Can't Fight This by Marley Gibson

Author:Marley Gibson [Gibson, Marley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, Boston, York, New, funny, contemporary, town, small, southern, of, wedding, City, Orleans, series, humorous, Resisting, fish, NYPD, out, Temptation, designer, farm, water, Alabama
ISBN: 978-1-937776-39-8
Publisher: TKA Distribution
Published: 2013-06-13T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“How the hell did I not know she almost married Jimmie?” I scream to Jake as he calmly baits the hook on his fishing pole. He’d thought it was best to whisk me away from Jimmie following the Great Wedding Dress Incident, so we came to the lake.

The moment between us not only passed, it was obliterated by Jimmie’s reaction.

“That old dog. He never let on,” Jake says with a cross between a scowl and a grin.

I mess with the strap of my overalls that I’d shoved back on after I abandoned Stella’s wedding dress. I’d gone from total fashion chic to total farm geek. As I changed, I heard Jimmie making tracks in full retreat toward the chicken houses to be alone with the thoughts and emotions stirred up by the unintentional walk down memory lane. I hate thinking I upset him or that he’s mad at me. It was never my plan to hurt him. I had no freakin’ clue what that dress meant.

I can’t help but feel like I did something horrible that has terribly scarred Jimmie.

“How would I have known? He never said a thing. Never let on,” I rant on, ashamed of myself.

Jake passes over the baited fishing pole. “Hell, Stella never said anything to me all those times Jimmie was around. I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on things.”

I cock my head sideways and roll the fishing pole in my hand. “What do you expect me to do with this?”

A soft laugh rumbles out of Jake. “Well, you’re not going to joust with it.” He takes a seat at the end of the rackety wooden pier and begins baiting another hook.

“Jake, you don’t actually think I can fish, do you? I order fish; I don’t catch it.”

He shakes his head at me. “It’ll calm you down.”

“I’m not uncalm,” I scream out.

“Obviously not,” Jake says with a smirk.

Okay, so maybe I’m more unsettled by Jimmie’s proclamation than I think.

Jake squints up into the sun and pats the deck next to him. “Come on. Sit.”

“It’s too cold and windy to stay out here. Looks like rain, too.”

“We’re near the Gulf Coast. It always looks like rain. Come on.”

I glance up at the ominous black cloud rolling in from the distance. It’s been days since I’ve looked at a television or a weather report. We could be in for torrential rains for all I know. It’s probably still hurricane season. But Jake seems determined to fish right now.

Fine. Whatever.

I kick off my worn Keds—that used to be white before I tracked through the red dirt of Southwest Alabama—and sit crissy-cross and barefooted next to him. I watch as he meticulously picks through the tackle box filled with a selection of hooks and lures with feathery flies attached to them. He chooses a bright yellow one and ties it to the end of the clear twine. So much concentration. So much effort. Just to catch a fish? I’m sure there’s a seafood counter at the Piggly Wiggly in “downtown” Dilligus Flats.

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