Skinny Dipping Season by Cynthia Tennent Page A

all.
    The dock was still there. But I wasn’t brave enough to jump in the water today.
    I unhooked the line and pushed off. Grandma always rowed us toward the edge of a reef, where an old abandoned icehouse had sunk decades ago. We usually found bluegill and large-mouth bass within the makeshift reef. I might still have luck if I hovered over it.
    Nestor said he would cook anything I caught tonight. My mouth watered just thinking about tender fish with a crispy baked crust. Fresh bluegill, although small, had been delicious and stood out as one of my favorite meals from childhood. Adjusting my Toledo Mud Hens hat to shield my face from the sun, I practiced casting until I had the hang of it once again. Then I opened the box of worms.
    â€œI really hope you have no nerve endings, Mr. Worm,” I whispered as I wrapped it around the hook. I should have felt guilty, but instead I felt a sense of pride. Grandma or Elliot had always done this job for me. But this time I was doing it by myself.
    Smiling and humming a Disney song about life under the sea, I rested my hands on my knees while I waited for a nibble. The loyal reef served me well. It wasn’t long before three blue gill and one largemouth bass sloshed around in my bucket. The fish were “keepers,” as Grandma would have called them. I couldn’t wait to show Nestor.
    I floated in the center of the lake, loving the way it felt like I was on an island in the middle of nowhere. The fluffy white clouds moved lazily across the sky and hearing the wind flutter through the leaves on the shore made me drowsy. I gave the remaining worms a stay of execution and tucked them into the shade under my seat. Pulling in my line, I propped the pole against the side of the boat and reclined against the seat, pulling my cap over my eyes. I sighed in contentment. My eyelids were heavy and the heat from the sun embraced me as the water lapped against the boat.
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    I must have slept, because the next thing I was aware of was the sound of buzzing near my ear. I lifted one lethargic hand and waved it across my face to shoo a fly. A moment later he was back and I repeated the move and then pushed back my hat to stare upward. The clouds above reminded me of a shiny knight riding a white steed.
    I had been reading way too many romances. But it was nice not to wake up ticking off the endless to-do items from my job or my screwed-up future. I concentrated on the clouds and tried to imagine what my prince would be like if I could fabricate him from the sky. Well, it went without saying that he would have to be attractive. But maybe not that preppy, clean-cut style I had grown up with. No, I think my prince would have a dark, slightly dangerous mystique about him. He would be less predictable than Colin. He would be a man who didn’t look at his watch and his phone more often than he looked at me.
    Oh my God, I was being ridiculous. That kind of man didn’t exist.
    I pulled my elbows behind me and propped myself to a sitting position. How long had I been sleeping? The sun was lower on the horizon and the boat had drifted toward the reedy shore. I gazed around, trying to get my bearings, and that was when I spotted him.
    J. D. Hardy leaned casually against a tree, his arms crossed in front of him. He was staring directly at me.
    A shiver ran up my spine. For the first time since I had met him, he wasn’t wearing his uniform. Faded blue jeans and a gray T-shirt were molded to him as if they had been tailored. The breeze blew a lock of hair across his forehead and I felt my body tense—well, I wasn’t actually sure it was tension. But it was something.
    â€œWhat are you doing on my lake?” It came out of me like a squeak.
    He stepped away from the tree. “I’ll have to tell the real-estate agent who sold me my house that he made a mistake.”
    I sat up and clutched the side of the boat. “You know what I mean. This is my fishing lake.”