Last Chance Christmas (Last Chance #5)(21)
Author: Hope Ramsay

And on top of all that, he was having trouble keeping Lark Chaikin from invading his thoughts. He settled his hands behind his head and studied the ceiling in the blue TV light. He should have been bolder tonight. He should have kissed her on the lips.

Regret assailed him. Followed by a prickling sense of guilt.

He rolled out of bed and paced the floor, antsy as a teenager. Why did he feel like he was cheating on Sharon? It was stupid.

He sat on the edge of his bed and heaved a big sigh.

Haley was right. Lark was right, too. He needed to make some changes. He needed to quit feeling guilty about Lark. He needed to quit being a Grinch.

He smiled at the thought. Lark had called him a Grinch with a badge. Yeah, it kind of fit, didn’t it?

He looked down at his hands. His wedding band winked at him in the flickering light.

“I miss you so much,” he whispered as he caressed the gold with his finger. He stared at the wedding band for a long time. In his heart, he still felt married. He wanted to remain faithful to that love. But yesterday at Momma’s house, he’d also felt so single and alone. His brothers and sister were all hitched up now, and he was the odd man out.

A married man shouldn’t feel so lonely. Wearing the ring wouldn’t ever bring Sharon back.

It took more energy than he thought it would, just to slide the damn thing off his finger. And then, once it finally came off, he was left with an indentation and a white line where the ring had rested for twenty years.

He put the ring on his bedside table. Then he turned off the television and climbed back into his lonely bed. But he didn’t sleep.

He kept thinking about Lark Chaikin.

Chapter 12

Lark studied the photograph with a critical eye. She’d taken the shot with a large f-stop, thereby controlling the depth of field. Stone Rhodes, caught in the act of casting a fishing line, stood out sharply against an unfocused background of muted green. She’d managed to frame the photo with a small wisp of Spanish moss in the foreground, and she’d caught the tiniest of half grins on the chief’s mouth.

It was amazing she had been able to shoot him at all. What was it about Stone Rhodes? His image—the first real photograph Lark had taken in months—lit up the LCD screen on her laptop in a preternatural way.

In fact, for a photograph taken in winter, this one practically teemed with life. The vitality of the man came through in the play of muscles, the tendons in his neck and jaw, the tension in his beautiful big hands. The background held the green of living things.

It was like Stone Rhodes had pushed all the shadows out of the field of vision. It was a crazy thought.

This image seemed to capture everything Carmine Falcone represented. And that was a little frightening, too. She was thirty-six years old. She didn’t need an imaginary friend and protector.

She indulged herself for longer than was absolutely necessary to Photoshop some of the small imperfections. She reveled in the photo. She knew that, even after she left Last Chance, a copy of this photograph would perpetually live on her hard drive. She would drag it out and look at it when she needed courage, or reassurance, or hope.

And she would always remember that little awkward kiss he’d laid on her cheek last night. What was that all about? She’d been so busy the last few days picking fights with him. And why had she been doing that?

Maybe because she hated the idea of needing a big strong shoulder to lean on.

She pushed up from the small kitchen table and disconnected her camera from the computer. She wasn’t going to let fear get the best of her. If she could shoot a photo of Stone Rhodes, she could shoot a photo of anything. And she would get herself back to normal today, if it was the last thing she did. On December twenty-fifth, she would be on that airplane headed for Africa. She would be ready to do her job again.

She headed outside.

Wispy curls of steam rose from the river into the chilly morning air. Winter seemed to be making a reappearance. She headed toward the river. She got halfway down the riverbank before she saw Stone, standing on the pier, casting a fishing line.

Holy crap, he was up early. It was barely dawn. She raised her camera and poised her finger on the shutter. She ground her teeth together and squeezed off a shot. Nothing disastrous happened.

She watched him for about five minutes before she realized that something had changed. There was a small Styrofoam cup sitting on the planking by his foot, and a tackle box, too. He was using bait.

She stifled the urge to sneak up on him. Her ability to quietly trail people came in handy when she was trying to get truly candid shots. But she didn’t want to startle him, so she cleared her throat and made sure her boots made noise as she walked out onto the pier. He twisted and gazed over his shoulder. One glimpse of those deep green eyes, shaded by his uniform Stetson, had her heart pumping hard in her chest.

“So you’ve got bait,” she said.

“Yeah. I brought it for you.”

“For me?” She peered into the Styrofoam coffee cup filled with wiggling dirt. “Oh, gee, I don’t think anyone has ever given me worms before.”

He chuckled. It was a deep rumbling sound. He should laugh more often. It was incredibly sexy.

“Come here. I’m going to give you a fishing lesson.”

“What makes you think I want to learn how to fish?”

He peered at her from under the brim of his hat, and the look on his face was priceless. Stone Rhodes was an experienced warrior, but he was also vulnerable on the inside, like a green kid fresh from boot camp. He seemed just a little nervous.

That made two of them.

“Well,” he said after a long moment, “I reckon you could benefit from fishing.”

“Really? What makes you say that?”

One of his shoulders lifted a little. “You have a tough job, Lark.”

A shiver started at the base of her spine. He had been to war. He knew.

When she didn’t reply to his comment, he continued, “See, fishing is Zen. You cast a line, you reel it in, and you repeat the process. And all that kind of frees your mind.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The Zen works better without bait, but I think I’m in the minority on that, so I’m trying to conform.” The tiniest of smiles touched his lips.

“So, this is like fishing therapy or something?” She let her voice go just a little bit flirty.

And he responded right on cue. His eyes darkened just a little, and his smile deepened enough to show a row of expression lines bracketing his mouth. He was gorgeous.

“You wanna try?” he asked in his deep southern drawl. Carmine didn’t have a drawl like that, but maybe her imagination had been lacking when she’d first invented him. She would make amendments. In the future, when she imagined Carmine, he would have a drawl. Definitely.

She stepped forward. “So what do I do?”

“I’ll show you.” He put the reel in her hands and then stepped behind her. He wasn’t close enough to touch her, but her skin reacted just the same. He radiated warmth, and she wanted to pull that warmth around her like a comfy sweater.

She hefted the rod in her right hand. “Okay, what do I do with this thing?”

He placed his hand over hers, where she held the rod. His hands were rough and warm… and he’d taken off his wedding ring. He was also fishing with bait. Not to mention the fact that he’d kissed her last night. Her mouth went dry.

“See this button?” he said, pulling her distracted thoughts back to the moment. He pointed with his thumb to a little push button on the top of the reel.

“Yeah.”

“Put your thumb there.”

She did as he directed, and he placed his much, much larger thumb on top of hers.

A minute ago, she’d wanted to draw his warmth around her shoulders, and now it was almost as if he were draped there. She could hardly breathe from the awareness.

“So,” he continued, his voice strong and steady and seemingly unaffected. “There’s a rhythm to a cast. You press that button down, and you reach back, and when you cast, you release your thumb. If you don’t release, the line gets tangled up.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Ready to try?”

“Uh-huh.” She would have said anything to him at this point. Her heart was pounding, and her brain chemistry had gone wild. She had to fight against the urge to drop the damn rod, turn in his arms, and lay a big wet kiss on him—right on his mouth this time.

But if she did that, he might run away. And she didn’t want Stone to run. She was enjoying his company—more than she should, more than was wise. So she tried to keep it all together. To hold him there by going along with all his fishing nonsense.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Her voice sounded unsteady. Surely he was aware of what he was doing to her insides.

He raised the rod, and her right hand went along for the ride. He did exactly as he’d explained, pressing the button on the reel until he threw the line.

The line flew out in an arc, the reel hissing as it ran. The hook and the little red and white thingie on the end hit the water with a little plop.

“Now,” he said, releasing his hand, but continuing to lean against the railing on either side of her. “You watch the bobber.”

“Bobber?”

“The red and white thing.”

“Ah.”

“If it goes under, you’ve hooked something.”

The current took her line and tugged at it, the bobber dipping below the surface. “It’s already going under. How can you tell if a fish bites?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll know.”

“How do I reel it in?”

“Just turn the crank.”

She experimented and got the feel of reeling it in. Eventually she had reeled the hook, line, and bobber all the way in.

“Okay, you try casting by yourself.”

He stepped away, and the cold seeped right up her back. Suddenly fishing didn’t seem nearly as much fun.

She attempted to cast her line and almost strangled herself with the camera around her neck.

“Here, give me your camera. It will make it easier,” he said.

She took off the camera, but hesitated for the smallest instant before handing it to him. He sensed her reluctance to let go because he said, “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll guard it with my life.” He pushed off the railing beside her and plopped down onto one of the long benches that lined the pier. He stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles.

He was suddenly too far away and looking way too relaxed. Damn.

“Go on, cast the line,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” The man didn’t seem to understand that she was not precisely looking for the Zen of fishing.

“It’s all in the rhythm, honey,” he added with a little glint in his eye.

Holy crap, was he actually flirting back?

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lark said as she turned away and concentrated on casting the line.

She practiced, and after a while, she had to admit that there was something kind of serene about casting a fishing line into the river.

Although true serenity was completely impossible with Stone Rhodes sitting there silently watching her. The man had a way of disturbing the atmosphere just by breathing. He didn’t say a thing, yet she became increasingly aware of him as the silence deepened.