The Look

Morgan bit her lip, frowning with concentration. She was furiously hoping that her coordination would cooperate, that she wouldn’t end up getting them both strung up in the line. She felt a bit like she was trying to pat her head and rub her stomach with the other hand at the same time. A totally impossible thing.

“Relax.” His voice murmured right there at her ear, the tiniest tickling sign of his nearness, a definite distraction that really didn’t help at all. Frowning harder, she forced herself to concentrate, to relax into the movement he was slowly initiating. The line whizzed out impressively. She knew full well she’d had very little to do with that, and there was a faint plop as the fly hit the water.

His left hand was at the line now, working around hers, coaxing them into following the subtle jerk and drag of his fingers. She realised the pattern to it, the sensitivity of it, the subtle tug and play and release. Teasing, coaxing, manoeuvring, a slow game of skill and deception.

Blake leaned in close so he could see over her shoulder, his body warm and solid against her. She could feel the faint brush of his breath against her cheek, caught the faintly familiar scent of him, the thing that talked of strength and alertness and a whole lot more.

There was something oddly intimate in the working of his fingers with hers, a kind of brush and touch thing, a reading of one another’s movements, that seemed to absorb the essence of the hunt.

Because that’s what it was. In Morgan’s mind she could see the quick-slow dart of the fly, the water smoothing off its feathered shape in a seamless line, the sharp ripple and flow as it moved, luring the fish with a promise of food. The hunter and the hunted. An ancient art, a primitive dance and feint, dart and circle and beguilement.

It was a raw and sensuous thing, an unimagined moment that seemed to overflow and sweep them in. Morgan drew a breath, quick and sharp, felt him tense behind her and turned instinctively towards him. Their fingers stilled their working. Oddly, as if from a great distance, she registered this, tried to think her fingers back into action, but the reality of it was swept aside.

She saw the bigness of her own surprise mirrored in his eyes, the faint but unmistakable smoulder of heat and flame, read the certainty that they both were in some strange, impossible place where nothing else was real.

Morgan knew he was going to kiss her. Read it in his eyes, a quiet intent that flared up, an instinctive, irresistible thing. Wanted it, waited for it, her lips parting slightly with the expectation of the inevitable.

Rudely, abruptly, the rod jerked out of her hands, shattering the moment. Even as she gave a small shriek of alarm, Blake had already plunged into the river, grabbing at it as it pulled away from the bank. The water was deep and Morgan could see he couldn’t touch the bottom, had to struggle to regain control of the line and the rod, and keep himself afloat.

“Get the net,” he yelled over his shoulder. Quickly, a little disjointed still and not quite sure what he expected from her, she scrambled for the net. When she turned, she saw that he had let himself drift slightly downstream to where the water was shallower and he could stand, move slowly backwards to the bank.

Morgan hurried towards him, brandishing the net like it was some kind of alien creature because she really had no idea what to do with it. He was on the bank now, dripping water and grinning.

“I guess this is yours,” he said, offering her the now under control fishing gear.

Morgan shook her head. “Go right ahead. I think you’ve earned it. And besides, I’m liable to mess it up, big time.”

He laughed, continued playing the line out, drawing it in, working the fish to a place of weary surrender.

“Ok, reach over and slide the net under it.” Morgan did, careful because it was a long stretch and because she didn’t want to lose it now. A quick scoop and the trout was in.

But she wasn’t prepared for the weight of it, or the sudden frantic burst of resistance as the fish felt the net lift it from the water. In a split second she had sprawled out flat in the water, both hands hanging on to the net for all she was worth. Blake stepped forward, rescuing the net and leaving her hands free to get herself upright. Utterly soaked, smeared with mud, Morgan coughed and spluttered herself back to normality.

“Right,” she said. “That was fun.” She stood, still knee deep in the muddy water, wondering whether to laugh or cry. Blake, quickly dispatching the unfortunate fish, didn’t seem to have the same problem. He was almost doubled over with laughter.

“You have mud on your nose,” he said, wading in towards her.

“And you’re surprised because…?” It snapped out as a tart reply, a kind of gather-your-dignity thing that didn’t seem to be working at all.

* * * *

“Here,” he said, and she saw the wicked gleam way too late. He pushed her backwards into the deeper water, came in quickly beside her. One arm slid around her waist, the other hand splashed her face and rubbed gently, washing off the mud. “Your hair, too,” he said, tipping her backwards so that her hair streamed out into the water, deftly working his fingers through it to clear the clumps of mud. “There you go,” he said. “Good as new.”

“Hardly. Damp and bedraggled doesn’t count.”

“I don’t know,” he said, eyeing her thoughtfully. “Thoroughly soaked is a better choice of phrase, but the mermaid look works for you. The sultry siren of the seas thing. It’s a real turn-on, trust me.”

She burst out laughing. He feigned a hurt look.

“Here I am trying to be nice—”

“You don’t have to be,” she said, still laughing. “Actually, you don’t look much better yourself.” He still held her round the waist, his free hand playing the water to keep them afloat. “Maybe we should head for shore. I need to get these shoes off.”

“Maybe. But first I’d like to see to some unfinished business.”

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head. It was a gentle kiss, soft and teasing and tentative, a kind of lazy, explorative thing that wasn’t bold and wasn’t hesitant, just quiet and in control. And definitely, decidedly, provocative.

Morgan’s hands tightened in the wet folds of his shirt, pulling herself closer to him in an instinctive movement so she pressed up tight against his chest. She could feel his hand splayed flat in the small of her back, a hot and present thing beyond the chill of the water. A small voice whispered a warning, softly, somewhere in the stillness of her mind, but it lingered only as a pale and distant shadow, easy to ignore.

He lifted his head, a slow and reluctant parting, so he could stare down into her wide eyes, dark with shifting confusion and deep currents of emotion he’d never seen before.

“A man could drown in your eyes,” he said, the rough undertone belying the flippancy of the words. Morgan knew, and knew that he knew, that somehow, somewhere, a tiny flame had been stirred up, an extraordinary something that turned the game into something completely new.

“Hey, Blake, looks like you finally caught something!”

Morgan groaned aloud. Over Blake’s shoulder, she could see the others gathering on the bank, Roy out front as always and clearly loving it.

“It’s the town crier,” she said, her face a mixture of vexation and amusement. “We’ve had it, I’m afraid.”

Blake echoed her groan, his exaggerated expression of horror sending her into a fit of laughter. “Busted,” he said dismally. “Down-right, flat-out busted.”