Hooked

Hey…” As he’d rounded the corner into the dining room of the main lodge, he’d nearly bowled over a woman waiting at the hostess’s desk. “I’m so sorr—” He grabbed her arm to steady her and found himself staring down into a face from one of his well-fermented dreams. “I—I…you…Steph?” He released her as if she’d scorched his hands. Actually, it was more like tingling than burning, and the sensation rushed upward to heat his face. “Stephanie Steele?”
    “Finn??” She pulled free and backed away a step, struggling visibly to collect herself. Struggling. Stephanie Steele caught off guard and scrambling for composure—there was a World’s First. “Well.” She seemed to have difficulty swallowing. “Imagine seeing you here.”
    “Not so odd, really.” His gaze slid to hers and the blue of her shocked eyes struck him as softer, deeper than he’d remembered. “Greer has some of the best fishing in the state. I come here every year. Sometimes two or three times a year. To fish.” He was babbling. “So what are you doing here? New York run out of bright lights?” He winced at his attempt at wit.
    She smiled ruefully and edged away another step.
    “I’m just—” she started to motion toward the dining room, but changed midway and waved toward the lodge’s front doors “—leaving, actually. I came for Cassie Gardner’s wedding. Terrie Gardner’s daughter. She was married Saturday night out at the Red Setter.”
    “Terrie—sure, I remember. Worked for you. Little blonde with a million-watt smile.” He felt a pull in the middle of his chest as that thread of memory, now tugged, threatened to unravel a whole fabric of potent recollections. Memories of the silky side of Stephanie Steele. “It’s good to see you, Steph. I wondered, uh, about…”
    His throat was going dry. Coffee, he thought, as the hostess arrived with a steaming pot and a couple mugs hanging from her fingers. He needed to jump-start his brain.
    “Your table’s ready,” she said to Stephanie, who looked about to bolt.
    “I’m driving to the airport this morning,” she said, “a-and—”
    “And you could really use something under your belt before you go.” He waved a hand to direct her into the restaurant ahead of him. “Me, too.”
    She hesitated a moment, and he wondered if she was that reluctant to be around him. Then she gave in and entered the dining room.
    It seemed the most natural thing in the world, following Stephanie to a restaurant table; he’d done it dozens of times. Had he appreciated the view this much before? Her neat, well-toned shoulders, her well-rounded hips in a pair of perfectly worn jeans. The way she filled out that crisp white shirt with the rolled-up sleeves, and the easy grace of her walk in a pair of boots. As she slid into the chair at their assigned table, he caught the sway of her shoulder-length auburn hair and turquoise necklace, and suffered a moment of vertigo.
    His mouth went dry.
    * * *
    It was a good thing the table wasn’t far from the dining room door. Another two feet and Steph’s knees would have given out. She was in no shape to confront the embodiment of the memories that had had her tossing and turning most of the night.
    “So did you catch anything?” She managed a somewhat chipper tone.
    “Not really.” He grinned and her pulse skipped erratically. Finn Hartley had the most nibble-worthy lips, and when they drew back over those straight white teeth… “I mean, I wasn’t here fishing for myself. I was volunteering as a guide for Casting for Recovery. It’s a charity that puts on retreats for breast cancer survivors. Damon’s Sporting Goods donates a lot of the equipment.” He must have taken the dismay in her expression for disbelief, because he hurried to explain. “Really. I do it every year. It’s an all-woman retreat. Men are only allowed on Sundays, so that each woman can have her own fishing guide that day. It’s kind of a special group.” He paused to look up at the waitress who was filling their mugs. “Thanks.”
    Then he ordered enough breakfast to feed an army: eggs, biscuits and gravy, hash browns, sausages and blueberry pancakes. He’d always been a big breakfast man. Steph chose an egg-white omelet and a fruit cup.
    “The fishing I get,” she said casually, as the waitress left. “But breast cancer? How on earth did you get hooked up with that?” She put creamer in her coffee, stirred, and when she looked up at