Chapter One
Kira
You know in an action movie, when the hero just saved the day and everything goes into slow-mo as he walks toward the heroine, to emphasize the guy’s sexiness? Cue the big finale kiss, right? When they ride off into the sunset, have you ever sighed happily and thought, one day, that’s going to happen to me?
Yeah, me neither.
But right now, after driving almost seven days straight, traveling from my academia world in Victoria, British Columbia, to a small fishing town in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, I’m about as close as I’ll ever get to that romantic scenario. Unfortunately, two things are missing from the picture. One, the hot lobster fisherman coming my way has no idea who I am, and two, I’m definitely not the kind of girl a guy like him would even notice.
I’d have to grow two big claws, a tail, and a hard shell before I found myself in that hottie’s hands. It’s not that I’m a troll or anything. I’m average looking, but I’m a mathematician—a logical thinker—who has no time for fantasy. Okay, well, maybe that’s not entirely true. I have dated in the past, and later tonight, when I’m finally tucked into bed at my late grandmother’s B&B, a fantasy or two starring Mr. Hot Fisherman might play out in my mind’s eye.
Might?
Yeah, that’s happening for sure.
“Hey,” the fisherman says, snapping me back to the present. Wait, is he talking to me? Dammit, what the heck did he just say? “Hey,” he calls out again, and I glance over my right shoulder to see if he’s calling out to some curvy brunette behind me, but I’m the only one crossing the road. I turn back in time to see long muscular legs work to close the gap between us.
Cue the slow-mo.
I’m about to smooth my hair in some flirty gesture—okay, I’m an academic, but every now and then I curl up with a Cosmo—but my muscles seize when he drops the crate of lobsters he’s carrying and runs toward me.
What the heck? This isn’t how it happens in the movies.
The ringing of bells reaches my ears, followed by chains rattling and heavy, pounding footsteps. I angle my head to the left, toward the clattering noise, but it’s not human feet hammering down the pavement. No, it’s hooves. Hooves! My God, there’s a runaway horse and buggy barreling down the road, and I’m in its direct path. I’m about to move, jump clear out of my perfectly sensible driving shoes, when something knocks the air from my lungs and sends me spinning across the road like the Tasmanian devil.
“I’ve got you,” I hear as we hit the curb with an undignified thud, and I try to suck in air as we come to an abrupt halt. I gasp but can’t seem to fill my lungs, or even think properly. My inability to do the most basic involuntarily action—like breathing—has very little to do with my near-death experience and everything to do with the hottest fisherman on the planet pinning me to the hard ground with his even harder body.
I open my mouth and try to say something, anything, but only manage a high-pitched sound like a chipmunk jacked up on red bull.
Great, just great.
“Are you okay?” he asks. Worry lines bracket the most gorgeous green eyes I’ve ever seen as he assesses me. His hand goes to my hair, and with the rough pad of his thumb, he brushes a wayward lock from my cheek.
“I…I…can’t breathe,” I manage to get out.
“Shit.” He slides off my bruised body. Dressed in orange bib pants, held up by black suspenders, and a white, button-down dress shirt that conflicts with his fishing apparel, he kneels beside me and goes back on the heels of his rubber boots. That look shouldn’t be sexy. On any other man, it wouldn’t be, but on him, oh my ovaries.
I force myself to tear my gaze away. Embarrassment floods me as I look around, blink the scene into focus, and take note of the gathering crowd. In the distance, the horse slows and glances back at me over his shoulder. He shakes his head and gives a little neigh as if to say “next time you’re fish bait.”
“What just happened?” I ask.
“That was Eddie. Eddie is an asshole.”
Vision wobbly, I look beyond asshole Eddie, out over the Atlantic waters. Under the guise of admiring the manicured golf course in the distance, I give my brain a moment to stop rattling around inside my head. “What does Eddie have against me?”
Mr. Hot Fisherman chuckles slightly. “It’s not just you. Eddie hates the world. Every now and then, he likes to show his owner Doug that he’s the boss, and breaks free for a good hard run. God help anyone in his path.”
“Every now and then, his owner should walk him by a glue factory,” I say. “That ought to set him straight.” Okay, I’m kidding. Seriously, I am. I’m an animal lover. Still…
This time he laughs out loud, and holy hell, the sound goes right through me and hits every erogenous spot along the way. Alrighty, girly parts, keep it together.
“Let me help,” he says softly and takes my hand. With a small tug, I’m on my feet, and I bend forward to take a few more fast breaths, but all I can smell is this guy’s scent—fresh soap and testosterone. I brush at my jeans and wipe away the debris and pebbles stuck to my rear end. How’s that for attractive?
“I’m so sorry,” a strange man roars, his hand holding down his black top hat to keep it from blowing away in the breeze. I note his crusty exterior and weather-worn face as he slows long enough to gauge the damage. “You can have a free ride later,” he informs me before running to capture his belligerent horse. Curses fly from his mouth, and the tails of his long black jacket flap in the cool fall wind as he catches and berates the undomesticated animal. But Eddie is snorting and doesn’t appear to be paying him much attention. Wow, I had no idea horses could be such jerks.
“That would be Doug,” Hot fisherman says, but I’d already figured as much. His eyes narrow and run down the length of my body, before slowly tracking back up my neck. “I didn’t mean to tackle you so hard. I just reacted.” He whistles softly. “Seriously, though, that was a close one.”
“It’s okay.” I wipe my sweaty hands clean and hold one out to him. “If you hadn’t jumped me, I could have been another one of Eddie’s casualties.” Jumped me? Oh God, bad choice of words, Kira. In need of a distraction, I turn and glare at the horse, but he simply neighs and shakes his head. Screw you, too, buddy.
I turn back to Hot Fisherman in time to catch a crooked grin curling up one side of his mouth as his big hand swallows mine whole. “Normally, I buy a woman dinner first.”
What. The. Hell.
Hot Fisherman is flirting with me?
That’s what I get for suggesting he jumped me. Well, I wasn’t really suggesting it. Then again…Freud and all.