H is brown eyes were cavernous pools boiling with mayhem. A lazy toothpick waved from the corner of his mouth with quite a bit of devil-may-care. Abby wasn’t impressed by the twinkle in rich boy’s eyes either, nor did her stomach do any twists and flips when his eyelid dropped in a flirtatious wink, daring her not to swoon. Wait. She was wrong. Her stomach did twist and flip, but only because she was trying to adjust to her father’s new excursion trips. Taking the wealthy on fishing and canoeing tours, boarding them in the empty cabin adjacent to theirs, and creating experiences for people who ate money for breakfast. She would do anything for Papa, for his dream, to help support his livelihood. But Charles Farrington III on her beloved river? To fish her waters?
Between the toothpick, the mischievous smile, and the oozing of charm, it was more than apparent they were worlds apart. Charles Farrington III hailed from Milwaukee, which held many stark differences to her Flambeau River, tucked away in the northern woodlands of Wisconsin. Yet, here he was. Paying Papa to catch a fish, on her stream, that fed her river, that was her oasis. He had traveled here with his friend Jonathon, whose relations with Abby and her father went far back. Jonathon was welcome here. Abby gave Charles Farrington III a sideways glance. He was not.
“This way.” Her words tossed saucily over her shoulder, emphasized by the slap of the wicker fishing basket hanging across her chest and against her hip. Abby winced at the tartness in her voice. Sour. Unfriendly. It wouldn’t bode well to have Charles Farrington III go back to Milwaukee and future potential guests, complaining about the inhospitable daughter of Nessling’s Northwoods Guided Tours.
She raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the tall, broad-shouldered man who stumbled over a log in his attempt to keep up. That he wasn’t accustomed to the woods was more than obvious. He swiped at a fly on his shoulder. Then his face. A nice face, she admitted, but that was about the only thing nice about him.
“Where are we going?” The unwelcome guest ducked under a branch.
Abby pushed away another oak branch, laden with dew-spotted leaves. She passed by it, holding it away from her, then released the branch. The resounding slap and Charles Farrington III’s grunt made Abby roll her lips in a smirk.
“Classy dame.” His retort was laden with sarcasm mixed with flirtation. “You know …” Charles Farrington III’s booted feet slogged in the damp earth behind her. He just wasn’t going to stop chattering on like a smitten squirrel, was he? “I’ve never fly-fished before, however there is beautiful scenery here.”
Abby ignored him, but she could feel warmth creep up her neck. Maybe he meant the scenery, but his tone insinuated he meant her.
“Of course”—the man nattered on—“some gentlemen might find it a tad embarrassing to learn from a woman, but I’m certain I am going to enjoy it. Significantly.”
For all the fish in the river! Abby whirled, considering her options as her heel took its little spin. But her eyes collided with Charles Farrington III’s and she was suddenly tongue-tied.
“Has anyone ever told you that your eyes are as feisty as gingersnaps on fire?” His voice dropped a notch. Abby swallowed. She ran her thumb under the leather strap that straddled her shoulder and attached to her fishing basket.
His finger darted forward and flicked her flirtatiously on the nose. Improper at least, horrifying at best. Abby staggered backward. Papa should not have her guiding a man alone. It was improper. But what choice did they have? Two guests required two guides if they were to have multiple outdoor experiences.
“That is quite enough, Charles Farrington the Third.” His full name sputtered through her outraged lips like poetry spit at a black bear.
His dark eyebrow rose over his left eye. A quirk to his mouth and that rapscallion-like narrowing of his eyes rounded out the perfect picture of a Milwaukee playboy. “Charles. Just call me Charles.”
“No.” It was all she could think to say. Abby righted her insides and stiffened her shoulders. She wasn’t going to make company with the long line of women he must have left behind him in Milwaukee. Women who had fallen for his cocoa-charms and hot-coffee suave. And, by glory, she would call him “Charles Farrington the Third” until his little recreation spree to the Northwoods was over. Anything more was too gentlemanly for this rake, and anything less was—well—it was too familiar. Familiar was not a place Abby wished to be when it came to Charles Farrington III.
He had met many debutante women, but Abigail Nessling wasn’t one of them. Charles followed the tiny, nymph-like girl who was all of five foot two inches and had a waist smaller than one of his legs. In fact, at first glance, he’d been convinced that she wasn’t even sixteen, but his best friend and partner, Jonathon Strauss, informed him later that she was well past her marrying prime. The ripe old age of twenty-four and counting.
Now, Charles appreciated her as he followed. From her wispy, white-blond hair twisted into a fine ribbon down her back, to her delicate neck and confident pace. She owned these woods. That, and the fact she had enough fire in her to burn down the entire forest, completely intrigued him.
“She is off limits, Charles.”
He heard Jonathon’s warning even as he considered the memory of her rosy lips pursed in bewilderment when he’d flirted just a moment before.
Charles stepped over a fallen branch. His boots were muddy, and the forest floor was a bed of moist leaves and moss. The sound of the river rolling over rocks met his ears. Abby paused in her step long enough to tip the ends of the fly rods lower to avoid tangling with a tree, then pressed on.
“Off. Limits.”
Jonathon had reiterated it with a hissed whisper when he’d veered off with Abby’s father to go further upriver. Charles had only wagged his eyebrows, which drew a scowl. He had no investment in this trip, so he really had nothing to lose with a little flirtation. The Strauss family apparently had connections to Abby Nessling’s father, and sure, why wouldn’t he jump at the chance to go on a recreational adventure in the late summer? If he were honest with himself, which was a rarity, Charles was beyond weary with life in Milwaukee. He followed in his father’s shadow and the brewing industry that he was in line to inherit. It burdened him rather than drew any passion, and Charles knew his father was already braced for more disappointment from his youngest son. So why even try? His social life was all that kept things exciting, and while he wasn’t the rogue that some believed him to be, he did enjoy a fun little chase.
Charles waved at a fly that dipped and buzzed at his face. A little chase never hurt anyone. Well, he didn’t think it did, although Jonathon seemed to believe Charles left a trail of broken hearts in his wake.
Abby’s frame was silhouetted in the clearing as the woods opened up to a rocky shoreline and the glistening waters of the Flambeau River. The blue sky haloed her hair and, as she turned, the tree line behind her made her pale skin look almost angelic.
Before Charles could react, Abby shoved a fly rod into his hand. Their fingers brushed and while she appeared completely unaffected, Charles couldn’t help the frown that tipped his brows into a V. She wasn’t supposed to affect him, he was supposed to affect her. But it appeared that if he was going to charm his way into her good graces he was going to have to work harder. Little Miss Fisherwoman was already flipping open her tin fly-box and eyeing up the flies with the tenacity of someone who wouldn’t be easily deterred from her duty.
“Well, Little Miss, let’s fish!” Charles didn’t bother to hide his grin as she leveled him with a well-placed glare of golden-brown eyes. For sure, she would be a spot of fun. But it was the shadow that flickered quickly in her eyes that gave Charles pause. A shadow that stilled his jovial game and cautioned his senses. He adjusted his grip on the fly rod. If he knew how to read a woman, and he believed he did, this one hid something. Something from everyone. Something she had no intention of sharing and he had every intention of finding out. Someone as pretty as Abby Nessling, with her man-trousers and billowing plaid shirt tucked into the waist, did not deserve to hide shadows in her eyes. She should be filled with laughter and joy and carefree spirit. Something he was—or tried to be. If he could only forget the life he left behind in Milwaukee, his father, and, if truth be told, memories that tormented him when nighttime fell and the world became quiet.
Fine then. Maybe he and Abby Nessling shared a hidden shadow of something, but for the next two weeks, maybe they could forget it. That’s what he was good at. Fun, frenzy, and forgetting. Because remembering was just too painful.