scrutinizes me like he expects me to be grossed out by the things, but ever since my fourth-grade class studied compost and had a red wiggler worm farm, I’ve been A-OK with earthworms. I even did an entire art series in charcoal, colored pencil, and watercolor dedicated to worms. They really are fascinating creatures.
With his mouth still hanging open like one of the poor fish we’re supposed to catch for dinner, I don’t bother to wait for him to hand the bait over. I grab one from the cup in his hand and give it a solemn apology. “Sorry about this, buddy,” I say. “Thank you for your sacrifice.”
The rod and reel aren’t nearly as nice as the one Grandpa Bob taught me to fish with, but I expect it’s significantly better than whatever the pioneers had—probably a length of string tied to a pliable branch. I find a clump of grass to press the tip of the rod into to check the action. Then I test the smoothness of the reel by spinning it. Could be worse.
There’s a bit of shade by some trees along the bank, near the outcropping Colton pointed out, and I figure it’s as good a place as any to stand above the pool. If I cast to the side, I should be able to get the hook in the water without catching the line in the branches.
Turns out, I’m a little rusty. My first attempt plops down into some vegetation in the muck along the creek bed. Thankfully it doesn’t snare and I reel in the line. The hairs on the back of my neck rise and I just know that Colton is standing behind me, arms crossed over his chest with a slight smirk on his face.
Like my not being grossed out by a wriggler is a fluke.
Like he expects me to suck at fishing because I don’t look like an angler.
Like he expects someone like me to fail.
Boy, does he have another think coming. Grandpa Bob and I did most of our fishing in the ocean near Montaña de Oro State Park, but I’ve been freshwater fishing plenty of times. Ponds, lakes, rivers, streams. Once I dust off the rust, I’ll have this in the bag…err, net.
I pull back the fishing rod and let the line fly again. This time, it splashes down into the pool below, sending shallow ripples across the surface of the water. I give it some slack as the bait disappears below the reflective surface.
There, I bet that showed him.
I sneak a backward glance to find him standing just as I predicted: crossed arms, slight smirk, hat tipped down just enough to hide his eyes. Clearly, my dazzling displays of baiting the hook and casting off weren’t enough to prove my abilities as a fisherwoman. Just wait until I reel this sucker in.
I’m just about to open my mouth to say something—I haven’t quite figured out what yet—when I feel a slight tug on the line. Instantly, my nerves buzz with a familiar adrenaline rush. I hold the rod a bit more tightly and pull the line taut. The tip of the rod bobs again. Once I’m confident I’ve set the hook, I release some slack and keep the rod at forty-five degrees and lined up with the fish, just like Grandpa Bob taught me.
“Reel it in a bit,” Colton advises from over my shoulder.
