Hooked

seen in her before. Something had derailed the confidence and single-mindedness that had fueled her success. Then, just as he’d thought they might be making progress, she’d jumped up and took off like a shot. Didn’t even shake his hand. He’d just stood there with his big dumb jaw hanging down, stunned that she couldn’t wait to get away from him.
    And now she’d waltzed into one of his stores to buy fishing equipment.
    What the hell was behind that?
    A half smile quirked up one side of his mouth. Maybe she hadn’t forgotten him as easily as he thought. Call him arrogant—or seriously deluded—but he was pretty damned sure that their meeting at Greer had something to do with her being in the store today, even if she didn’t remember he would be here for the clinic. What was going on with her? Had to be something pretty damned big to make her reconsider her opinion of fishing .
    * * *
    She hated fishing.
    That Saturday morning, Steph sat sipping coffee in her steel and granite kitchen, staring at the pile of fishing equipment, still bearing tags, stacked by the back door. What the hell had she been thinking? Did she even know anybody who went fishing? With the exception of her brother-in-law, Griff, who would try just about anything considered “manly,” including frying Thanksgiving turkeys in hot oil on the patio in the pouring rain . She had a quick, wicked visionof six-foot-three-inch Griff trying to wriggle into the Stephanie-size waders, and nearly blew coffee out her nose.
    She huffed. There was probably no pawning that stuff off on somebody as a Christmas gift. Griff was too big and the nephews were too young. Steph blew her nose and told herself she’d just take it back to the store. Finishing her coffee, she slipped off her stool and gathered up the equipment to carry to the car. Halfway out the door, she looked down at the shorts and T-shirt she’d slept in and made a face. She’d have to shower…
    Then the phone rang. She stood in the doorway to the garage with her arms full, trying to decide whether to let it go to voice mail. With a growl, she marched back inside, dropped one bag to free a hand, and picked up the phone.
    “Steph? Stephanie Steele?”
    The deep, resonant voice jarred her such that the rod under her arm slid and the handle hit the floor behind her.
    Finn . She looked at the fishing stuff in her arms with alarm, wondering if it were somehow responsible for this bizarre coincidence.
    “Speaking,” she said through a tightening throat.
    “This is Finn. Hartley.” He paused for a moment.
    “Oh. Goodness.” Could her brain cells have chosen a worse time to all go on vacation? “This is a surprise.”
    He gave a husky laugh. “I’m in town on business and thought I’d give you a call and see if—if you’d like to go out. Tonight.”
    “Tonight? Well, I—I…”
    “I was just watching our corporate chef fillet a bunch of fish at our fishing clinic and I thought, I bet Stephanie Steele still eats dinner.”
    His voice sounded a little odd. Was he breathing hard? Because she certainly was.
    “You do, don’t you?” he asked. “Eat dinner? I mean, you didn’t look like you’d gone totally over to the starvation end of fashion and I thought—”
    “Yes—I mean, of course—I eat dinner—still.” She cringed. Could she feel any more junior high? Aghhh—they didn’t even have junior highs anymore!
    “So yes , you still eat dinner, and yes, you’ll go out to dinner with me?”
    She caught sight of herself in the mirrorlike surface of the microwave door. Her mouth was open and flapping like a hooked fish’s. “I—I guess. Wait—you have a corporate chef?”
    He laughed and the sound glided over her like warm velvet.
    “Good. Pick you up at six. See you later.”
    He hung up.
    “Wait a minute,” she said, staring furiously at the handset. A deep shiver brought her back to reality. “Just like that? I don’t get any say on what time we go out? And no clue as to whether it’s a real restaurant or a hot dog stand?” As she jerked around, the fishing rod bent and poked her in the side. She dislodged it with a growl. “This is just like him. Call me up and…and how does he even know where I live?”
    She gathered up the gear and carried it back to the bench by the back door, where she dropped it with an indignant flourish.
    “I have a dog grooming scheduled, for pity’s sake. And I have to replant my impatiens. Not to mention prune my front